In this context it’s hard to categorize any of the films we saw as minor. But naturally, even existentially, there were standouts. In the interest of space I pass over the many short features, cartoons and newsreels, but the reader is encouraged to seek out the newly-arrived Keatons and Jack Coles. A revelation, really.
          On Monday we attended a double feature of Kubrick’s A.I. and Gance’s Saint Helena. (A long day!)
          Tuesday was Jacques Tati’s Confusion (ugh! what was he thinking?), the Resnais/Lee Spider-Man (how can anyone with what criteria evaluate this?), and, after the early dinner break, the premiere of the Mankiewicz/Durrell Cleopatra. The applause for this last was enthusiastic, although my colleague from the Irish press thought it smacked a little of exhaustion. I pass no comment, etc.
          Wednesday: The Magnificent Ambersons. The Harry/Fripp Alphaville. Burn Coffy Burn. (What a woman! Someone to make me rethink my priorities, I see that I have scribbled in my notes. Whatever could that mean? I ask my past self, my past self who is safely back there in the morning of today and no longer compelled to explain himself or to be held responsible in any way. What a woman! he repeats. But what priorities? I ask and receive no answer.) I masturbate. Wednesday evening: Nick Cave’s Gladiator 2 and David Lynch’s Revenge of the Jedi (no notes).
          Thursday: Pasolini. I leave early and get drunk in the pub. Over the course of the day it seems like everyone else has the same idea. More and more crowded. Expense accounts! We all get drunk. We all get laid. Later, I can’t speak for anyone else, but I woke up at an awful hour, alone and bilious and sticky, and when I turned on the hotel television all I could find were queasy Italian sex-line ads and a dubbed version of Godzilla vs. Gamera. I drank water and watched the sun rise overbright.
          Friday: Keach’s Outer Dark. Welles’ Quixote. Olivier’s Cold War Pericles. A trailer for the Jerry Cornelius adaptation. Everyone looks forward to the afterparty. Hugs. The organizers bring out the special guests. Here is Mabel Normand, here is Natalie Wood, here is River Phoenix. The audience erupts for father and son Lee. An announcement: Next year’s festival will feature Jodorowsky’s Dune. We, the audience, groan good-naturedly.
          Last night I fucked a person from a film that doesn’t even exist, and I thought about somebody else.
          Six rows ahead of me, closer to the stars, there she is, my half-night stand. After tonight she will be gone. After tonight she will never have been. She is staring adoringly at Eric Bloom, star of Stormbringer, as he receives his award.
          She is invited onstage. She whoo-hoos! as she is introduced. She shakes it. She doesn’t look in my direction. They ask her softball questions. They’re sure that she, a veteran of one or two or three bullshit movies that no one outside this room has ever seen, will be the next big thing, the crossover star: the Dorothy Stratten, the Aaliyah.
          From the stage she bats her beautiful stony ridiculous eyes at us and my heart resigns itself, as the waveform collapses.
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