From the Cutting Room of Barney Kettle (3 page)

‘Autumn Short: Number
Five
, Kettle Productions,’ said Ren.
She wrote this on the cover of the exercise book and turned to the first page. ‘So. What’s the idea?’

And here they confronted their first problem: Barney had absolutely no idea. It wasn’t that his mind was blank. No indeed. It was full of all manner of
stuff
but you couldn’t really call any of it an actual idea. Certainly not an idea for the next KP Short.

This unsatisfactory state of affairs had bothered Barney increasingly over the last week. It was so unfamiliar. It was not at all how things had worked for the three previous Shorts. Thanks to Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas’s instructions the last three Shorts had evolved swiftly and smoothly.
Little Red Riding Hood
had become
Red Riding Hoodie
and
Oliver Twist
had become
Silent Movie
and – apart from the occasional cast exodus – both had worked like a dream. (He hadn’t used the whole of
Oliver Twist
, just the section where Oliver has a brief stay at the wealthy end of town.)

As for
Feliz Navidad
, this brilliant idea had struck Barney like a small electric shock the day Albert Anderson had offered his friend, Hwan, the apartment above Comic Strip. Hwan – who was rather emotional – had clasped Albert Anderson in a passionate embrace of gratitude which had made Art bark in alarm.

‘Our saviour!’ Hwan had cried, into Albert Anderson’s chest. Thank goodness, thank goodness, they had been searching for two months, said Hwan, time was running out, the baby was due in December, but no one seemed to have any room at the inn –

Blimey! thought Barney in that instant. He’d been reclining in the old La-Z-Boy chair in the reading nook of Comic Strip, turning over possible stories for the Summer Short and half-listening to Hwan and Albert Anderson chew the fat. Now he jerked the La-Z-Boy stick and sat up ramrod straight, his brain on high alert, the ideas popping thick and fast, like backyard fireworks at Guy Fawkes.

A twenty-first century
Nativity
! Fern and Hwan could be Mary and Joseph! They were perfect!

For a start, Fern’s middle was as big as a Halloween pumpkin,
which was very realistic. And they
were
actually tired and fed-up with looking for a house and they didn’t have much money or even a cot for the baby. (They planned now to put the baby in the top drawer of Albert Anderson’s spare dresser until some cash came in. Barney assumed they would leave the drawer open.)

Two days later the tandem bicycle had turned up at Busby’s and after that everything had fallen gloriously into place. Barney just loved the way this happened when he was putting a film together … one idea always led to another, and then another and another. For instance, Fern’s baby had come early so Lovie had been obliged to step in with a big pillow stuffed up her middle. But then, happily, they’d had an actual baby to put in the manger.
One thing led to another
. It was brilliant. It was heaven. It was, Barney told Ren gravely, at one of their Kettle Productions meetings,
the thrilling alchemy of the creative process
. He’d read that in
So, You Want to be a Filmmaker?
and copied it into his occasional Filmmaker’s Diary.

Alas, the thrilling alchemy of the creative process seemed to have gone doggo. No new ideas had come to Barney since
Feliz Navidad
had wrapped. On Boxing Day, feeling anxious about it all, he had gone down to the Emporium and wandered from room to room, searching for inspiration. He had browsed the costumes; the bric a brac; the old suitcases covered in labels; the fob watches and ugly dress rings; the cupboard of ancient ferocious-looking medical instruments. He had considered the large glass cabinet with the salt-and-pepper shaker collection. He had stood in front of Mrs Pankhurst, Kate Sheppard and Susan B. Anthony, the headless dressmaker’s dummies. He had leafed through the sheet music and smiled half-heartedly at the old song titles. Nothing.

Barney had lain then on the Victorian reclining sofa and turned the pages of
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
, an old edition from the Vintage Books shelves.

He paused at the illustration of the Wicked Queen in
Snow White
. It reminded Barney of Mia over the road at Toto’s (the video
store; est. 1985). Mia had asked more than once for a part in one of Barney’s films. She was
infatuated
with the screen, she said. And she wouldn’t really have to act the Wicked Queen, thought Barney. Mia was glamorous and slightly fierce in real life.

There were enough children on the Street to play the seven dwarfs, too, if you counted Lovie’s little sister, Bingo – which you probably shouldn’t. (Bingo had brought
Red Riding Hoodie
to a halt by refusing to play unconscious. Barney had wanted to fire her in the tradition of all great film directors, but Mum had forbidden it. All great film directors had vicissitudes, she said, and Bingo was his for now.)

But no, he really couldn’t do a version of
Snow White
. It would be disrespectful.
Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs
had a special place in Barney’s personal film history. It had been his most deeply loved movie for all the years until his sixth birthday (when it had been displaced by a box set of
Star Wars
). He still retained tender and reverent feelings towards Snow White. And Walt Disney. He still had the black court shoes and the blue Snow White dress Mum had found for him to wear in his and Ren’s endless Snow White games. (Ren was the Wicked Queen and every one of the dwarfs.)

Barney had turned the page and read
Hansel and Gretel
, lingering over the gingerbread house. Henrietta and Jack could be the kids. Lovie would be a good witch – a modern one, of course: a salesperson for a fast food company, say, or a greedy property developer. Or she could be a sweet manufacturer and Mrs Corry’s (est. 1963) could be the witch’s house.

But, nah.

He considered
Rumpelstiltskin
, his favourite Grimms’ story. But there weren’t enough parts, just a lot of funny names. And all his updating ideas seemed to lack
freshness
and
surprise
, two concepts much favoured by Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas.

Barney had closed
Grimms’ Fairy Tales
and wondered fleetingly about a Western with water pistols.

Absolutely nothing went zing or pop in his head. Thethrillingalchemyofthecreativeprocess, it seemed, had been smothered or strangled, or rendered unconscious, like Snow White after she’d bitten the apple.

‘Ti-tle?’ said Ren, giving him her Fish-Eye special.

‘Haven’t got one,’ said Barney. ‘Haven’t got any ideas, either. Not one.’

He took another bite of the lurid weasel and chewed dolefully. This had never happened to him before. He’d been coming up with ideas for films as long as he could remember. It had never occurred to him his ideas might stop. Other people’s maybe, but not his.

‘What about you?’ he said. ‘
You
got an idea?’ He didn’t like the way Ren was staring at him.

‘But I’m not the creative one!’ said Ren. She seemed shocked. ‘You’re the Writer/Director.’

This was true. After his first read of
So, You Want to be a Filmmaker?
Barney had assigned himself and Ren official positions within Kettle Productions. Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas had strongly advised this method for organising personnel.  

Ren was KP’s producer/assistant director/casting director/set designer/costume manager/location scout/caterer. She was what Felix and Hal called a Slasher. Barney was a Slasher, too, of course – all great directors began as Slashers. The greater they got, though, the fewer slashes they had in their titles. In the Kettle Productions hierarchy Barney was five slashes higher and greater than Ren.

Ren didn’t mind this one bit because it was Barney who had to dream up all the stories. She preferred stories that didn’t need dreaming up. True stories. Real people. Actual objects. And logic. Ren preferred facts and organisation to flights of imagination. She liked to keep things in order and proceed logically from one thing to another. This was the main reason she was dedicated to
Kettle Productions. As Arch-Slasher Ren got to organise every last little
real
detail of the stories Barney dreamed up. She could make numerous lists of items they needed or places they must go and the order in which everything must be done. She could cross things
off
her lists, and crossing off was just about Ren’s favourite activity in the world.

‘So, Mr Writer/Director,’ said Ren. ‘Idea and script, please. Then I can get to work.’ She pointed the pencil meaningfully at the blank page.

Barney was silent.

‘Just make up something for now,’ cajoled Ren. The HB 5 pencil hovered over the page. ‘A
working
title.’

Barney swallowed the last of his weasel and sighed.

‘I think I have Writer’s Block.’

Ren began the complicated twiddle she did with the HB 5 when she was becoming frustrated.

‘Happens to all great artists,’ said Barney.

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s a
block
. Things are blocked up. The ideas and things.’

Saying these words made Barney feel quite terrible. Perhaps Writer’s Block was an actual sickness. His head did seem to be aching, now that he thought about it. Plus, he felt hot and clammy. He touched his temple with the back of his hand, as Mum did when they were sick. Definitely hot. (Also this weather made his hair feel too weighty on his head. Barney had a good deal of hair. It didn’t matter what kind of haircut he had. His hair was persistently
big
.)

‘Just use another story,’ said Ren. ‘Like before. Like they say in the book. There are millions of stories we can use.’ She wrote Short Five on the first page, underlined it and resumed twiddling.

‘Oh, just do what stupid Felix La Marche and Hal Nicholas say. C’
mon
.’

Barney put his arms on the table and his head on his arms.

‘I’m sick of doing stories we know the ends of,’ he said.

At that, he raised his head, surprised at what had just come out of his mouth. Funny. He hadn’t known this was what he thought.

‘Huh,’ said Barney. He sat up straight again.

‘I like knowing the end,’ said Ren. ‘It’s so much easier to organise everything.’

Barney studied his sister. She was so
different
to him. It was quite amazing they were related. Ren seemed happy enough, though, he had to admit. It was hard sometimes to see how people could be satisfied with life if they weren’t like him. According to Mum this was consistent with being a megalomaniac.

‘You
must
have some ideas,’ said Ren. ‘You’ve probably got them but you don’t know it.’

Twiddle, twiddle.

‘I could make a list of almost-ideas, like your
thoughts
, any old thought. What have you been thinking about? Tell me.’ She beamed encouragingly at him, her pencil poised.

What
had
he been thinking about? Barney wondered now, forgetting about his possibly aching head and clammy skin. It was always enjoyable talking about this sort of thing; it was always so enjoyable talking about
yourself
.

He thought back over the day so far.

In bed, first thing, he’d mostly been preoccupied with breakfast possibilities: toast-and-Vegemite-and-banana? Or toast-and-peanut-butter-and-banana? Or toast and banana and the strange blackberry jelly South Island Gran had given them?

After breakfast he’d gone to see Albert Anderson and Art who were just back from their beach holiday. Albert had made liquorice tea and opened a packet of Chocolate Wheaten, the only biscuit he ever seemed to eat, though Barney had often tried to convert him to Sultana Pasties. They’d discussed beach swimming versus lake swimming. And Marvel comics versus DC. Art had gone to sleep with his head and paws on Barney’s bare feet.

‘I thought about Batman and Spiderman for a bit. And then about Calvin and Hobbes. And
then
about bloodhounds and kelpies and spaniels and, you know, which would be the best.’

Ren wrote Batman, Spiderman, Calvin, Hobbes, Bloodhound, Kelpie, Spaniel, in a list.

Barney looked admiringly at the words. Ren’s spelling was perfect. His own was insane.

‘Which did you choose?’ Ren asked; the HB 5 was ready for a sub-list, Barney could tell.

‘Kelpie. Nice and wolfish. Spaniels are too scatty.’

‘Bloodhounds have nice eyes,’ said Ren, a little wistfully.

They couldn’t have a dog at their apartment but they often discussed their favourite breeds, and names for their ultimate imaginary pet. Barney’s current favourite was McFly; Ren was fond of the name Japheth. She’d read it in some book.

Mid-morning Barney had gone to the Mediterranean to watch Battista making pizza dough. Jack, whose parents ran the Mediterranean, was away at cricket camp but Barney was welcome in the Mediterranean kitchen with or without his friend. If it wasn’t busy Battista sometimes let you work on your own dough-stretching skills. He had given Barney new cheese to sample and a rump of salami and some day-old bread. There were always good scraps at the Mediterranean.

‘I thought about being Marco Polo,’ said Barney. ‘Travelling around all the time.’ He often thought about Marco Polo after he’d seen Battista. ‘Marco Polo with a video camera.’

Ren wrote down Marco Polo.

Could they do a film about Marco Polo? You couldn’t just have him walking the Silk Road all the time. You’d have to make him stop somewhere and have a story happen. But what story? Barney tried to wrench an idea from the squirming mass of
stuff
in his head.

Nothing.

After the Mediterranean Warehouse he’d walked to the
Gilded Palace (est. 1978) to see Benjamin. Chewing salami and bread, Barney had considered the happy truth that he could pass a well-fed day on the Street without ever going home or spending any money. It was possible to wander around visiting his friends, young and old, and achieve a pretty well-balanced diet at the same time.