There are two inherent problems with the genre. The first is the moment the monster is shown for the first time. Invariably half the tension of the film is lost right there. Until then, the audience has created their own nightmare images of a monster. So no matter how ghastly or unique you thought yours was, it couldn't possibly be as bad as their individual bogeymen. People are scared of different things – blood, rats, death, night, fire. . . . There is no way of combining them into one all-encompassing creature without being funny or falling flat.
Bloodstone was good because he was a kind of indistinct blur, despite the silvery face and small child's hands with no fingernails. Yes, you knew something was very wrong with him but the image was so delicately underplayed, he could just as easily have been a man going to a costume party.
The same was true with what Phil had him do. No heads were torn off or stomachs ripped open with a single long fingernail. Bloodstone was a presence from somewhere else. Like a creature from another planet a thousand times more advanced than ours, he had wondrous ways to make man suffer. That was part of the fun of the Midnight films: What's the son of a bitch going to do next?
But that was all. The films opened, Bloodstone went around hurting people in interesting, novel ways, and then the story ended. Every time it was the same, and that introduced problem two: the Endings.
Traditionally, there are two ways to end a horror film – happy or sad. The monster wins, the monster loses. That's it. And the audience knows that when they walk into the theater. They'll be scared, but they know how it will end, always.
Great films keep you guessing; you don't know who's going to get to the finish line first, if anyone.
In my version of the film (Wyatt quickly titled it "Midnight's Spills"), we rarely even saw Bloodstone and the end was inconclusive.
"Hey, that's one of the scenes we shot downtown!"
"Right. At the shoeshine place on Hollywood Boulevard."
"I didn't even realize that. Did you put many of those in?"
"A few."
"No wonder the film feels tilted, you know what I mean? It's like looking at something you've seen before, a painting or a building, but something's off about it. It's basically the same as before, but now it's better and you don't know why."
"What about the order of the scenes and the way they're moved around?"
"Don't even ask me about that, Weber. You know they're wonderful. Don't fish for compliments."
Halfway through the second run, Finky Linky turned on the lamp and looked at me while the video was still running. "I have a very strange suggestion to make. Before you hate it, think seriously about it.
"If you're going to put other scenes in here besides Midnight, add some from your own films. I'm thinking specifically of Sorrow and Son and The Night Is Blond.
"What you've done is redefine the mood of Midnight. It's your mood now, Weber, the one that's in all your work. But if you're going to do that, go all the way. I keep thinking of little sections of your movies and how well they'd fit in here and here and here and here. . . . I can't imagine what you'll end up with, but I'd love to see the result.
"I just thought of a funny story that reminds me of this. When Billy Wilder made Double Indemnity, he was nominated as Best Director of the Year. He was convinced he should get it, but another director won. Wilder was so pissed off that when this other guy was walking down the aisle to get the Oscar, Wilder stuck out his foot and tripped him. I wonder if Phil would trip you after he saw this.
"It's damned good, Weber, but I think I'm right about what I said. Midnight's never looked better, but even with your rearranging and the other scenes added, it's still basically Midnight. Make it that, plus Sorrow and Son and The Night Is Blond, and you're going to have something wild."
Dear Weber,
I want to tell you this to your face, but I can't because it's still very embarrassing for me. I want to tell you what happened between Phil and me at the end and why we decided it was better that we not live together anymore, at least for a while.
I know I've told you some things, and you can get an idea of what it was like at the end after you've read his story "A Quarter Past You."
But this tape tells the rest. Give it back to me when you're done and please don't tell Wyatt about anything you see. I wish I could watch with you to hear what you think, but I can't. Maybe sometime. But maybe I should just let you watch and then throw it away. It's been in my drawer for weeks, and every time I think about it I get jittery. Why did I keep it? I don't know.
Sasha
I didn't watch it all. You got the idea in five minutes.
In real life, Strayhorn had not only recreated whole scenes from Midnight to scare Sasha, he filmed them too. An example? She's fast asleep when he brings a tape recorder into their bedroom and turns it on to the sound of people fucking. You can barely see the expression on her face when she comes awake and realizes what's happening, but for the viewer it's embarrassing and provocative at the same time. Her life has suddenly become a movie – how will she react?
How could he have done it? How could she have put up with it after one experience like that? How could he have shot some of those scenes without her knowing about the camera?
I put the film back on her bed with a note: "You were right to leave. Get rid of this thing."
Wouldn't it be easier if life worked that way? Recognize something as wrong or immoral, reject it on the spot, then stop thinking about it. Simple, practical, time-saving. It would be easier, but life likes color, not just black-and-white.
I was sitting alone in a park watching some kids do tricky things on their bicycles – handstands on the seat, flips, wheelies. Wyatt and I had just had a meeting with the producer of Midnight Kills and told him a few of our ideas. He was so happy to have us both working on his film that I think we could have done anything and he would've accepted it. His only concern was when it would be finished, but we assured him it would be wrapped on time.
The kids spun and leapt with real bravery and grace as well as keen attention to what the other riders were doing. They were their own best audience. A number of other people were watching them perform, but the kids' blase air said we, their second audience, didn't count.
Watching them do their stuff, I mulled over what I'd been doing and particularly what I'd done about Sasha's tape.
On our flight back to California from New York, I'd read an article on nuclear disarmament. It said one of the greatest problems humankind faces is that even if every country that has bombs were to get rid of them, the knowledge of how to build them still exists and someone can always make another. How do you get rid of knowledge?
The moment I learned what Sasha's secret film was about, it wasn't even necessary to see it because something self-serving and dangerous had already risen in me. I had to use Phil's idea. It was immoral and the utter betrayal of a friend's trust, but the power of his concept was irresistible: Force an "audience" to cross from their familiar world to another one, well known yet impossible. Then film their every reaction . . . for yet another audience!
After visiting Max in the hospital with Sean and James, I'd explained what I wanted to try. They got very excited, and after an hour in the hospital coffee shop we'd worked out a scene we'd try at our next rehearsal. It wasn't what Phil had done to Sasha, but it was the same geography: the same shock of betrayal, sex through the keyhole, life turned around and inside out until no one knew who held the camera or who was being filmed.