‘One day I shall write a really great movie,’ my friend Roland huffed as he buffed his fingernails with a pink emery board. ‘The audience will, naturally, not understand a word of it, thereby increasing their admiration of my genius. I foresee receiving many accolades on the film-festival circuit. Perhaps even a Golden Hippo from one of the European capitals.’
He let his pronouncements drift in the stale air of the bedsitting room, knowing that I would be incapable of silence.
After hardly half a minute, I confirmed that lack of willpower. ‘What will the plot be?’ I asked tentatively.
Roland concentrated on a particularly bothersome cuticle before responding languidly, ‘Modern movies do not have plots. I shall take my audience on a trip into the lives of a singular coterie of characters like ourselves residing in our fine city of Liverpool. Then, two-hours-and forty-three minutes later I shall allow the audience to depart the cinema none the wiser about what they have just witnessed, thus encouraging them to explore the screenplay’s depths. I shall naturally decline all entreaties from film critics for explanation.’
‘Will it have themes?’ I asked.
Roland examined his fingernails carefully, ‘It will be epoch-defining. The fluidity of identity when untethered from time. The paradox of knowing your own fate and the burden of free will. The loneliness inherent in personal pursuit versus the solace of human connection.’
I steeled myself for the long haul – when Roland’s in this mood every conversation becomes a director’s commentary.
Click here for more stories involving Roland
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 