Log:Lights! Camera! Electricity!
| Lights! Camera! Electricity! | |
|---|---|
"If /you/ rise up with the red-and-black banner of antifa revolution and put an actual brick through some cop's car? I will like, personally run the GoFundMe to raise your bail." | |
| Participants | 17 June, 2017 C.B. wants to pitch a play. Franklyn wants to put on a performance. Both of them kinda want to pick a fight - but hey, it ends with a perfect picture. |
| Location
Green Door Theatre - Foyer Bar | |
| What does a young theatre director do, when they get a call from a writer like CB Alexander, asking for a chat? Well, in Franklyn's case she refused to talk details over the phone, and arrange for a face-to-face at the Green Door instead. It's one of those balmy early Spring evenings, where the skies are clear but the air buzzing with the threat of rain yet to break. Mid-week at the Green Door, and there's not much planned in terms of performances: the signage in the foyer indicates a local choir are using the auditorium as a practice space, and there are scant few people hanging out in the dimly lit lower bar. Music plays, some down-tempo John Zorn or something; lots of brass, but nothing too frantic. If CB inquired where to go? The worker at the box office would direct him towards Franklyn. And where is she? Sitting at the bar; wearing cuffed jeans and a cropped navy blazer over some gauzy striped shirt. Boho chic - think Hepburn, or whatever. Frank probably was when she picked it out. At the moment she's fidgeting with the stem of a wine glass, bracelets jingling together as she stares off into the middle distance. Waiting, for... Something. Probably CB. This was arranged, after all.
And so is a theatre like the Green Door. The young man comes on in, hands slung in his pockets. Slightly more dressed up than usual today (not that Franklyn would know that), he’s wearing a tweedy blazer with suede-patched sleeves over a white button-down work shirt. Fairly clean jeans and his construction boots too, along with his usual old-school leather messenger bag with the ‘IMPEACH TRUMP’ button on the strap. A hand-rolled cigarette is tucked behind one ear. And there is fucking John Zorn playing? C.B. would actually stop and listen for a moment, a wondering little smirk on his face, before heading to the bar and to Frank. When he sees her, before she sees him, he blinks for a moment. She's...pretty. Shit. Well, chin up C.B., this is a professional meeting, right? And so he strolls right on up to her and offers a sort of half-smile. "Hi. I'm C.B. Nice place you got here. Very New York." Definitely a compliment from him.
Then? Then she notices CB. Cue a rather frantic speed-texting -- such dexterity! -- then Frank is flipping her phone over on the bar and pushing it away. It's show time. Franklyn turns on the bar stool so she faces CB straight up: extending a hand towards him, an easy but not -overly- friendly smile spreading across her face. "C.B, wonderful to meet you in the flesh - Franklyn here, obviously." Small chime of laughter, then she's gesturing for the wordsmith to take a seat next to her. "Can I get you a drink? And thank you very much, you're too kind - we've only just finished some referbs, but we're all happy to offer Fort Brunsett another slice of culture." She's animated as she speaks; hands gesturing, shoulder shrugging as Franklyn offers up a smile that could possibly be faux-humble. Never does she stop in peering CB over; from his clothes, face and that notable button. She's no Fairest - hell she's as Mortal as Mortals could possibly be - but there's a little spark of earthen charm in her mannerisms. "So. CB. Sit, dish, let me know: what brings you here, eh?"
C.B.'s appearance is almost like something out of time, though maybe it's hard to pin down why. He could be any bookish, probably angry young man (given his work) from any time in the last sixty to seventy years or so, although he lacks that inherent millennial diffidence. And a girl doesn't have to be Fairest to make C.B. blush. A little pretty is more than enough for him. "Well," and he runs a hand through his hair, in a vain attempt to try and get it to behave again, "I'm here to write novel numbero tres. Had some family from here, once, and got curious about Fort Brunsett. So far, it's less boring than I thought." Blue eyes the color of faded denim look her over astutely, perhaps as much as she's doing to him. "I'm thinking something similar for you, right? Family. It's gotta be family." He half-grins. What teeth can be seen are a little crooked and definitely more than a little yellow, ala someone who smokes too much and drinks too much coffee.
Full attention is given, as Frank leans back on the bar and watches the man. Carefully, but totally at ease: soaking up his old-school vibes. Is being stared at nerve-wracking for the Author? Seems like Franklyn doesn't care - she's /invested/ now. "Some family..." She muses that over, head bobbing in agreement. Does she mention any more of the Alexanders? Hell no. This is not the time for Old Family Feuds. Her easy smile remains casually fixed. "Oh yes, there's a lot of figurative gold in them there hills - rich, thematic, old secrets and new stories, all begging to be dug out by the greatest minds of our generation." Just a slight twang of a rural-drawl there, for effect -- then she laughs, head lolling back as she shrugs. It was the question. "Does it gotta be? Maybe so, maybe so. But you see what I've done with that." The chatter box gestures to the theatre foyer, then her smile broadens as she watches CB and flips subject, "So what's the scoop then? You looking to connect with the local literati? You may be, like, underwhelmed - but you've just come in from?..."
Sent by ???: <<Guess I'll just sit here by myself and do nothing.>> Sent by ???:<<An image: Selfie of a young woman - not Franklyn - all big brown eyes, and pretty red painted lips, eyes cast off in the distance, cheek laid in her palm, looking positively bored.>>
Oh, C.B. is delighted. For sure. He isn’t super-emotive in his face, usually, but the double literary joke in the drinks gets an outright, open-mouthed laugh from him, showing off all those nice, yellowed, slightly crooked teeth of his. It’s a cute smile in its own way, though. “Can’t beat that. Thank you.” If C.B. seems nervous about being stared at, it’s not /too/ too obvious — probably because the sweep of words, including ones he says, are enough for him to bypass most nervousness, at least for a time. Just don’t start talking about your feelings and everything should be fine. “Oh, right, right,” and he seems to remember, no doubt after Frank reacts the way she does. By this time, his delighted grin has settled down into a more usual smirk, though he has to laugh at the put-on drawl. “Some of the families don’t get along. Mm. I don’t remember because I didn’t grow up here, and I only care in so much as there’s any gold to be mined. Don’t mind me, bumbling my way over fucking historical land-mines. I’m apt to do it again and get a leg blown off.” His blue eyes are once again looking her over, studying her. Something in his gaze is intense, almost paranoid, but his eyes are also a little bloodshot, either from not enough sleep, too much booze, maybe both. “Maine, most recently. Where I’m from. Needed a break from the City — “ He means New York, of course. Northeasterners tend to mean NYC when they say the City. Not Boston, not Providence, not Hartford, no. NYC is still the City. “ — so I went home for a bit, got sick of that, came here. And I really like the idea of contributing work to a local theatre. Dunno why.” His brow furrows a little and he shakes his head. “It’s not like me. Usually I don’t want a damn thing to do with the community. So I have to chalk it up to something about your theatre.” And maybe something about Frank, he seems to imply, but he doesn’t go there.
-> >> Franklyn to Here << <-==========================================Rolled 8 Successes for an exceptional success. < 1 2 2 5 6 8 8 9 9 10 10 10 10 > ===================-> >> Manipulation + Subterfuge + 1 [9-Again] << <-Franklyn's smile get's a little wry as CB gets in on the joke. Who says liberal arts degrees are totally worthless? While Barkeep Darrel goes about his trade, Franklyn returns to leaning an elbow on the bar -- either oblivious to CB's nervousness under her relentless stare, or simply not givin' a toss. Who can say. "Good stories come from conflict, from tension - at least in the Western tradition, and since I doubt either of us are engaging with kishotenketsu, what's a little ancient family homage a la Hatfield–McCoy got to offer, besides interest?" That grin is earthenly impish, and possibly just a teeny-tiny-little bit mean and-- but it's short lived, and Frank is swooping her hair to the side and gesturing as she continues. "So you're a prospector down from Maine? And /ohmygawd/, don't we -all-?" The City. Franklyn siiighs in agreement, bobbing her head and breaking eye contact only so she can pinch the bridge of her nose, then flick her fingers into the air with an 'ugh!'. Big breath, then another smile as she peers back at CB with a sympathetic shrug. "Hey man, like, I totally hear you there, right? You are preaching to, if not the converted? Than the converter. America is changing. The world is changing. Globalisation? Internet? /Modern life/? Means we're so much more -free- in living outside of those like, neo-liberal late capitalist elite meccas." The button on CB's bag strap is pointed to, while Frankly chatters on quickly: "You might not know why you feel this way, but I'd guess it's because, like, if we want change? To connect with humanity? Like make an -impact-? We got to go local. We got to connect with our communities, hear the stories and understand the way people live and think and, and... And... Like, express that." Another big lungful of air, then Franklyn-of-many-words grins and peers at the young-looking Author. "Through art. Together. So. Welcome to the theatre. What stories do you want to tell?"
So has he met his match? There’s something of a bewildered look in his eye as Franklyn says her piece. He gets a squinty-eyed look when he’s trying to understand something or someone and is skeptical simultaneously, and that’s the look on his face he has now as he listens to Frank. Oh, it’s not that he can’t follow her. He follows her very well. It’s not until she meanders through her entire bougie tirade that he has to, /has to/, step in and say something, before moving on to what he’s actually here for. Although, what is he here for if not for precisely this kind of dialogue? Finally, he says: “No offense, Frank, but the people? Humanity, at least American humanity? They don’t want any of that. They want the same bullshit they’ve always wanted: cheap beer, color TV, air conditioning, and easy answers. You, me, artists, we can’t help them. I know because that’s where I come from. I’m as blue collar as they fucking come.” The squinty-eyed look transforms slightly, eyebrows raising, blue eyes half-lidded. Sardonic. “The air smells better in Vermont, and I’m less likely to go to jail forever for throwing a rock through a cop’s windshield. That’s a good enough reason for me to live here. Anyway...” C.B. sighs, runs a hand through his own mop of brown hair, then offers the charmingly crooked grin again, almost as an apology. “Have you read my other plays? I’m thinking black comedy. Like the kind of black comedy that’s so dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. People like black comedy because it’s a trick.” He gestures with one hand in the way of someone used to holding a cigarette. “It fills seats and tricks people into thinking they’re only being entertained, even if something more is going on. Might be a good direction for this place, and for me.” He knows about the avant-garde previous history of the Green Door, apparently.
Man. She must have invested a shit-tonne of capital into stage school. "No offence?" Frank laughs, but stops long enough to listen to CBs words: pursing her lips in interest, although a spocked eyebrow and stifled snort suggests that she, Franklyn Garreau, is not in agreement. Her mouth twists as CB bigs up his blue collar background, cheeks sucking in as she very literally bites her tongue. So much amusement on her face. But she doesn't interrupt - she let's her Obviously Different Opinion just hang there in the air, like a fug of amused disapproval. Is it polite? Not exactly, but it's hardly aggressive - even if she does laugh openly towards the end. "If /you/ rise up with the red-and-black banner of antifa revolution and put an actual brick through some cop's car? I will like, personally run the GoFundMe to raise your bail." She doesn't believe he'd do it, see. Implied? He's just as bad of a East Coast liberal arts bo-ho softie as she is. At least she's easy-going enough to laugh, good natured as she moves on -- listening and nodding with only a smidgen of impatience. She catches the bar tenders eye and gestures him over, while not-so-covetly checking her phone under the pretence of going "Hmmmmmm..." with a producers consideration of CBs offer. "Comedy. Black comedy. We could consider that; work an experimental angle, maybe. Do you have a general theme? I mean like, subject matter." Drinks arrive. CB is handed his scotch and water, while Frank lifts her cocktail glass in an understated 'cheers!'.
Obviously Different Opinions are what C.B. lives for, though. This is great. He loves to argue. So long as he’s not arguing against feelings! Except — EXCEPT — This woman is now accusing he, C.B. Alexander, who wasn’t /always/ called C.B. Alexander, who once not only rose up with the red-and-black-banner of anticap revolution, but very much did something about it, /multiple/ things at that, and has been feeling rather emasculated on that front ever since he crawled his way back from Arcadia a few years back...she’s accusing him of being nothing but hot air. So he says, lips pursed: “I’ve bricked a cop’s car before, yes. O ye of little faith. When I was sixteen. I had a few anger management issues.” And this is true, and still is. He really did brick a cop car when he was sixteen, he’s just also done it more than once. He shrugs and lets it go. There’s no winning this one, is there? His denim-blue eyes move to her phone disdainfully as she checks it, but now there is scotch and water! C.B. lifts his glass with that sardonic look again and takes a rather large swallow. “Experimental angle is fine by me. Subject matter: I’m throwing a few around. Feeling a political theme, but I don’t want to be too obvious, as much as I’d like to go straight for the Kafka or Orwell. Something to do with the voice. I want to play with language. Give actors a chance to swirl things around on the tongue, have fun. Confound the audience a little. You know.”
-> >> Franklyn to Here << <-==========================================Rolled 0 Success < 1 2 3 3 4 4 5 5 5 > =============-> >> Presence + Expression.Theatrics + 1 [9-Again] << <-Franklyn lifts her Pure Coincidence cocktail as she watches CB, oblivious to his Arcadian past and obviously unbelieving of his current tale of aforementioned anti-authoritarian action. Oh, she doesn't scoff though - she does something much, much worse: she panders. Eyebrows raise in 'polite' interest, while she nods her head along to CB's story -- making an audible 'mmm!' and 'oh!' which, presumably in her head, sounds understanding and sympathetic, like she was being won over. In action? Condescending. There is no winning. Not for CB and his complicated history - and definitely not for Franklyn and her botched attempt at putting on a good show of positively engaging with her newfound potential writer-in-residence. Plus? The fact that she checks her phone and this: Sent By ???: <<An image: Feet, and toes. With red painted nails. The feet are attached to pale legs that are stretched out, the image starting just below the knee. Beyond the toes, it appears to be a quaint little lake with crystal clear water. Someone sitting out, by the pond, it seems!>> Pops up when she looks at it. But /worse/? Frank's side-glance to her phone is accompanied by twitching fingers. Eagle eyed Authors may notice a reply: Sent By Franklyn: <<ur killin me. i wnat 2 swim now. rivr sprite chic>> She didn't even -spell things right-. Because Franklyn is watching CB again, still nodding. At least she seems engaged again, as the subject drifts back to Theatre. "Good. Politics is great, but spoon feeding propoganda is just so, ugh -- you know? People consume -so- much media, we've got to like, romance them, yeah? Okay, okay I like this idea though." This? Sounds genuine. Phew. "People can be stunned by language, and if you do it right, right, with wit? They will go home with like, an ear worm, you know? So your ideas, your -message-, can like, unfold within them, their imaginations, long after the curtains fall. Yeah?"
And the phone stuff, the shitty spelling? Yes, it’s killing him. On so many levels. Poor C.B. One, he is a writer. An Author, even! He eats words for breakfast because it’s the only thing that doesn’t give him indigestion. Second, C.B. is one of those Fauxllennials. He owns no cell phone. He avoids computers and the internet whenever possible. Even worse, he is a BABY BOOMER. A terrible secret, far worse than any plot by any Gentry. And you know how self-righteous and outspoken Baby Boomers get about dang millennials and all their intertube shenanigans. Long story longer, the horror is getting harder and harder to contain. Yeah, he’s gonna need another drink after this one. Sooner than he thought. He takes another large swallow of scotch, but checks his tongue, at least about the phone shit. They’re talking about writing again, /thank god/. Even if the way Frank talks about it makes C.B. want to stick a fork through his own skull. Or hers, whichever comes first. He bobs his head. “Mm hmm. Correct. Probably keep the plot simple, maybe even allegorical. Same with characters. But not too simple, I don’t want people to feel they have nothing to latch onto. And I want to skewer Bernie Sanders.” He folds his arms, looking defiant. “Even I had faith in that bastard, and you know what I just read in Seven Days? He made more than a million fucking dollars last year! Vermonters will appreciate that.” Yeah, Vermonters will definitely appreciate a thorough tar-and-feathering of one of their favorite people...
If Franklyn picks up on CB's discontent, she manages to let it wash over her - or she has zero shame and refuses to back down from her position, however flawed. Phone is pushed to the side as she focuses on her drink, sipping it with obvious delight. So. Many. Feelings -- all of them in the cool, calm, content and just a lil' in condescending territory still. But hey, she's nothing compared to some Entitled fair folk. "Simple, allegorical -- you want my advice? Go back; back, back, /back/, straight back to the classics. I'm talking Greek. You want to talk about democracy? Corruption? Ain't no place better than the Greeks." Franklyn chimes, swirling the cocktail around in the glass and taking a sip. A sip she nearly chokes on -- wrinkling her nose up, giving CB a downright -BEfuddled- look. Disgust. Disapproval. Distain. Did Darrel put a cat hair in her drink? Nah. CB's criticism of Bernie (he could have won!) is hard to swallow, although instead of downright throwing her drink at Mr. Alexander, Ms. Garreau laughs sharply and cocks an eyebrow. "Money is not the problem? And like, a million dollars is like, practically nothing in the grand global scheme?" Said like a rich person. "Distribution of wealth is the issue, as is corporate cronyism and like, exploitation of the worker by tax avoiding faceless corporations who refuse to contribute to this country's crumbling infrastructure." Somewhere, alarm bells are ringing. But instead of escalating, Franklyn attempts a smile. There's a lot of teeth. "I can't wait to read the treatment for this black comedy of yours, Cee-babe." That's right. Now he has a nickname.
“Sure, sure. I love me some Aristophanes. I — “ There goes that squint-eyed, I-tasted-something-bad look on his own sallow, pasty Yankee face. “Money IS the problem, Franklyn. It’s always been the problem! The entire System is goddamn corrupt.” System is CAPITALIZED, DUH. So is Establishment, were he to use that word. “The ENTIRE SYSTEM needs to be FUCKING DISMANTLED if — “ He curls his free hand into a balled fist, smirking hard. No escalation. No. Writing! They’re talking about drama! Yes! A ground they are actually AGREEING on, so far...mostly. “Anyway. Whether or not you agree with me, you can’t deny that taking a negative stance against Sanders would be provocative. Did you just call me ‘Cee-babe’?” There’s that face again. He downs the rest of his drink.
-> >> Franklyn to Here << <-==========================================Rolled 7 Successes for an exceptional success. < 1 1 1 2 2 3 4 4 4 6 7 8 8 9 9 10 10 10 > ===============-> >> Presence + Expression + 2 + 1 + 3 [9-Again] << <-Franklyn has all sorts of secrets in that phone, no doubt - all the complicated ups-and-downs of a modern Millennial mortal, imagine that. There's probs n00dz as well. Shit. CB doesn't even know what he's missing out on, not having a smartphone. Could be this connection with the Green Door is his way into the magical yet confusing world of 21st Century Culture. "Think Antigone; the classic struggle between the will of the individual verses the will of the state..." Franklyn muses, swilling the cocktail around before laughing - shocked! Oddly delighted! - by CB's outburst. Lightning fast, she grabs her phone and LEEEEANs in next to the Author, and suddenly the camera app is on. That's right grandpa, phones are cameras now. Also libraries, cinemas, radios, tracking devices... "You can't deny how well it suits you!" Frank chimes -- this is not her first cocktail -- but this may be CB's first group selfie, as she poses with a wide grin and a wink, right on the Wizened man's shoulder. SNAP! Did she get a good angle? Maybe if he didn't cringe out of frame...
-> >> CB to Here << <-================================================Rolled 3 Successes < 1 1 2 4 5 7 8 10 10 > ============================-> >> Manipulation + Wyrd [No Flags] << <-Yeah, the 21st century, where C.B. found out that yes, his generation actually DID start the fire, no matter what Billy Joel might have anyone believe. Even worse, the fire is getting worse every day because of things his generation is actively doing. And the kids! Don’t get him started on the kids! Like the kid right here! “Oh c’mon, Antigone’s been done to death. There are so many untapped Aristophanes plays to choose from. Although I guess a recognizable classical base could make it easier for the audience to relate, and — “ Then there’s the SNAP! Fortunately for Franklyn, unfortunately for C.B., he made it into the picture, albeit with a partially red-faced sneer of rage and horror on his face. If C.B. were someone else with a temper, maybe he would’ve taken that phone of hers and dashed it to the ground in a fit of agitation. But he’s not just someone; he’s a part-Levinquick someone. Reflexively, almost without thinking about it, the rage inside of him makes an agreement with the Wyrd, and together, they surge forth around the phone in a sudden crackle of electricity. It’s not enough to hurt Frank, but it might be enough to make her drop it. And she might not like the results after that, either...
Now Franklyn? Knows her angles - she knows how to hold her arm and chin and shoulders and cocktail glass, swooping her hair to the side to make the best of that on-trend blazer as she leans in to CB's shoulder, and is rewarded with being paired with his red-faced sneer of horrified rage. At what, exactly? Fun? Freedom? Facetune? Damage is done by the time Frank leans out of the photo. It's with the Cloud now. "There we go; awesome, let me just--FUCK!" Snap, crackle, pop! Has there been a battery recall Franklyn hasn't got the notification for? Because she's shocked - literally, in every sense of the word - and in that alarm, the phone drops from her hand. Cue an immediate fumbling to try and grab it -- and grab it she does! -- but it's immediately tossed onto the bar like a hot potato. Phone is poked. "Fuck!" Then poked again. Confusion washes over her face, along with embarrassment and annoyance and a little mystification. So glamourous. Just not in the way Franklyn wants to be. The phone is not responding to her prodding, and Franklyn is frazzled. Cocktail? Downed. Then she's giving CB a rather sheepish, anxious smile. It's the first time she's been openly nervous all night. "Shit, here - have another drink on me, Darrel will get you sorted. I'm going to have to step out, something weird happened with my phone, and I'm expecting a FaceTime soon, so I need to like, go... Fix this. Thank you for meeting with me, yeah? Give me all the updates, I think this is going to be great. Call me-- or... Just... Just come see me again, yeah? We'll talk nitty gritty."
But her phone? If he could make it EXPLODE, in a shower of fireworks and brimstone, you better believe he could do so. So for a split second, she might see him leaning back on the stool, hands entwined like he’s some kind of evil mastermind, that satisfied look on the face that was just enraged a few moments earlier. But it’s gone, and fast, replaced with a more neutral expression as he runs his palm over his features. “Yeah, no problem, Franklyn. Pleasure to meet you. Looking forward to working together.” And with half a grin and a swallowed bit of laughter, he watches her go. | |
