Los Angeles. The first language we hear is Espanglish. Tienes comida? asks the man at immigration. The small, brown woman shakes her head and walks through, back into the land of the free, where silicone dreams live and die at an alarming rate.
The drive to downtown is fast and electric, billboards loom high over the four-lane traffic; it's all white teeth and iPods and Banana Republic and Gucci sunglasses. Was this city made for billboards or the other way round? This city was built by Michael Mann, Michael Mann was built by this city. It is hard to imagine the night skyline without temptation messages stamped against the purple sky. The only flicker of doom shows a pimply teenager with dark circles around his eyes, the message reads: I lost me to meth.
It's about 5 a.m. in your head and body (breakfast!?) but the blackberry flashing on the dashboard of the jeep says 8 p.m., that means dinner at Le Petit Bistro where the Armenians, Moroccans and Israeli men smoke Cohibas, nibble calamari and puff out their chests like peacocks whenever a fine-boned woman walks through the door. There are many fine-boned pussycats in this town, all scratching and fighting over the same scrappy fish bones. These men aren't complaining. They smack their lips in anticipation, the women's eyes click open and shut a few times, to lubricate the mechanism with oil, they move forward with an awkward, jerking movement.
You are disoriented and order moules et frites, food tastes fine but you are not hungry, you are far too excited to think about food and sleep. You float around the town in a car, looking at the boys and girls lined up outside the clubs, it's hot, really hot, and even though it's April the kids are wearing summer-short skirts - very short, showing off their Cali-tanned legs. There is shamelessness in the air; someone is seated by the edge of the road feeling sick. Paris can't be far from here, can she?
Cut.
Bourgeois Pig Café. Exterior. Night.
You are sitting with some of the freeway children. Across the street an enormous beige complex, a sign informs us that this is the Church of Scientology Celebrity Centre - God help us all. Above our heads, several helicopters hover, there is a ghetto only a few blocks away. One of the girls has beautiful brown eyes but they're half shut. She says she can't remember what she did all day. She says she lives downtown, in a loft. No one lives downtown in this city, only replicants and other Bladerunnertypes. She is interesting but it is hard to communicate with the kids in Cali. Their references are not familiar, and much less their humour. Most difficult of all, they are almost not present, wrapped up in a west coast oblivion that takes many years of practice (prescription and proposition 215). Still, everyone is open to you here in the sunshine, everyone wants to rise up above the skinny lattes and the lush, hanging gardens, above the skinny palm trees and over the hills to touch the stars, but it is well-nigh impossible. As the lawyer explains: only five to seven people are buying in this city, and there are about 20 million people for sale. The other girl tells you that she wants to make a film about Morrissey. You ask her if she makes films? Not yet, she says, but I intend to!
Cut.
Office. Interior. Day.
Thursday morning, auditions are taking place in the room next door. It is for some lame LAPD script with two-bit parts. Men are walking up and down the corridor muttering the lines under their breath, as they walk past they all say "Hi!" (lots of teeth) to you, your office is so close to the audition room they think you might be a crucial decision maker - their future in your hands! All the women who come for audition are careful to compliment Barbara on her hair or teeth or vest or smell or whatever - Barbara is the woman coordinating the casting. She's super nice! Super friendly! She's just super! The script sounds awful, but they say that these days only bad scripts are in circulation.
You look outside the window, you know the beach isn't far from here, in fact you are on the beach, kind of ‒ this is Santa Monica, this is LA, and you are not quite sure why you like this zany town so much, perhaps it is because there is in all of us the dream of an amplified fantasy world that is hyper-coloured and glamorous, other times dark, futuristic and depraved but never, ever predictable and safe. At least that is how it seems to you, you look out of the window and think about lobster tail sushi and ocean waves and ageless Sharon Stone and Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and all the other overgrown kids who lost me to meth and fell to earth.
Fade to black.
The drive to downtown is fast and electric, billboards loom high over the four-lane traffic; it's all white teeth and iPods and Banana Republic and Gucci sunglasses. Was this city made for billboards or the other way round? This city was built by Michael Mann, Michael Mann was built by this city. It is hard to imagine the night skyline without temptation messages stamped against the purple sky. The only flicker of doom shows a pimply teenager with dark circles around his eyes, the message reads: I lost me to meth.
It's about 5 a.m. in your head and body (breakfast!?) but the blackberry flashing on the dashboard of the jeep says 8 p.m., that means dinner at Le Petit Bistro where the Armenians, Moroccans and Israeli men smoke Cohibas, nibble calamari and puff out their chests like peacocks whenever a fine-boned woman walks through the door. There are many fine-boned pussycats in this town, all scratching and fighting over the same scrappy fish bones. These men aren't complaining. They smack their lips in anticipation, the women's eyes click open and shut a few times, to lubricate the mechanism with oil, they move forward with an awkward, jerking movement.
You are disoriented and order moules et frites, food tastes fine but you are not hungry, you are far too excited to think about food and sleep. You float around the town in a car, looking at the boys and girls lined up outside the clubs, it's hot, really hot, and even though it's April the kids are wearing summer-short skirts - very short, showing off their Cali-tanned legs. There is shamelessness in the air; someone is seated by the edge of the road feeling sick. Paris can't be far from here, can she?
Cut.
Bourgeois Pig Café. Exterior. Night.
You are sitting with some of the freeway children. Across the street an enormous beige complex, a sign informs us that this is the Church of Scientology Celebrity Centre - God help us all. Above our heads, several helicopters hover, there is a ghetto only a few blocks away. One of the girls has beautiful brown eyes but they're half shut. She says she can't remember what she did all day. She says she lives downtown, in a loft. No one lives downtown in this city, only replicants and other Bladerunnertypes. She is interesting but it is hard to communicate with the kids in Cali. Their references are not familiar, and much less their humour. Most difficult of all, they are almost not present, wrapped up in a west coast oblivion that takes many years of practice (prescription and proposition 215). Still, everyone is open to you here in the sunshine, everyone wants to rise up above the skinny lattes and the lush, hanging gardens, above the skinny palm trees and over the hills to touch the stars, but it is well-nigh impossible. As the lawyer explains: only five to seven people are buying in this city, and there are about 20 million people for sale. The other girl tells you that she wants to make a film about Morrissey. You ask her if she makes films? Not yet, she says, but I intend to!
Cut.
Office. Interior. Day.
Thursday morning, auditions are taking place in the room next door. It is for some lame LAPD script with two-bit parts. Men are walking up and down the corridor muttering the lines under their breath, as they walk past they all say "Hi!" (lots of teeth) to you, your office is so close to the audition room they think you might be a crucial decision maker - their future in your hands! All the women who come for audition are careful to compliment Barbara on her hair or teeth or vest or smell or whatever - Barbara is the woman coordinating the casting. She's super nice! Super friendly! She's just super! The script sounds awful, but they say that these days only bad scripts are in circulation.
You look outside the window, you know the beach isn't far from here, in fact you are on the beach, kind of ‒ this is Santa Monica, this is LA, and you are not quite sure why you like this zany town so much, perhaps it is because there is in all of us the dream of an amplified fantasy world that is hyper-coloured and glamorous, other times dark, futuristic and depraved but never, ever predictable and safe. At least that is how it seems to you, you look out of the window and think about lobster tail sushi and ocean waves and ageless Sharon Stone and Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and all the other overgrown kids who lost me to meth and fell to earth.
Fade to black.