Memorable Scene – From Dusk till Dawn (1996) Robert Rodriguez
Satanico Pandemonium, sexy as hell, pours whisky down her feet into Richie’s mouth. All the bikers and truckers whoop. Moments later the doorman barges into the bar, Western-style, flanked by two burly truckers, accusing Ritchie and his brother of breaking his nose. One trucker thrusts a dagger into Ritchie’s wounded hand, bound with electrical tape. Camera shot of his blood pooling on the table. He gets up and he and his brother shoot them dead. Shot of Satanico now, staring longingly, lustfully, hungrily, at Ritchie’s hand. Noise fades. Why is his hand affecting her so? Then she and all the beautiful women transform into fangs and gnarled foreheads, and the gorging begins. The bar goes to hell, literally and figuratively. Works because no-one sees it coming. The genre switch is so sudden.
I had a habit of reliving moments of favourite horror films, when I should be thinking of new film ideas. I just found horror movies so fascinating, so cathartic, so queer. Like more than any other genre it seemed to make the world make sense.
I sipped my beer, about to read over what I’d been scribbling, when I felt the tingling sensation that I was being watched. I looked up from my notebook, aware of clinking glasses and droning music as I looked around The Old Queen. The pub was my safe space. A refuge in the ever-more-gentrified Inner West, it was decked out with mismatched furniture, pictures of naked bodies of all types, some kissing, and colourful triangular flags draped along the walls. It was also where Jen and Stuart worked.
“I said, the CEO has banned using TERFS on Chatter now. It’s such a rightwing neo-fascist cesspit.” Stuart’s voice said.
Stuart’s face stared at me between the pale ale taps. I grinned, closing the peeling yellow cover.
“Oh right,” I said absently, tapping my red nails against the moist glass of the schooner.
“So you come in here just to write now? How is the writing going?”
“Sorry. I guess I’m in a bit of a rut,” I answered, which was mostly true. “I’ve had ideas, they’re just rubbish.”
Loud voices, dissonant with the other noises of the pub, echoed from the open door. A cluster of twenty-somethings burst in, all guys by the looks. The first looked at us and panned the room, like he was looking to stick a flag on an undiscovered mountain. He then declared something to the others, as the leader of an expedition might. A tall guy next to him, a rugby player judging by the size of his torso, gave us a quick look too, and shrugged. In agreement they turned and lumbered back outside, leaving the place to its soft tunes and chatter.
“Thank god,” Stuart said.
I laughed, as I often did when he was around.
“I don’t know, one of them was cute,” I said, before seeing Stuart’s mouth agape.
I was about to say I was kidding, when Jen appeared from the other end of the bar, must have just clocked on. Her eyeshadow was a little too heavily applied.
She’d been over at my place last night, and we’d watched the original vampire movie, Nosferatu. Jen didn’t like horror, said it was stupid, scaring yourself on purpose like that. There’s enough scary shit going on right now, she’d said before. But she came over to mine, anyway. I think she assumed a 1920s black and white would be easier to stomach. Watching her in the foetal position on the couch. I could tell she despised the smile on my face when the film ended. She was that kind of friend; she could come over and we could sit on our phones and she’d leave and we’d still have communicated in the deepest, most intimate way.
“How are you?” I asked her, as Stuart served a customer.
“I think my Chatter profile has been deactivated,” she said.
“I didn’t know you used Chatter Jen.” Stuart called.
Jen ignored him.
“Do you know why you were shut down?” I asked. “Did you post anything?”
“How climate change is queer, that we should embrace it, the disasters, that it will sort us out naturally, how is that bad?”
We laughed at her joke, but I felt like she was telling the truth. She was always online, being political, promoting the Rainbow Coalition, who were sadly never going to get into power.
She reminded me about the party on Sunday, which I’d forgotten about.
“Are we getting ready at yours or mine?” Jen asked.
I said I wasn’t sure I’d come.
“You’ve changed, girl,” she said. “You never come out anymore.”
“I’m here,” I said.
Jen rolled her eyes. I felt I should placate her, so I agreed to the party.
“Amaze! What are you gonna wear?” She asked, but I hadn’t thought about that.
#
Memorable Scene – Let the Right One In (2008) Tomas Alfredson
A man trudges through the bleak housing estate, on the way to visit his girlfriend. He enters a tunnel lit up urine-yellow by fluorescent lights, silent as anything. Feels like security camera footage. A small girl leaps onto him, viciously gorging on his blood, before leaving him in the snow. The red and white contrast vividly. Works because the girl seems like a normal girl, till she is not.
I felt the train slowing, already pulling into Central. It was quiet, just one other in my carriage. Sunlight flitted across the page, shooting through the jagged shapes of buildings, making it hard to concentrate on what I was writing. Not many people I knew wrote on paper anymore. I liked the feel of it, making words intentionally; so different from online, where I tended to auto-pilot.
Will messaged.
Arrived, can’t wait to see you.
Sorry, I’m running a little late, I typed.
On my phone I found a news article on glitches in Chatter’s AI, deactivating the wrong profiles. The CEO had apologised, declaring that steps were being taken to reactivate affected ones. I sent Jen the link, telling her not to worry.
The main station had more cameras now. People still complained about increased surveillance. I didn’t know why. Like other trans girls I knew, I was more concerned about the people around me.
I walked the long tunnel from the station, the old tiles echoing with footsteps of other humans. I felt the lightness of my runners; silent. A young boy in a blue hoodie and shorts sprinted past. A quiet couple, holding hands, strolled slowly on the other side. A herd of made-up girls clopped their heels like horses with manes shining in the fluorescence of the tunnel. They didn’t look across at me, but I didn’t mind. I redid my lips as I walked, pressing them together, making popping sounds with my mouth so they were evenly covered in maroon.
Will was sitting at the table when I arrived. I joined him and asked how his day was.
He took a large gulp of his white wine. “Okay. Just papering over the cracks. The clients weren’t happy with the choice of song.” He spoke exactly, sometimes his work self carried over from the world of schedules and sound production into this one.
A waiter came with our food, a large portion of pasta for me and a pizza for Will. He’d ordered my usual. He took a huge bite, wiping oily tomato from the dip below his mouth.
“How’s writing, any ideas?” Will asked.
I felt my lungs wring like wet rags.
“Just this and that, nothing groundbreaking,” I said. I watched a luxury car swish past on the street. “Trying to find inspiration.”
Will smiled, grabbing my wrist.
“The creative process is so elusive,” he said. He looked at my black tote bag on the corner of the table, the yellow cover of the notebook sticking out. He picked it up, examining it. I realised I hadn’t let him read it before. I suddenly felt bad for having it on the table. “You certainly make no shortage of observations.”
He winked at me. I wanted to wallow in him.
Later in his bed, he wrapped his arm over my shoulder, pushing my knee back between his thighs and nestling his chin on the muscle above my collarbone. Being tall, people had always wanted me to big spoon, and it felt wrong. He cuddled me even though I was taller than him. Feeling the secure squeeze of his legs, I was so far from the place I was two years ago.
In the morning, waiting for Will to wake, I tried to log onto Chatter.
Your account has been temporarily deactivated. Please contact Chatter services for more information.
“What’s up?” Will asked, in more of a groan.
“Oh, I’ve been erased. That’s all.”
He sat up. “The Chatter glitches? I think it’s the AI. They’ll fix it,” Will said, putting his arm over my chest. “Scary though, right.”
I felt a little amused. The amount of power the CEO had; that AI had, was a lot. ‘Glitches’ did seem to happen more often.
I lay in with Will and we grabbed breakfast down the road. I told him about the party on Sunday and thought about inviting him, but I didn’t know if he would enjoy it. I wasn’t sure I would either.
At home I found the Halloween outfit I’d made last year but never worn. It was a black leather skirt, bra, shoulder pads, and shoulder and shin guards. I had a sword too, real metal, I’d bought from a specialty weapons shop. Very femme-butch, inspired by Buffy and Xena. Thinking of Buffy reminded me of a movie I hadn’t seen in a while. I decided to put it on, reclining back on the couch, turning off my phone, ignoring the green squares of messages.
#
Memorable Scene – Blade (1998) Stephen Norrington.
A sexy woman leads a goofy man to an underground party, through back alleys, secret doors and bustling kitchens. It’s well hidden. The party itself seems like any other club rave. Except the people keep pushing into him, staring at him, aggressively. At first he rolls with it. Then he feels strange. Then the blood starts dripping from the fire sprinklers, and the people around him shower in it excitedly, licking it off eachother. Works because he seems the same as everyone there. Till he isn’t. He’s the only human in the club.
The next evening, in the unnatural brightness of the cloak room, thumping reverberated from downstairs. I handed over my phone at the desk, feeling a little rush like it’d been a while since I’d last been free of it.
“Love it girl.” Jen said about my outfit at the small bar. She was wearing pink and black-laced lingerie.
She put her hand in mine and something small and solid appeared against my palm.
“C’mon,” Jen said, seeing my expression.
I didn’t know if I felt ready for it. I hadn’t dropped in over a year. But I slid my fingers in my mouth anyway and washed it down with some vodka soda.
She wandered off so I followed her into the dark, sweaty, sexed up mass of skin. It was loud, sweats and perfumes and the thick aroma of poppers.
Soon the beats were deep. So deep. I felt them in my stomach, my knees. My feet felt like magnets. The shapes around me were all in sync, like some organism.
Fuck it. Yes. I remembered this feeling. I twerked and bent. Obscure figures danced around me, all shapes and types. I felt like they were me. I was them. Everything was dark and full of colour.
At one point I felt a hand grab my shoulder pad. I turned to see a svelte, feline figure reach out of the haze. They had a long, black one piece, tail and ears. Kissing me on the cheek, I smelt their strong perfume. They looked like a panther, lasers glinting off shiny hair, smoke obscuring their face. They pointed to my outfit, said something; I didn’t hear it, but it didn’t matter.
I was there now. Part of this, like I was everyone. I kissed Jen, shouting, I love you babe. She smiled back, looking at my face, like she found my expression interesting. She shouted something back. The only word I caught was Will; it was too loud. I thought of Will and felt a rush of warmth like molten rock. I hugged Jen and danced to the thumping pulses.
After a while I needed some air, and I left Jen and moved through bodies, like a garden of sea kelp, swaying and clumping together, to the entrance.
The inner west street above was silent except for the deep pulse of the set below, like a beast stomping at the ground. I imagined some cruel trap, like in those old Saw movies, where people are forced to keep dancing and if they stop a monster emerges to devour them.
A couple of human shadows lingered by the glow of the entrance, pink haze puffing outwards in horizontal plumes. I walked over.
“Can I bum a vape?” I asked.
“Sure,” one said, handing it to me. I sucked it in, smokey raspberry, like cordial.
“What’s your name?” they asked, looking at my chest.
I said, “I’m Sienna.”
“Awesome, I’m Melodie, and this is Ru.”
Ru smiled, rubbing a hand on Melodie’s back.
Voices behind me. A few figures staggered out, carrying backpacks and bags, wearing plain clothes now, real world clothes.
“Have a delightful morning, humans!” someone yelled.
I felt the heaviness of my eyelids, the chill of the air on my face. I remembered I was working that evening, so I said goodbye to Mel and Ru, heading back inside to get my things.
When I retrieved my phone there was no message from Will. My legs were stiff and I was getting cold. All I wanted was love and warmth.
Jen joined me and we started walking. The old houses with white peeling walls were luminous. I felt like a vampire slayer in this outfit, the woosh of my swiping sword in the air.
I remembered I liked walking outside after drugs. The crisp air, the stillness, the long streets quieter than normal, most people in bed. Like I was looking through a steamy window that was starting to fade. I willed the feeling to stay.
Booming male shouts cut through the night ahead. As the group approached us, one of them, a younger man, collared shirt half hanging from his trousers, looked at me and grinned. A different smile to the feline figure in the basement. I felt his eyes, his stare, like a giant tongue.
“We should have got a rideshare, girl.” Jen drawled, the sound of her footsteps scraping then steadying.
“It’s not that far,” I said. “Plus, I want food.” We were close to King Street. I checked my phone, 2:35am.
“Actually, yes, I’m starving.” Jen said.
The sighs and groans of traffic increasing, we walked up to the corner. I noticed a police car parked on the busy edge, and saw a couple of officers standing on the pavement, closer to us where it was darker.
Instinctively I looked down at both of us, Jen now in a shirt and denim shorts, me still in my black bra, skirt, my sword in my left hand.
One of the officers, a round, shaved head and closely cut beard, looked at us. I couldn’t help but make eye contact.
“Evening,” he said. Jen grumbled something back, putting her arm around my waist as we walked past.
The other officer, thinning red hair, looked clearly down at my body. Another tongue.
“Looks metal.” He said.
A loud but muffled voice inside told me it was unwise to do so, but I felt proud of my sword. I bought it last year and hadn’t taken it out yet. And I thought there was something genuine in the red-haired cop’s eyes, like he was interested. I felt gooey still, my arms heavy from the cap. I held it up between us, running my fingers along the edge. “It is, but it’s blunt, see?”
“Okay sir, don’t wave it around,” the bearded one said.
A crushing sensation in my chest.
I felt Jen’s arm move from my back.
“Hey! Fuck you!” she yelled.
Both the officers looked at Jen, and then the bearded cop glanced back at me. I saw his eyes briefly, a look of recognition twig on his expression.
The red-haired officer was still looking at Jen, like he was prepared to throw her against the brick wall if needed. His shoulder width was double hers. All uniform and black obtrusions, whatever cops carried these days.
I grabbed Jen with my left hand, to pull her back.
“Jen…”
She leant up to the red-haird cop and said, “fuck you! Apologise!”
Quickly, he moved forward, arms up, and I couldn’t see if he touched Jen or she lost balance, but she was falling to the pavement. She lay crumpled, bare limbs akimbo, in that fluorescent light on the corner. I must have dropped the sword because it clanged on the pavement, echoing back from the other side of the street. I knelt next to her, my arms around her.
“Hey, hey, Steve, let’s let them head home,” the bearded one called to his partner. The red-haired one picked up and handed me the sword.
I grabbed it without turning my head, not wanting to look at either policeman again. Their mumbled voices and thudding steps moved slowly away, but I felt their presence. I hugged Jen and called a rideshare.
At home I took off my gear and had a warm shower, watching the white and red makeup twirl around the drain. Some of it coagulated in the cracks of the tiles. It looked like blood, but it wasn’t. I slid it around with my big toe, aware of how it was just paint I’d applied hours before. Old pains returned to different parts of my body. Pains I’d forgotten. I’d already forgotten how it’d felt to be Buffy.
I went to the living room and scrolled through films I’d seen before. Creature feature, haunted, slasher, psychological; no genre felt right. My mind latched onto nothing. Images of knives, red backgrounds, petrified open mouths. All so pedestrian, childish. Unreal. I turned it off and stared at the black screen.
Jen was already asleep in my bed, so I sat on the edge of the mattress. Thoughts whirled in my head, some abstract, some shockingly visceral. I scribbled a couple on my notepad but it made me feel worse, like I was stabbing myself with my pen. Jen often laughed that I still wrote on paper, said it was cute. She would though, she was always online. Online was detached. I’d spent enough of my life feeling that way.
Memorable Scene – (2035) Sienna Livingston.
Convenience store, fluorescent lights. Two heavily armed officers grab the girl, hoist her up off the pavement, and shove her towards the van. One of them looks smug as hell. Suddenly a figure leaps out, dressed all in black, brandishing a sword. The girl knows what’s coming and drops. There’s an inferno of black and blue and red. So much red. Seconds later, the pavement’s now a mess of flesh, uniform, and blood. Nothing but an officer’s head, severed, blinking up at the neon shop sign. A hand lies further away. And in the middle, standing in the bright red puddle, is a figure, their leather skirt still swaying. Beneath a gnarled forehead, a wicked smile emerges, fangs popping down over maroon lips. The girl, speckled with police blood, smiles back.
END