Jack O'Connell - The Skin Palace

“Trust me, darling. You don’t want that self-indulgent pap.”

He turns to the sales counter, where a huge man dressed in elaborate drag is leaning on the cash register staring out at him.

“All style and no story. Rain and smoke and urban squalor. Just gorgeous. But what about character? What about conflict?”

The guy has to be close to six six, with sunken eyes and a yellow complexion that he’s rouged up. He’s got on a blond, wavy wig with bangs in the front, red lipstick, a pair of old sunglasses. He’s wearing white silk lounging pajamas with flounced sleeves and a pair of classic, kitschy mules on his feet.

He comes out from behind the counter and approaches Jakob, saying, “You’re new.”

“I just found out about this place.”

He puts his hands on his hips, looks Jakob up and down and says, “Are you passionate or just a dabbler?”

Jakob stares at him.

“About the genre, honey. About the medium.”

“Oh, of course. I’m passionate. I’m a real zealot.”

“That’s what they all say. Let’s try you out,” and he begins to turn in a circle, saying, “Who am I tonight?”

Jakob watches this private fashion show and cringes a little at the thought of Felix and the Roaches walking in. The drag queen comes to a stop and raises his eyebrows.

Jakob starts to shake his head and the guy gives a disappointed sigh and says, “I’m Phyllis Dietrichson, for God’s sake.”

The name clicks.

“Of course,” Jakob says, “you got it. You have really nailed it. Barbara Stanwyck.”

The original noir woman.”

“Double Indemnity,” Jakob says, trying to redeem himself, “Nineteen Forty-four.”

“Directed by?”

“Billy Wilder.”

“Produced by?”

“Joseph Sistrom.”

Phyllis/Barbara leans forward and crosses his arms over his chest, lowers his voice and says, “Art Director?”

Jakob takes a breath, lets a smug grin come over his face and says, “Hal Pereira.”

The man is delighted, grabs Jakob’s hand and starts to pump it, saying, “You pass. I’m Jane Firbank, the owner of Citizen Jane’s.”

“I’m Jakob,” dropping the last name.

“That,” Jane says, indicating the Seitz, “looks like a classic.”

Jakob hands it to him. “It’s an antique,” he says, “they didn’t make too many. If I told you who it originally belonged to, you wouldn’t believe me.”

Jane lets out a laugh-cum-growl.

“Take a look at me. I’ll believe almost anything.”

Jakob nods. “Well, you picked a real winner to model yourself on.”

“Oh, I’m only doing Stanwyck tonight. I have a growing repertory. You should see my Veronica Lake.”

Jakob gestures to the display shelves.

“Do you do the ordering?”

“I couldn’t trust it to anyone else.”

“How loose do you play with the semiotics?”

“Oh, Christ,” Jane says, face falling as he hands back the Seitz, “You’re not an academic, are you?”

“Hack filmmaker,” Jakob reassures and as if to prove his claim, he pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to Jane who reads

Amerikan Pictures

hyperreal noir for our entropic world

a division of Hungry Artists Group

Jane’s smile returns and he says, “Well, I’m not a purist if that’s what you mean. I’ll stock non-American. I’ll go for a good genre-blend. I can tolerate some of the neo-stuff. I’m simple. Give me some crime, cynicism, claustrophobia, a little innocence betrayed.”

“And visually?”

“The starker the better. Disorientation. City grime. As much shadow as you can manage without going muddy. I’ll take some angles, some mirrors, maybe some silhouettes. But what about you? What do you need?”

“He needs nine thousand bucks.”

Felix’s voice.

They turn around to see him directing the Roaches inside. His red leather suit looks vinyl under the shop’s harsh lighting.

“We got bored,” Felix says to Jakob.

“I can handle this,” Jakob tries, but Felix makes a face that cuts off debate.

“Oh no,” Sweet Jane says. “Don’t tell me you’re with these animals.”

Felix walks up to Jakob, puts a hand on his chest and softly pushes him backward.

“Film this, cousin,” he says. “You might find a way to use it one of these days.”

Then he wheels around and backhands Jane across the face, breaking skin to the corner of the mouth and initiating a trickle of blood that clashes with the Barbara Stanwyck lipstick. He pulls the shop owner into himself by the lapels and says, “We’ve been letting you slide, queenie. Now where’s my goddamn money?”

Jane looks at Jakob, more disappointed than terrified, as if he’s been through this drill before. Jakob wants to tell him Felix is serious this time, to just hand over the payment and get the Roaches out of his life.

“Turn the goddamn camera on, cuz,” Felix yells. “I’ll show you how to make Papa proud.”

He drives a knee into Jane’s groin and the shopkeeper drops to the bricks, sucking air.

Felix points to the door and Vera turns the deadbolt. The Roaches start to circulate, knocking over shelves, smashing neon with broomsticks. Emil Krofta takes out an Urquell Malt bottle and heaves it against the wall, where it shatters and fills the store with the smell of gasoline.

“You know why he needs the money, Jakob?” Felix asks, driving a boot into Jane’s side. “He wants to get himself castrated. Honest to God. He’s saving for some operation.”

“Sidney Lumet,” Jakob mutters, “Nineteen Seventy-five.”

“What?” Felix says, staring down at the bleeding lump of Jane.

Jakob puts the Seitz on the floor and watches the Roaches destroy the place, tear posters from the walls— I Wake Up Screaming, Scarlet Street, Fear in the Night. He watches them rip the tape from videocassettes— The Naked City, Street of Chance, The Big Gamble —making a growing pile of curling, twisting lace on the bricks.

He steps back to Felix, puts his hands on his cousin’s chest and mimics the original push, adding just a fraction more of force. Felix is shocked and then amused.

“What do you think you’re doing, Jakob?”

Jakob gets ready to grab for the Seitz and swing at his cousin’s head. But from foot-level, Jane croaks, “I’ve got the money. Stop it, please,” and they both look down as the drag queen attempts to stand.

Jakob reaches down and grabs an arm, tries to haul Jane up.

Felix continues to stare at his cousin, the smile all gone, but he says, “Go get it,” and the Roaches halt their rampage for a moment.

Jakob holds the stare and says to the room, “I’m Hermann Kinsky’s son. We are done here. All of you get outside.”

The Roaches don’t know what to do.

“You don’t move,” Felix yells.

Jakob turns to Huck, “Hrabal, take them out of here. Or I’ll tell my father to cut you loose.”

“No one moves,” Felix screams, top of his lungs.

And then a shotgun blast blows a crater in the ceiling and comes close to shattering every eardrum in the small shop. Half the Roaches hit the floor and cover their heads. Jakob and Felix turn, both crouched to see Sweet Jane Firbank positioned behind the sales counter, leveling a 12-gauge pump at them.

“You’ve got five seconds,” Jane says, “to get the fuck out of here.”

“Go,” Jakob yells at the Roaches.

Felix stares from the gun barrel to his cousin’s eyes, takes a single brush at his jacket and says, “Okay, kids, let’s kill the freak.”

He stands up slowly and the Roaches mimic his movement.

“I swear to God,” Sweet Jane screams.

Emil Krofta and Little Jiri Fric are the first to pull their pieces from their suitcoats.