The emergency sirens were getting closer. The mob with their
torches were raising their flambeaus in exultation, but saw them extinguished
by the hovering helicopter looking for a place to land. Soldiers in fatigues were
deploying and handing out blankets. The ticker tape parade was in full swing,
though once the confetti landed on the concrete sidewalk, they were limply
drenched by the hoses putting out the ground fires. The tribal warrior was
taking the plaudits from his people as he rode by them in his chariot. The girl
kissed the man who had rescued her death-defyingly, though he flinched as her
lips irritated the cut on his lip. Meanwhile overhead pyrotechnics lit up the
sky with celebratory swashes of colour. Their detonations blotted out the sound
of horns from the flotilla of ships returning triumphantly to harbour. The
graduates threw their mortar boards into the air, while on the parade ground
the police received their medals with due pomp.
He shouldn't have been quite so churlish. Disowning his own
film because the Studio rejected his dark ending. Their test screenings, focus
groups and guinea pigs, people who had never made a film in their life, YouTube
not withstanding, had plumped for something more upbeat. And so he had ceded
his opus to Alan Smithee, the hardest working director in Hollywood back in the
day.
Out of pique he had spliced together a reel of all the
hackneyed endings to films he could find and now sat watching it on an endless
loop. His own original celluloid having long since shrivelled into dust. He who
had been charged with chronicling the world through his imagination, now left
without a camera to record anything. Just a projector to relay this degraded
version of it instead. Here in his self-enforced seclusion, now the last witness
to the fate of mankind. Following the ravages of wars and genocides. The
inundations of toxic waste, biological mutation and terrorist inspired nuclear
contamination. Rising tidal waters and tsunamis. The assault of solar radiation
through the Earth's denuded Maginot Line of ozone and magnetic fields.
The last man on earth, one of its most eloquent examiners,
stripped of any means of self-expression. Of any audience remaining to report
to. There were no focus groups now. He wound the spool of film around his neck
and looped it over the curtain rail. Alan Smithee's final stand as he kicked
the best supporting chair away from under him. The definitive ending that his
magnum opus had demanded all those years ago, but which had been prettified by
the Studio. If anything, he hadn't been dark enough in the original.
Note: Alan Smithee is
the name given to the director of any film disowned by its actual director.
This has now been replaced by the name Thomas Lee.
from the flash collection - available from Amazon Kindle Store free to download from 3-7th June 2016
