My evanescent tumescence

In case you missed it, a précis of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau, my latest opus to be festooned with awards wherever in the world that it has been shown:

I shot on 8mm black and white film at dawn and achieved quite a beautiful effect reminiscent of those classic French films of the nineteen-sixties. To further enhance this illusion I had filmed only people who walk. At that time of the morning there are people hurrying to or from work wiping sleep from their eyes, tradesmen and delivery men, and others sloping furtively from illicit trysts.

Of this motley band I elected to film only the ones who are smoking. Shot during June, July and August of 2004 and (for continuity) again in the same months of 2005 it amounts to a lot of smoking. Edited together it looks like an uninterrupted shot of a single morning. It lasts for thirty-six minutes.

If you look closely, and if you know what you are looking for, you can identify St Mark’s church and the High Street Mall. The names of the shops flash by too quickly to notice, but to anyone who knows the town they are easily recognisable.

It is cut at irregular intervals by a scene of a man in an expensive looking business suit carrying a brief case and umbrella, running as fast as he can. He is running directly towards the camera. He starts off at a great distance and at each cut has come closer to the viewer. This was shot on digital video and in colour. The runner is the only person in the film who does not smoke.

I had worked out how long the film was going to be and then asked the actor to run for that period of time. So at every cut in the black and white shot, the colour splice is in real time and the runner is getting hotter and growing more and more exhausted. His increasing discomfort caused by such prolonged exertion is obvious. His breathing can be heard throughout, whether he is on screen or not. There is no other soundtrack.

During the film the runner appears eight times. His intrusions occur wherever there was an imperfect edit in the black and white footage and then at intervals where his appearance has most dramatically changed since his last sighting. At the end of the film he reaches his mark just in front of the camera and, panting for breath, delivers the film’s only line of dialogue: “Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau?”

Also cut into the footage are garishly bright colour stills and one short animated clip which are completely unrelated either to the content of the film or, apart from the caption that each bears, to each other. These are digital photographs which have undergone considerable manipulation.

• A monkey sits with piano wire in his hand and a dismembered head in his groin which he appears to be fucking; blood is splattered all around.
• The queen’s head superimposed on the torso of a porn star, and from her ragged pissflaps emerge swans, dolphins, malnourished African and Indian babies, bombs, SUVs and syringes.
• A mother is feeding her child, her hand fiddling in his nappy as he suckles her breast.
• The pope, taken from behind (oh grow up), is blessing the congregation in St Peter’s Square. We see his hand raised and the ecstatic faces of the devout covered in shit as if flung at them by the pontiff.
• Possibly the most famous image of the Viet Nam war is that of a young girl running naked form a burning village. Superimposed on it here is the stalking figure (in complete seventies glam get up) of Gary Glitter.
• In the animation there is a pile of burning money; the face on the notes is Tony Blair’s and he is screaming in silent agony as it burns.

The caption for each in big bold letters asks:

__WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?__

It appears firstly in Esperanto, then Castilian, Cantonese, English, Japanese, and finally in a new language of my own invention.

The runner having delivered his line, the screen fades to black and in plain white capitals the words

--THE END--

appear. After three seconds my name appears. Three seconds later the first words disappear. The screen displays the legend

--Henry Henry Cruel--

for a further three seconds and then the film ends.

So what do you think? As a philistine who can’t tell the difference between Visitor Q and the S Club 7 television series (though I can understand your confusion), you are probably not the person to ask. But you probably think that it sounds brilliant, right? You probably own it on DVD. That is a subject to which I will return later; I am less than delighted about the DVD.

But let me tell you now that from start to finish, Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau is complete shite. It cost less than three thousand pounds to make, it was edited in under a fortnight, and I was paid forty thousand pounds for it by Portadown Chamber of Commerce. It was made as a promotional film for the town and I had attempted to make for the bastards a film so pretentious and anal that there would be no way they could use it.

They loved it, the fuckers. “It is irreverent and hip,” they gushed. “It is innovative and cool,” they cooed. “It is just the image we are looking to portray,” they smarmed. “You are indeed the Guy Debord of the Guy Ritchie generation,” they whined sycophantically, checking their notes to make sure they had said it right. “We’ll enter it in Berlin and Venice”, they toadied. “And Sundance,” they fawned. “Cannes!” I thought they were going to orgasm.

“You do what you want; I’ll not be there,” I vowed. Most people having passed a joke off as a serious work of art would find it funny. The history of art is full of such hoaxes; I believe they call it winning a Turner. I may be many things, but most people I am not. I knew that they could not understand Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau; and after all, what is there to understand? And when they were too afraid to admit it they pretended to like it.

If they did not understand why this film was bad, by what criteria could they judge my previous (serious) films? A rhetorical question; the answer obviously is none. I thought it and they were sad, and it made me furious and more determined than ever to have nothing more to do with them.

“Ah, yes,” said the chairman, “But there is just one point.” They all grew serious.

I recognised my chance and I leapt at it. “Henry Henry Cruel says No! I was promised complete artistic control for the project and I will not tolerate any interference. If you so much as suggest a change you will have on your hands a forty thousand pound Alan Smithies film and no one will pay to see it. That, or I will return what you paid me, less my costs, which will not leave much to return, and keep the film myself. Gentlemen, I bid you good day.”

I let the door slam loudly behind me.

Scene 2: Int; Night; Close up Henry Henry Cruel. “Robert Redford, I thought, was charming.” I took another sip of Mouton Rothschild.

Isabelle Adjani nodded. Now in her late forties, she is still a very beautiful woman. “I was supposed to work with him once, it was,” she smiled coquettishly, “Oh, a long time ago.” Her hand waved dismissively. “But I didn’t speak very much English then and so it fell through. Have you worked with him?”

“No, my film, Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau, the same one that is favour… nominated for the Palme d’Or here, won the short film and overall categories at the Sundance Festival. I met Robert there. We had dinner at his ranch and he was very friendly and interested in my work. I have an open invite to drop by if I find myself in the area again. Somehow I don’t really expect to.” I almost said “favourite for the Palme d’Or”, but I stopped myself; I didn’t want to sound conceited.

Smiling, she touched my hand gently. “I’m sure it is a very good film; I have heard only good things about it. Unfortunately I have not seen it, and it has a French name! Tell me, M. Cruel, do you speak French?”

I held the glass to my lips as I pondered how to answer. What the hell, in for a penny… I smiled back, “Call me Henry, please. Yes, I find it a beautiful language and so expressive. Many people prefer the sound of Italian, but I find it useful only for expressing hysteria. My earlier film, Write Club, is in Italian throughout. The entire script of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau was written in French (not strictly untrue) and I have refused to allow it be sullied by sub-titling.

“When I was growing up I used to watch only French films. It was they that inspired me to become a film maker, and Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau is my homage.

“The action and the emotion of the words convey all the meaning. Write Club was the same. My films have a strong narrative structure, but are deliberately ambiguous. No, not ambiguous, but they allow the audience to interpret them in a number of ways, or in any way they want. I have just begun work on a new script written in a language of my own invention.

“It is, I concede, a rather feeble conceit to name it Solipsism but I have come up with no other name yet. The grammar and syntax is Teutonic but the vocabulary is based on the Hosti language of one small nomadic tribe living in the Kalahari Desert. I first heard it when making a film there about Art Blakely and the primary import of drum in ritual. David Thomas had recommended I go there. It is a charming language; it sounds like birdsong.”

“That sounds fascinating. I’m sure I saw that film, and did you not present Write Club successfully at Venice a few years ago?”

Erm, no. I was just about to agree with her anyway, when she went on: “But say something to me in your language. Let me hear it.”

I hadn’t expected that, but I am used to thinking on my feet. “I’d rather not; not just yet. It is at an early stage and very likely to undergo a lot of changes so I don’t want to tell you anything wrong. It is at such an early stage, and I so puerile, unfortunately, were I to say anything it would be lewd or offensive.”

“Oh, don’t mind that. I do not think it puerile. The richness and maturity of a language is only expressed in how it can discuss frankly important subjects like sex.

I never would have believed that there could exist so many euphemisms until I began to study English. They are beginning to creep into French now too, insidiously. But that is a weakness more of national character than of language itself; I really do not like to make generalisations about the English people like that, but would you not agree?”

I could not stop myself smiling at that. “That is exactly what I believe too, but the consensus in England, and Northern Ireland, says otherwise. And American English must shoulder a lot of responsibility for the horrible overuse of euphemism. I should admit that I am a great fan of American literature but very critical of the national character.

But, of course, I should have expected that the French would understand. If you are interested in languages, though, I would love to have you appear in the film. I have never seen you in a film in which I could take my eyes off you for a second even if the film itself left something to be desired,” I paused, “Like Driver.

“I see the language developing as we rehearse, you know. So it is important to have actors who understand what I am trying to do and can give creative input. I have always worked that way; it is a good way to work. Perhaps together we can divine a more appropriate name as we work through it. I will send you what I have worked out so far.”

“That is very kind of you, Henry. And you are kind to speak well of my acting; which films of mine have you seen?”

“I have seen several: Subway, Nosferatu, Quartet. I really loved La Reine Margot, but my favourite is Adèle H. I don’t think you have ever looked more beautiful. It may not be a great reason to declare a film my favourite but it works for me. And Driver; how could I forget? And those others whose names, I do not remember…” I waved my wine glass in my defence and I smiled; I might be in here, I thought. That she continued to listen and to smile was definitely encouraging.

An errant thought popped into my head: at all costs, do not let her watch the fucking film. I poured some more wine for us, shrugged and suppressed such despicable heresy. Resisting the temptation to call the waiter ‘garçon’, I ordered another bottle of wine.

“Do you mind?” asked Isabelle, “Make it champagne, please. I am in the mood for champagne.”

I nodded calmly. But what I was thinking was, Shit, champagne in Cannes. How much is that going to cost me? When Isabelle smiled and said thank you though, I guess the cost didn’t matter any more: “Bring us the best you’ve got.”

What this led to was a discussion on the relative merits of Pol Roger and Veuve Cliquot, it being understood that Moët et Chandon had few merits worth consideration. We ended up with a bottle of each and one of Taittinger and one of Crystal. Isabelle suggested we also get one of Moët, but fearing that I might have to sell a kidney or something, I talked her out of it.

You are aware of my trenchant position on champagne and so I won’t repeat them again. I think you only agreed with me to shut me up. But having the product at hand to taste, and I’d like to think in some part because of the eloquence of my argument, Isabelle agreed in the end that Crystal was over rated because it was extortionately costly, and a good vintage Pol Roger, though only slightly less expensive, was by far superior.

As a result of this we missed the showing of the films and the announcement of the winner. I was unaware that I had won until Ken Loach shouted at me, “Cruel, get up there and get your bloody trinket. Up the Ra!”

I stumbled and slurred my way through my acceptance speech; the prepared speech in my pocket, the one in which I actually thanked some people, completely forgotten. It was shown on French television, but British and U.S. viewers had it cut from the broadcast. It wasn’t until later that I understood why.

Then, one hand tightly clutching two bottles of champagne, the other tightly clutching Isabelle Adjani, we staggered happily to my hotel to continue the celebrations.

Rohypnol is trick and all, especially if you have latent necrophiliac tendencies,
But champagne has much the same effect and leaves a bit more life in her,
As Ogden Nash would no doubt have concurred were he alive today.

When I woke up the next afternoon I found a note from Isabelle: Gone to see Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau. There is a special screening at the Odeon. I will see you later. Isabelle. XXX.

She must have forgotten my room number: I never saw her again.

So I will use the occasion of my return to Portadown as a conceit to return to the subject of the DVD release. The chamber of commerce argued that I had sold them the film and that consequently they owned all rights thereof. My solicitor could find no loophole for us to contend. There was an initial release of 10 000; I hope you didn’t buy one. Thanks to the campaign I conducted against it in the national press, few people did.

The special edition 2 disc DVD on the other hand which came out some months later is a much different proposition. It contains bonus material and cover artwork by Henry Henry Cruel, so I was in for a cut of that. You should buy one of those instead.

The bonus material includes a ‘making of’ feature with which I had nothing to do, an interview I did conducted by Noam Chomsky, the full acceptance speech at Cannes, trailers from some of my other films and an inspired film essay called ‘Psychopathia Sexualis: lettuce and the age of the dreadnought as metaphor in the films of Henry Henry Cruel’ by Dr Linda Spinabifida.

The cover is a still from an environmental protection film I had made called Aye Wood Die 4 U, about the efforts of Native Americans to preserve Aye Wood in South Dakota. It has an image of fourteen braves in full Hunkpapa regalia, sitting in a circle and passing a pipe. I thought it nicely fitted the subject of the later, more famous work.

Which leads nicely to the question: what exactly is the subject of Jean-Bernard l’Oiseau? Rather than launch into a long scholarly essay on the film’s merits, which would obviously flow over your head, I will quote from the DVD.

First, here is in full my acceptance speech at the Cannes Festival: “Hello, Cange. Jean-Bernard l’Oisheau ish a film about the potenshal in all of ush. For mosh people thish potenshal lies dormant all their livesh becauge they are a pack of lazy cuntsh. Cuntsh. That meange you, yesh you, Tarantino. And could you not luge some weight? Or look lesh fucking shmug? What have you got to be shmug about, fatsho?”

Then I sing, You’re the one for me, fatty. “That’sh by Morrisshey,” I say and giggle. “But, anyway, what wash I shaying? Oh, yesh. Jean-Bernard l’Oisheau. It ish a film about shex and death, ash are all my filmsh. Chanch, that’sh right.” And, I hiccoughed, “Thank you very mush. I’m not paying for all that booge.” Looking somewhat confused, Sandra Bulloch helped me off stage.

On the way back to my seat Angelina Jolie slapped me heartily on the back. I punched her in the stomach.

In vino veritas: that is an elegant summary and should normally suffice, but I also include two excerpts from Dr Linda’s documentary which shed further light on this often obtuse subject:

“It is not uncommon for children to discover their parents having sex,” she said. “It is how the parents deal with it which will determine the child's reaction. If the mother invites the son to join her it is natural that he may develop problems with sex later in his life. I think this is a theme that runs strongly through this film. You wouldn’t be expected to know that, but I am a psychologist.” Erudite and priceless.

And: “Here we see the other side of sexual cannibalism. It runs through the oeuvre of Henry Henry Cruel, both in his films and his printed works. I know this because Tyler knows this. I am a psychologist, you know.” Although obviously it is a major thread in all my work, it surprised me that anyone should have worked it out. She knew it almost before I knew it myself. This Dr Linda is obviously a very intelligent lady, unless she is, as I now suspect, a figment of my imagination.

And now (can you believe it?) I have got to the end of this Write Club without anything bad happening to me. I am told that this is not often the case, though I can’t say that I have noticed. But in a group therapy session recently Dr Linda and Ben Elton both told me so. Who am I to argue? So I will finish now. I am tired and I feel a dream coming on. If it’s any good, next time I will relate for you Henry’s Dream.

Your obedient servant

Henry Henry Cruel

P.S. I love you.