So this is the new year, and I don't feel any different.
WHO: Just Noah Connell.
WHAT: Something unexpected -- and infuriatingly familiar -- shows up on television. Uncomfortable ruminations on his father result.
WHEN: Late night Wednesday.
WHERE: His apartment in NYC.
On a normal night, Noah's apartment is richly flooded with light. The bright lamps reflect off dark marble, polished wooden floors, and glass tables. On a normal night, his little penthouse remains a puddle of light hovering in the heights of New York, windows overlooking the city and perhaps a woman in his bed. There will be sounds, voices, whispers, a girlish giggle or a chuckle.
Not tonight.
Tonight, the lights have been dimmed to near-darkness and it seems more like a shady motel room - or a wolf's den - than ever. The man himself lounges in a heavily upholstered chair, one arm draped over the side, his bare feet splayed across the carpet. The television emits the only light in the room, and it casts a pale and almost sickly blue glow across his face. He doesn't seem to mind.
Noah Connell surfs the channels with listless apathy, his head already drooping (the clock by the kitchen reads 2:13AM and he has meetings the next morning; why is he still awake?), and he's considering sleep - but he always considers sleep on these nights, and yet he still stays awake. There's too much going on. He's gotten himself an apartment as high up as you can go, he went straight for the penthouse, and he can still smell the reek of fear rising off the streets like hot air. New York never sleeps, and sometimes, neither does he.
Two minutes later, he's suddenly jarred out of his stupor by the announcer drawling out a far-too-familiar name, woken by the simple credits panning across the flatscreen. And there: a strain of music he knows and has known almost his entire life, now warbling in and out of the goddamned surround sound stereo. A late-night special. A movie anniversary. It's been fifteen years since it first came out.
Without even noticing it, Noah slides forward in his chair, his eyes now trained upon the television.
the new year.
a film by saul connell.
He watches the opening credits fade away, washed out in favour of scenes, props, and actors going about their business. Everything builds itself up in layers - it moves first from the face of a digital clock, the time stamped firm and unblinking, before pulling back to a bed, a man, further back, a house, a garden, withered yellow grass, the clamour of traffic in the distance, and that music.
Noah watches the movie in silence, his thumb hovering on the volume button.
Ten minutes later, he makes a sound - gravelly and in the back of his throat, something between a grunt and a half-vocalised mumble - and he turns off the TV, fingers flicking almost contemptuously across the remote. The last source of light cuts out, leaving him flooded in darkness and sitting by himself in the living room.
Behind his eyes, however, he still sees the movie. A man, a son, half-begun and never-finished sentences, a camera slowly panning further and further away until you could hardly see either figure for the distance. He knows how it goes. Not only is The New Year on his shelf in DVD form, but he has it memorised, has it ingrained in his head due to years of puzzling over it, watching it, thinking "maybe this time, something will click." This time, something will make sense and he'll realise what Saul's been trying to say all these years.
It doesn't. He turns off the TV in frustration, swamped with the same feelings of helpless disorientation, unease, and tired contemplation that his father's films always instil in him.
Noah can never decide whether or not the boy in the film is meant to be him.
WHAT: Something unexpected -- and infuriatingly familiar -- shows up on television. Uncomfortable ruminations on his father result.
WHEN: Late night Wednesday.
WHERE: His apartment in NYC.
On a normal night, Noah's apartment is richly flooded with light. The bright lamps reflect off dark marble, polished wooden floors, and glass tables. On a normal night, his little penthouse remains a puddle of light hovering in the heights of New York, windows overlooking the city and perhaps a woman in his bed. There will be sounds, voices, whispers, a girlish giggle or a chuckle.
Not tonight.
Tonight, the lights have been dimmed to near-darkness and it seems more like a shady motel room - or a wolf's den - than ever. The man himself lounges in a heavily upholstered chair, one arm draped over the side, his bare feet splayed across the carpet. The television emits the only light in the room, and it casts a pale and almost sickly blue glow across his face. He doesn't seem to mind.
Noah Connell surfs the channels with listless apathy, his head already drooping (the clock by the kitchen reads 2:13AM and he has meetings the next morning; why is he still awake?), and he's considering sleep - but he always considers sleep on these nights, and yet he still stays awake. There's too much going on. He's gotten himself an apartment as high up as you can go, he went straight for the penthouse, and he can still smell the reek of fear rising off the streets like hot air. New York never sleeps, and sometimes, neither does he.
Two minutes later, he's suddenly jarred out of his stupor by the announcer drawling out a far-too-familiar name, woken by the simple credits panning across the flatscreen. And there: a strain of music he knows and has known almost his entire life, now warbling in and out of the goddamned surround sound stereo. A late-night special. A movie anniversary. It's been fifteen years since it first came out.
Without even noticing it, Noah slides forward in his chair, his eyes now trained upon the television.
the new year.
a film by saul connell.
He watches the opening credits fade away, washed out in favour of scenes, props, and actors going about their business. Everything builds itself up in layers - it moves first from the face of a digital clock, the time stamped firm and unblinking, before pulling back to a bed, a man, further back, a house, a garden, withered yellow grass, the clamour of traffic in the distance, and that music.
Noah watches the movie in silence, his thumb hovering on the volume button.
Ten minutes later, he makes a sound - gravelly and in the back of his throat, something between a grunt and a half-vocalised mumble - and he turns off the TV, fingers flicking almost contemptuously across the remote. The last source of light cuts out, leaving him flooded in darkness and sitting by himself in the living room.
Behind his eyes, however, he still sees the movie. A man, a son, half-begun and never-finished sentences, a camera slowly panning further and further away until you could hardly see either figure for the distance. He knows how it goes. Not only is The New Year on his shelf in DVD form, but he has it memorised, has it ingrained in his head due to years of puzzling over it, watching it, thinking "maybe this time, something will click." This time, something will make sense and he'll realise what Saul's been trying to say all these years.
It doesn't. He turns off the TV in frustration, swamped with the same feelings of helpless disorientation, unease, and tired contemplation that his father's films always instil in him.
Noah can never decide whether or not the boy in the film is meant to be him.