Sometimes I feel like I’m in a film of a tragic, desperate character who goes through a lifetime of SHITE only to die a horrible death at the end. Except I can’t act. And I don’t know who’s directing the film, maybe Nurse Ratched who I always thought was NURSE RATCHETT until 2 minutes ago when I checked I was spelling her name properly – unless everyone else is spelling it wrong and I’m right which is more than likely the case; it happened to Galileo, it could easily happen to me.
So NURSE RATCHETT is the Director, I’m Dotty, the unfortunate main character (who we in the acting world like to call the unfortunate MC), the Producer is a CARTESIAN EVIL DEMON named Clive (do you see what I did there with the name?) and the people in the camera crew are THE SPYING, PRYING EYES OF HUMANITY.
The film I’m in isn’t The Truman Show (which, as we all know, is not a film, it’s a documentary). It’s not Lassie – the last time I looked I wasn’t a dog (actually, that’s not true – after 3 nights with no sleep I admit it, I look a right fucking dog at this moment in time). It’s not any of The Matrix films either because okay I might be having psychotic delusions but they don’t include alterations to the laws of gravity and I KNOW Keanu Reeves can’t run up walls and move at speed x 100 because if he could he’d have done it in The Lake House to get to the letter box on time.
The set is grim (it’s grim up north – which reminds me, did you see that t-shirt with THE YORKSHIRE RIPPER on it? VERY BAD TASTE, A HORRIBLE WAY TO MAKE MONEY, YOU VULTURES – I HOPE YOUR BUSINESS GOES BUST AND YOU GO BANKRUPT AND STARVE).
Yes, the set is grim, filled with all things DARK and SATANIC. The camera pans out across the moody moors and lingers on a carrion crow feeding on the carcass of a dead ewe. The crow caws, a sound that chills the soul, viler than the screeches of BANSHEES ON HEAT. Heathcliff strides over and bats the crow away with his hairy, manly fist. He turns and looks at the camera, his broody, lowered eyebrows meeting in the middle. Little Emily runs up behind him, her skirts muddy and wet. In her inky hand she holds a feather – ‘GET BACK IN MY PEN, HEATHCLIFF, OR I’LL KILL YOU OFF ON PAGE ONE’ – and she stabs him in the neck and he disappears. And so do I.