Dana Spiotta - Innocents and Others

Meadow’s voice says, “Were you pleased with the way she looks in the photos?”

“I was, but I wasn’t surprised. I could tell from how she sounded on the phone that she was an exceptional girl. I mean, she was very young for me, I know it would make me seem like a cliché, but I didn’t care what anyone thought. I loved her. I thought, maybe this is an old photo, but she said no, it was recent. Why would I disbelieve it?” He puts out his cigarette. “It isn’t much of a story from here on out.”

Jack is smiling, but you can hear the edge creeping into the tone of his voice.

“I bought her a first-class plane ticket — and I am a pretty frugal guy, so I had never done anything like that. I was really infatuated with Nicole. Wanted her to feel loved when she got on the plane. It was all set. I spoke to her the night before, nothing odd about it, no cryptic hints. I drove to LAX, with fucking flowers in my hand and a sign, just as we had discussed. I planned a dinner at my house; I was never happier than when I bought the food for that dinner. Lots of women walked right past me. None of them looked like Nicole. None of them looked at my sign. I stood there, stupidly, ridiculously for an hour. I asked if everyone was off the plane. They were. I asked if Nicole Lamphor was on the plane. She was a no-show. I tried calling her from a pay phone. No answer. No answering machine. It rang and rang.”

“What did you think happened?”

“At first I worried that maybe there was an accident.”

Following Jack is Nicole’s version of the same story, also a monologue. She tells her side of it. “I made the plan thinking I would go. I wanted to go. I had fantasized about him, about that house by the beach. Of making dinner together and sleeping in the same bed and not being so alone. Of sex and affection. Of belonging. But I couldn’t do it. I even took the bus to the airport. When the bus pulled up, I didn’t move. I stayed there until the bus headed back out, away from the airport.” Nicole wipes her eyes with her hand. “I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t face it.”

“What?”

“That I lied and he wouldn’t understand. That I was unlovable, deep down. It was not a nice thing. It was mean what I did. I stopped calling and I stopped returning his calls. I just cut it off.”

She pauses.

“I had nothing to say. I let it go too far. Of all the men I called on the phone, he was the only one I ever considered meeting. But they all ended the same way: me cutting them off.”

The next section, somewhat predictably, consists of Meadow arranging for them to meet.

“What if I told you she would be willing to meet you in person, now?”

Jack shakes his head. He turns away from the camera. He puts his hand in front of his eyes. He collects himself. Shakes his head. Then he looks at the camera/Meadow.

“I miss her so much. Still. It is pathetic.”

“That isn’t her in those photos.”

Jack nods, resigned. “Yeah. Of course not.”

“You still want to meet her?”

“I do.”

Nicole is getting ready. Carrie was already cringing. Why would Meadow do this to these people? Why would they go along with it?

Meadow shows Jack waiting at a diner table. There is no sound from the scene, only music: low, steady, minimalist pulses. Nicole walks in. Her face already looks broken. She is trembling as she approaches the table. The camera moves into a medium shot as they meet, and the ominous pulsing gets louder. Clearly it is a disaster. Jack’s face when he sees Nicole; then Nicole’s face when she sees Jack. They sit at the table. He is speaking but still the only sound is the loud, oppressive music.

The next scene has the sound of Jack talking over images of Nicole at home by herself, looking particularly solitary as she feeds her dog and then sits on her couch.

“She lied to me, and she manipulated me,” he says as the camera stays on her. “I never cared what she looked like.” A cut back to him, smoking. “I didn’t realize it until she was in front of me, but it was all a lie. Not just what she looked like or her age. I am glad I finally met her, because now I can see it was all a trick. I can’t have feelings for her if there is no her. How can I know if any of it — of her — was real? I trusted her.” He is very upset. Then back to Nicole, looking awkward on her couch. Her face looks so blank, she is obviously waiting for the filming to start. Meadow has started filming Nicole without her realizing it. Carrie knew that everyone looked peculiar if filmed before the person thinks the camera is turned on. Using it was a bit manipulative. Carrie watched Nicole sitting there as Jack’s voice says, “Why did she do it to me?”

The camera stays on blank, unaware Nicole, for an uncomfortable thirty seconds. Finally Nicole’s voice. “I did it for love.”

The film ends.

Jelly took the bus to New York City and then took another bus to her aunt’s house in New Jersey. The next morning she went back to the city and made her way to the theater in lower Manhattan where Inward Operator was playing. Jelly had ignored Meadow’s invitations to press events or screenings. But Jelly did, finally, want to see the film.

She sat in the dark and looked at the huge screen with her huge face. And Jack.

She watched Jack’s face when he first saw her. Meadow hadn’t recorded the sound in the conversation. It didn’t matter to Meadow what was said, but it mattered to Jelly. Jack said that he was glad to see her, to actually meet her, but he couldn’t get over how much she had lied to him. Worst of all was how she dropped him, cut him off. “I thought,” he said, “that you loved me.” Jelly didn’t know what to say. In the film, Jelly stares down at her hands.

But now Jelly watched his face on the screen, looked for the disappointment and revulsion and all the things she feared. What she saw on Jack’s face was none of those things. She had missed it in the moment because she was so overwhelmed. It flashes across his face, a very specific expression. He is hurt. Stricken. As if someone has slapped him. And then it is all gone. The cynical old man takes over, and he appears cold and annoyed. Finally she looks up at him. What can’t be heard in the film is that she had then whispered, “I’m sorry.”

All her life, Jelly loved and needed the calming dark of a movie theater. The way the shadows on the screen would make her forget she had a body, forget she was in a place. The way the movie light and sound swallowed her and let her lose herself. But not this time. To see herself, her tiny life blown up and public, ruined everything for her.

Jelly’s face got hot and her breath stuck in her throat. Her eyes flooded and the images blurred. She closed her eyes and pressed her fists to her forehead until the knuckles made her head ache. She heard herself make a moan sound with exhaled air. She was not mad at Jack, but at herself and that woman Meadow. Why did she ever have to meet Jack? Why did she let Meadow talk her into it? She knew how to talk people into things, and yet she couldn’t defend herself.

She opened her eyes and watched as long as she could, and then she abruptly stood up. She sidestepped, stumbling along the empty seats, until she reached the aisle. She looked away from the screen into the dark corner of the theater. She blinked, spotted the glowing light of the exit door, and headed toward it.

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“HOW I BEGAN” INSTALLMENT #36: CARRIE WEXLER

Prefatory note, 1/15/15: I have been reluctant to contribute to the Women and Film Series, even though I think it is a great resource for filmmakers. Of course no one can describe the single right trajectory for how to be an artist, but she can describe the history of her own project: who inspired her and what helped her (and what hurt her). My reluctance to do this myself was simply personal — I didn’t want to make something private public; I didn’t want people speculating and commenting. But the irony is that silence does not, in fact, protect you. People will publicly say what they think of you, will speculate and judge. I don’t mean to complain about it — it is part of what it means to have an audience, isn’t it? I don’t want to be defensive. I want to express my gratitude for all that I have. C. Wexler