12.05 University of Westminster

The main film studio, Harrow Campus.


Brightness. Big metal lights with big, black shutters glare.
“What you doin’ there?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know!”


The Essay.

Laughter and murmur.

“Anne sent an email”
Clink clink. Metal on metal. Screws unwind and come loose.
Tap tap. Bang.

“What kind of thing do you get analysed on for our essay?”
“What you mean?”
Mumble mumble. Inaudible sounds.
“Detail, detail, detail.”


Cone Head.

Lights glare.
PVC and a cone head. Red finger nails and a huge hooked nose – he looks confused. Is this normal? Everyone acts normal. They know what they are doing.

“Can I steal this chair?”
Cone head rolls the red chair away, wheels giggling on the floor.

A blonde girl wraps her hair around her fingers and talks about bread.
Cone head roams the room. Uncomfortably. The bread is fascinating.
Bang bang.

“Don’t move. We’re ready.”
“Are you guys filmin now?”
“I’ll sort you’re ‘ed out.”
The red finger nails caress the cone head.
Voices lower, inaudible murmurs.
Rustle rustle.

Cone head glides across the room, his black PVC cloak swooshing with his every movement.
“Does your nose get in the way of drinking that?”
“I need some sort of straw.”
“Imagine doin’ coke with a nose like that!”

Cone head admires his nails: “At this moment I couldn’t be much happier with life. It expresses my inner joy.”
“He was meant to be a Jew wasn’t he?!”


The Girl in The Green Jumper.

“Does anyone mind if I go out for a cigarette?”

Feet pace. Tapping sounds. Tap tap. Tap tap.
A zip. Rustling in a bag.
“Cunningly disguised as work”

The girl in green rolls a cigarette, tobacco falling to the floor. She taps her cigarette on the faux wood, cheap plastic table. A sound faintly heard.
She rustles her tobacco pouch and plays with a lighter.
Click click. It works. A yellow flame rises from its red encasement and she leaves.


Gaffa Tape.

The purple curtain drapes itself over a white wooden board.
“Where’s the rubber bit that needs to be on there? We need gaffa tape.”
A light goes out. A little less brightness in the black room.
“Hang on! I need to get some gaffa tape!”

“We need to take this camera off and reattach it.”
Clap clap. Clap clap. Click click.
The music of hands against thighs and fingers snapping.
The boy in the red t-shirt paces, his jaw clenching as he chews gum.
Money and keys jangle in pockets. Feet slide and scrape. Sniffing stuffy noses.

“Right down on the floor.”
The lines of ancient gaffa tape are right down on the floor. A mesh of wires snake around one another in a central heap.
“Anyone seen the roll of camera tape round ere?”
Bags rustle and feet scrape.

Gaffa tape. Everywhere. Everyone has gaffa tape.
“Where’s the fuckin line?!”


Focusing.

Scrape, screech. The chair moves.
Yawns and sighs.
Papers rustle.
“Is it focused?”
“Yes”
“What about now?”
“No”
“Tell me when it looks focused.”


The Shirtless Boy.

“The light readings”
Glaring. Bright. Blinding.
A boy sits in their focus. Shirtless. On his knees.
“What do you want me to do?”
Squeak. The chair again.
The boy squirms.

More lights. Brighter.
Laughter. Murmur. Fingers tap and pens roll.
Patter patter patter. Feet wander the room.


“Stand by on set!”
Silence.
“Action!”
The boy under the lights stares at his hands.

Darkness, except for a faint glimmer of light from the corridor.
Tap tap tap tap.
The relentless tapping pursues its cause.
“Cut!”