CALUMNY AND BETRAYAL

The rogue curator Noel Lawrence

For those who follow my work, you may be familiar with an unsavory “curator” by the name of Noel Lawrence. He edited a book about me in cahoots with an obscure  French rock critic and has often screened “Peep Show” and other movies at museums and cinematheques in Europe. 

Until now, I have suffered this fellow. He was a pest but a persistent one so I occasionally indulged him. I gave him a few crumbs for his book and lent him some very valuable film prints from my private collection. However, Mr. Lawrence has repaid my generosity with calumny and betrayal!

Noel recently asked my permission to screen my films “at a festival in Utah” in January. Naturally, I was very excited to be a part of Robert Redford’s powwow in Park City. Strangely, Noel seemed evasive when I asked about breaking bread with the great thespian. Now I have learned that Mr. Lawrence will be showcasing my work at a doppelganger festival that bears no connection to Slundance but happens at the very same time. 

Even so, I only requested that my hosts provide me with the standard perks of a visiting auteur such as a five-figure appearance fee and a limousine from the Salt Lake City airport. In fact, I even waived the usual “hookers and champagne” clause from my contract. Noel avoided my calls for some time. When my personal assistant finally reached him, he informed me that this “film festival” will not even get me a room at the Motel 6 for my stay. 

Mr. Lawrence, you are a fraud and a cheat.  This offense shall not go unanswered.

Bear in mind I do not advocate a boycott of the screening. In fact, I urge your attendance as this may be your last chance to see these films. I will be confiscating my prints after the screening and locking them up in a secure location that Dick Cheney could only dream of. Instead of preventing this show, I propose to add a special bonus attraction to the festivities.  After Lawrence finishes presenting my films, I will come on stage and personally beat the shit out of this craven curator.

Prepare yourself, Noel! I am at work in my private gymnasium with the soundtrack to Rocky cranked to maximum volume. I am jumping rope, hitting the bag, and taking long steam baths. By the time I arrive in Park City, I shall be in full fettle and ready to kick your ass. In that regard, perhaps I owe backhanded thanks to Lawrence for motivating me to undertake this strenuous physical regimen.

Now you may ask yourself why I would not just use one of my favorite shotguns to dispatch this blackguard. That would not be appropriate. Firearms are for gentlemen in a duel. This rapscallion merits nothing greater than fists and feet. Moreover, he is a wimp. A girl could beat him up and so can an old man like myself. 

Addendum to Previous Post

Though I still am not at liberty to discuss my role in “the spaghetti incident,” I do want to make one important clarification before tongues inevitably begin to wag. Yes, I puked on the agent’s wife. However, I did not puke on her intentionally as everyone claimed. It simply had been an unfortunate occurrence without any premeditated ill-will. 

Vindication!

As I watched the tarmac of LAX shrinking beneath the clouds on that fateful day in 1981, many tears salted the first martini of the flight.  The first-class one-way ticket to Geneva was on the house.  So was the Gucci attaché case stuffed with Krugerrands and back issues of Hustler Magazine for bathroom reading. I had even more money waiting for me at the Zurich branch of Credit Suisse. The boys back East hadn’t loaded me on that plane without a golden parachute.

But I was never coming home. Nearly a half-century worth of dreams died that day. All of my life had been writing, shooting, editing, directing, living and breathing the movies. Whether buying bear claws for the grips before dawn, pitching “the best film ever” to a bored junior executive at Universal, or waking up nose down in the shag carpet of an unknown hotel room (though I could tell by the weave that I was at the Chateau Marmont), the beat never stopped.  Life was film and film was life and that was that.

And now it was over. There had been a scandal. Then a cover-up. I became the damage to be controlled.

Thirty years passed in exile and not a day went by without waiting for the call. I knew sooner or later my contributions to the art of cinema would be recognized. Hollywood would someday let me back into its precious fold.

And, finally, vindication.  

It recently came to my attention that the Slamdance Film Festival will be presenting a retrospective of my work. I would like to personally thank Robert Redford for inviting me to once more be a part of the Industry that has shunned me for so long. Further, I want to praise him for overlooking my disgraceful conduct during the notorious “spaghetti incident.” 

Dear readers, I am afraid I cannot go into details on the events that transpired that evening. However, rest assured Redford is quite a mensch to offer his tacit forgiveness. Now, please let me get back to packing. I bought a new flask and thermal socks for Park City!