Joshua Mattson - A Short Film About Disappointment

The Reducers is an adaptation of the Horst-Rundler musical about two friends, Marisha and Janet, who split a scratch-off jackpot and decide to go into the movie business. They buy the rights to the impenetrable metaphysical opera The Mysteries of Tangerine Alpha as Revealed to Follower Sixteen, on Plantain Mountain, January 6, at Sunset , a favorite of Janet’s. A thirteen-hour performance cannot be condensed into ninety minutes without loss. Janet has pretentions of depth. Marisha watches the bottom line to gratify her conception of herself as shrewd. Stock bumbling. Subplot, ardor between Marisha and Amy, actress chosen for Follower Sixteen. Amy was Maquilla’s last role. The film was released posthumously.

Jonson had an idea for the promotion of Altarpiece . He would have oil paintings printed, of me as Bellono, brush in hand. Gilt frames and all. The paintings would be hung on walls throughout the Hub.

I will praise his marketing scheme so I can reject his other ideas with a clear conscience.

Jonson has traveled to Seel’s villa in Bologna II, to prepare the set for Bellono’s visit to the ducal palace. It was understood that I would join him later. I am convinced this scene does not need to exist. Plus, I am afraid of slingshots. It still needs to be set up to occupy Jonson.

On the set, I am rehearsing. The embers of the day.

My body rebels. Limbs ignore the edicts of the nerves, Osvald’s buddies. Before the easel, I will my face to emote.

This morning, eating my porridge on the set, getting into character. Because the painter was prosperous, he had the means to enjoy a handful of raisins in his slop. How my hand resisted, as it hung over the steaming bowl. My fist would not open. Osvald hates raisins. I managed to pry it apart with my right hand. I twisted my left hand, dropping a few of the raisins in the bowl.

Unhappy with this turn of events, Osvald plunged my right hand into the molten porridge. I couldn’t remove my hand for several minutes. The pain ranked with a crotch injury or an eyeball scratch.

Then I overpowered him with a memory of the day Dr. Lisa and I visited the Zone Flower Market. She bought me peonies, which are still on my desk, dried out. The dead petals scattered about.

If you are reading this, Dr. Lisa, please ping me. I am sorry for what I did.

Osvald withdrew, and I yanked my hand from the bowl. The problem was, by that time the porridge had congealed. While I was extricating my hand from the bowl with a strenuous yanking motion, a wad flew from my burned palm to stick to the glass ceiling, where it remains.

Birds fly into the set. The glass will have to be squeegeed between shots.

Seel’s cathouse in Bologna II had to be equipped to my specifications. Jonson pinged me photos. In my Pinger’s editor, I crossed out decor not befitting the ducal palazzo, like anachronistic doorknobs and toilets, then pinged the pictures back, so he could have it removed. I don’t know why I say palazzo . The film does not take place in any real location, not Italy. A sort of Italy but not quite. Bologna II, a passable replica of the original, is the Grand Canyon’s premier printed luxury resort. Walls and ceilings in the Villa Disperazione were to be knocked out, skylights installed. For Ark of Suffering (playing through Sunday at the Runaway Seven), Vasilyev had a whole principality printed. While Jonson was busy printing armoires for shots I would not use, I could work in peace.

I peeled my shoes off and pitched them under the easel. I was shocked by my behavior, pleased by how nice it felt. This was Osvaldian. Bare-toed in public. He aired his putrid feet in theaters. We are being smeared together.

Jonson, strolling through tufts of dusk beyond the Villa Disperazione, whistling. Seel’s servants have indicated he can find a serviceable bolognese, a certain bottle, down the way, turn left at the crone on the porch past the mermaid statue. Don’t look her in the eye. She’s cursed.

Despite the warning, he looks her in the eye.

His Pinger pings. Who is this? wonders Jonson. The number is not familiar.

It pinged, your wife w phil seel / NB knows

It pinged, see file on office trailer server / title: before or after understanding

It pinged, a friend wldn’t keep the truth from you / would he

It pinged, look closer @ altarpiece credit chip / where’s your $$ going

It pinged, i think yr being taken for a ride / signed a friend

Dumb of me to store my little documentary of Lucretia and Seel in the park on the server that we were using for materials related to Altarpiece . I didn’t think Jonson was going to poke around.

Jonson returns to the villa, where there is a broadband hookup. He logs into the server. It is illegal to exceed the data limitations, but rules are different for the wealthy.

My Pinger pinged. I sat in the plush gloom at my habitual picnic table. Kingdom of brush and cups. Sickly river gargling by. Carved into the top of the table NB+IS. Now the NB was getting scratched out, replaced with JO. My hand, my knife, Osvald’s guidance. Maybe it is true that we only live in solitude, in the company of our memories. What we understand to be life occurs after the event, in the afterimage and the reflection. Who was pinging me? Was it one of my friends, returning to me, whom I had missed for so long? Was it an advertisement for Millings Kiosk or the Carbon Committee? When I reached for my Pinger, the possibilities of reconciliation would collapse into one, probably commercial, reality.

I looked anyway. Jonson, from Bologna II.

He pinged, how could u / u know I was worried bout Luc

I trudged up the bank. My right boot, borrowed from Jonson, sank into the muck to my ankle.

He pinged, i can’t believe u didn’t tell me about seel / saw yr film

I yanked my leg up but the mud held firm.

He pinged, and u have been lying to me / spending my money

I pondered my options.

He pinged, i thought we were friends / why didn’t u tell me about seel

Heaved the foot once more.

I pinged, what about you and xin hi / are you telling me you are a saint

I yelled, How about that, Jonson? Here I am, thinking about the film, and you’re tucked away with your side piece, eating panini off her gut.

Jonson pinged, how dare u / how DARE u / HOW dare U

I slipped my foot from my boot.

Jonson pinged, i’m pulling funding for altarpiece / u are not allowed on the set or in the office trailer / and i’m canceling your card

My anger mounted as I hopped up the bank.

Jonson pinged, you’re lucky i don’t sue u

I pinged, you’re my friend / but don’t cry your crocodile tears to me / i think it’s ridiculous that we’re friends and you’re turning on me like this / i didn’t do anything

Jonson pinged, exactly / you didn’t do anything / you reflected upon the matter / and cracked a few jokes

My Pinger notified me, Harris Jonson has blocked you. If you have any questions, please do not contact Pinger staff. There’s nothing we can do. Have a nice day!

It was a long hop to the rail platform.

I refuse responsibility for the matter of Seel and Lucretia. Suspicions aren’t facts. Even if I had seen something more substantial, it is not clear that I ought to have intervened. And I had looked past Jonson’s personal failings. I could have observed evidence of his dalliances, but I averted my eyes. I helped him lie to Lucretia. And what about Jonson’s script, which he had never mentioned to me? I found it on the office trailer server. The Fox and the Butterfly told the story of an actress who falls in love with a rich man, opening him to the possibilities of life and his own artistic capabilities. Jonson’s bouquet of clichés was a vehicle for Xin Hi, mere wish fulfillment, but I had retained hopes that he would wake up one morning, realize it was trash, and focus on Altarpiece .