The Film Club Read Free

end of the movie, the last shot?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHow does he look?”
    â€œHe looks worried,” Jesse said.
    â€œWhat could he be worried about?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    I said, “Look at his situation. He’s run away from reform school and from his family; he’s free.”
    â€œMaybe he’s worried about what he’s going to do now.”
    I said, “What do you mean?”
    â€œMaybe he’s saying, ‘Okay, I’ve made it this far. But what’s next?’”
    â€œOkay, let me ask you again,” I said. “Do you see anything in common between his situation and yours?”
    He grinned. “You mean what am I going to do now that I don’t have to go to school?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œWell, maybe that’s why the kid looks worried. He doesn’t know either,” I said.
    After a moment he said, “When I was in school, I worried about getting bad marks and getting in trouble. Now that I’m not in school, I worry that maybe I’ve ruined my life.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said.
    â€œHow is it good?”
    â€œIt means you’re not going to relax into a bad life.”
    â€œI wish I could stop worrying though. Do you worry?”
    I found myself taking an involuntary breath. “Yes.”
    â€œSo it never stops, no matter how well you do?”
    â€œIt’s about the quality of the worry,” I said. “I have happier worries now than I used to.”
    He stared out the window. “This is all making me feel like having a cigarette. Then I can worry about getting lung cancer.”
    For dessert I gave him Basic Instinct (1992) with Sharon Stone the next day. Again, I offered up a little intro to the film, nothing fancy. Simple rule of thumb: Keep it bare bones. If he wants to know more, he’ll ask.
    I said, “Paul Verhoeven. Dutch director; came to Hollywood after a few hits in Europe. Great visual attack; exquisite lighting. Made a couple of excellent films, ultra-violent but watchable. Robocop is the best of the bunch.” (I was starting to sound like a Morse code machine but I didn’t want to lose him.)
    I went on, “He also made one of the worst films ever, a camp classic called Showgirls .”
    We started in, a tawny-skinned blond butchering a man with an ice pick while engaged in sexual intercourse with him. Nice opening volley. After fifteen minutes it’s difficult not to make the assumption that Basic Instinct is not just about sleazy people, it’s by sleazy people. There’s a dirty-eared, schoolboy’s fascination with cocaine and lesbian “decadence.” But it’s a marvellously watchable film, you have to say that. It evokes a kind of agreeable dread. Something important or nasty always seems to be happening, even when it isn’t.
    And then there’s the dialogue. I mention to Jesse that the writer Joe Esterhas, a former journalist, was paid three million dollars for this kind of stuff:
    Detective: How long were you dating him?
    Sharon Stone: I wasn’t dating him. I was fucking him.
    Detective: Are you sorry he’s dead?
    Sharon Stone: Yes. I liked fucking him.
    Jesse couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. He may have appreciated The 400 Blows but this was something else.
    â€œCan we pause it for a moment?” he said and raced to the toilet for a pee; from the couch I heard the clank of the toilet seat, then a gush, as if a horse was standing in there. “Close the door, Jesse, for Pete’s sake!” (We were learning all sorts of things today.) Bang, door closed. Then he hurried back, stocking feet thumping the floor; holding his pants by the waist, he vaulted back onto the couch. “You have to admit it, Dad, this is a great film.”

2
    One day he brought a girl home. Her name was Rebecca Ng, a Vietnamese knockout. “Nice to meet