The Girl Who Fried Bullets
By ~ Peter McNiff
“I’m getting out of here,” Imelda said.
“Hold on a minute,” I said. “I want to see who dies in the end.”
“How many more people do you want to die?”
“Take it easy,” I said, “we paid good money. They won’t give it back at the box office.”
So Imelda sat there, arms folded, fuming.
“The Girl who Fried Bullets,” was not such a bad movie but it was bad enough to want to know how much worse it could get. It was based on a short story I wrote. The only thing about it that I recognized so far was the title.
The movie company had yet to pay me. We had an unwritten agreement. If the movie made money we all got paid. Even Stevens right down the middle.
Of the ninety minutes there were sixty left. Which meant by then all the central characters had been introduced and the catalytic moment, the incident which propels the chief protagonist into action against her will had passed. This was when she discovered that Suzy was not the woman she thought she was, but a robot.
Men shouted and fish tanks blew up. The heroine had bigger lungs and blew the enemy away. In fact I counted thirty-three people dead already. Maybe I missed some innocent bystanders. There was a woman pushing a pram, for instance. I have no idea what happened to her. She was not in the original story.
I wondered how much actors were paid for such brief appearances.
Clearly, the message was that life was cheap and actors are even cheaper. That was not my message by the way. My message was: robots may be lovely to look at but they are not perfect.
“This is not a comedy,” Imelda said, loud enough for everyone around us to hear.
“Sssh,” I said. “You’ll disturb the patrons.”
“Don’t you shush me,” Imelda said.
“She’s right,” a voice said, two rows back. “This is not funny.”
“It’s not supposed to be funny,” I said. “This is virtual reality.”
“Well, it stinks” said another voice, somewhere over on my left.
“You see?” Imelda said. “Let’s go before they riot.”
She stood up and started to pull my arm. She pulled so hard stitches parted on my jacket and the sleeve came away.
“Imelda, sit down,” I said. “You are behaving badly. If you carry on like this I’ll never take you to the movies again.”
So, Imelda sat down. But she was angry.
So were others in the auditorium. Some were hissing, others started to boo.
Someone threw something at the screen.
Where do people get tomatoes in a movie house?
“Imelda, you could be right,” I said.
But she just sat there, arms folded, staring at the screen with that angry look in her eyes.I prodded her but rigor mortis had already set in.
I was going to have to carry her home again.
And plug her in.
(c) 2010 ~ Author Peter McNiff
Now Playing AT THE BIJOU
PETER McNIFF is an author I came to revere when first he strolled into my theatre. What a classy gent, what a rich pour of Irish charm. No blarney (well, maybe). Writer through and through ~ photographer with an eye for expression as well. 'As the railroad from Dublin to Wicklow brought a breath of life to a community that depended on fishing and farming', this memorable gent with a turn about the written word and historic world (as he sees it), is a fresh breath of air on track in how he expresses. From drifters and din to political lyrics midst railway encounters and harbour rumours this Smalltown Poet waxes eloquent from movie script to a town reporting. For more nuggets of journalism from Old Wicklow County, just click into the McNiff vision, Wicklow Gold.
Absolutely*Kate: Thank you Peter for sharing one of your cinematic treasures during Oscar's greatest week. I know it's going to be all the buzz AT THE BIJOU.
Peter: I am a worker bee in your swarm
I make honey
and do not sting.
I make honey
and do not sting.