The kid in the film was stoned to the gills again. It is disturbing to watch. It's so easy to get pulled into the tangle between the boy in front of the camera and the man behind it. When Tim Barrus claims he has no idea what the New York Times is talking about when it calls his work "disturbing" I do not believe a word of it. He knows. I really, truly, honestly hate watching this. But it's my job. Whenever Eric's eyes (Eric is the boy trying to get through this shoot) get really tight and he's right on the verge of crying, he will sometimes look my way. I'm sitting over here in the shadows. Pretending to be a disinterested assistant. I don't know if Eric can see my eyes but if he can I just want him to know it's going to be okay. Something in me is so twisted. I really need it to be okay when this is said and done and it needs to be said and done soon. I know that Tim is only trying to get the best stuff out of Eric. But Eric is a kid and this hurts like hell to even watch it from the sidelines. Eric is playing himself. I keep trying to tell myself that it's a performance. Maybe it is. I don't know anymore. It's like the camera isn't really even a participant but it is. Like a silent witch. Tim puts Eric in what we call the "Hot Seat." In this scene, it's not a seat. It's a corner and Eric is on the floor. The idea is that the person in the "Hot Seat" speaks to something or someone that isn't really there. It could be someone you love. It could be someone you hate. It could be someone dead. It could be your pain. It could be your rage. It will be your guts. It could be all of this at the same time. There is a red chair (I think Tim deliberately picks red) between Tim and Eric. Tim is pacing behind the camera. Eric is supposed to talk to the empty chair and it's making him bleed all over this floor and I want to run out of this room but my legs are numb. I can't move. Eric is speaking to his own numbness. He's stoned or drunk or both (I can't hear this stuff so I don't know exactly) or back to coke and booze and paying Mama's rent with fifty dollar tricks and long soaks in tubs until the water freezes and you can't get clean and you're leaking blood from your ass and he doesn't want to but he's going to do some crystal just to be able to summon the energy to get UP and OUT of that corner. I am this boy. Fuck you, Tim. "Tell the chair, Eric." That's all Tim ever says on this shoot. "I'm going to kill myself," this boy screams. The hair on my neck is like a deep freeze. "Tell it to the chair." "I want to die." "How does wanting to die FEEL, Eric?" Sometimes I hate Tim. I hate him. It never lasts. but when I feel it, I feel it hard. "I'm sad because I want to LIVE," Eric is screaming at the chair. And for the first time today, not at Tim. It's about what's sitting in the chair. Often, it is my heart. Tim steps in front of the camera. He hands Eric a big kitchen knife. "Tell the chair." Eric gets up off the floor. He walks over to the chair and starts stabbing it and ripping it to shreds with the knife. I think I am going to be sick. Anyone who claims that prostitution is a victimless crime needs to have to sit in this room for five minutes -- or -- have their head lobotomized. Tim is holding him now. Protecting him. All of this on the fucking camera. Tim is looking up at me. His liquid eyes are always putting me on the spot. I detest confronting these issues. His hands are reaching down your throat and pulling your innards out of your mouth. It's coming. I can see it a mile away. My turn. It always comes as an assignment. Mine to is to go out there and film my own speaking to the chair but not to use the crutch of the image of human beings. If I said I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK YOU WANT it would be a lie. It's ALL dog eat dog. What crutch. He's talking about rape. I hate him and the red chair is shreds. cinematheque.films.fr@gmail.comhttp://le-cinemathequefilms.blogspot.com/
