Alex Winehauser was to receive an award from an industry that had long ignored or slandered him with lies and half-truths. Recently it had become embarrassingly obvious that Alex’s omission from the history books of film was inexplicable and it was deemed necessary to give the old man something so he could conveniently stumble away and disappear. A trinket his son could inherit in a few years and display on a mantelpiece in some shabby suburban home. Or pawn.
Alex hadn’t directed or written a movie in over 20 years and shunned all industry gatherings. A hermit living in a small bedsitter somewhere on the outskirts of Limbo. Those in the industry who’d once resented his youthful outpouring of product finally seemed satisfied that they’d long silenced him into oblivion and he was now safe to be wheeled out as a long forgotten has been. They were even secure enough to engrave on his award “For
Sheer Brilliance.” What did it matter anymore? No one remembered him anyway.
There was no greater film arts accolade in Australia than the A.S.S (Australian Screen Survivors) Award and they were even screened nationally in the non-ratings period and between football seasons. Alex had initially felt inclined to refuse it but his son had urged him to re-think that decision. As the momentous occasion drew close, Alex went to a formal hire store and rented a tuxedo and all the accessories. He spent most of next month’s rent on it but felt that seeing it would be his final public appearance, he should look the part.
His son noticed that his dad wrote several drafts of an acceptance speech but tore most of them up. He was also observed pacing the living room floor and muttering to himself in angry tones. Occasionally he kicked a piece of furniture. Just when he’d thought he was out of it, they were dragging him back in. He was certain it’d be an uneasy night for all involved but they’d now agreed to play their respective roles and as such it was set. A masquerade of mutual congeniality.
On this eventful night, Alex caught a cab but had it stop at a pub several blocks from his intended destination. He needed to calm his nerves with a few stiff vodka shots. Six to be exact. Now he felt he was ready for the lynching mob.
The awards ceremony was already underway when Alex made his noisy entrance and stumbled in the dark trying to find his allocated seat. He noticed the usual splattering of Aussie names who were obviously unwanted in Hollywood this week, as well as the familiar industry “observers.” He sniggered to himself that the term “industry observer” was a polite title for people who did nothing but attend free events. Still, they seemed to know a lot about French cinema in the 60s. Finding his seat, Alex fell over someone’s feet and landed to observe a local comedian, who’d never been in a film, being unfunny about tragic world events, and suppressed his urge to yell out “Fuck off wanker!” Instead, he thought he’d save it for his speech. The six vodka shots were really kicking in now.
Alex looked around and saw an actress, who’d once offered to blow him for a role, giving an impression of a sincere person smiling and waving at him. She was sitting with a film critic whose claim to fame was once being married to someone who’d made a documentary that nobody saw. He scanned the room desperately trying to find the face of someone he liked but most of them had been so surgically altered that even their mothers would find it difficult to recognize them. Two rows from the front he saw the back of the head of a man who had ripped him off for a million dollars and now lectured on film integrity. Alex momentarily forgot he wasn’t at home watching this circus on television and laughed out loud. The struggling comedian looked down at Alex and smiled thinking one of his jokes had actually worked.
The guest of honour felt claustrophobic stuck in the middle with clowns and jokers and unconsciously started to hum the Stealers Wheels hit song until he was ssssshed by an annoyed woman in the row in front of him. Alex had observed that she hadn’t once laughed at the comic and was more interested in reading her program, no doubt speed reading to see if her name was mentioned somewhere. He couldn’t understand why she was so annoyed at his humming when she was clearly not interested in the proceedings away. Then he realized she was at an age in her life when she was annoyed at everything, or at least, anything she could exercise some control over.
Alex looked down at his hands and wondered who they belonged to. He hadn’t observed them closely in such a long time and now they seemed to belong to an old person. When exactly had this happened? Was the process ever so slow that one doesn’t notice or does it happen one night whilst we’re sleeping? The decline of a career was like that too. Alex had, over the past few days, tried to pinpoint just when his career ended and couldn’t actually come up with a precise answer. One thing was for sure, the powers-that-be had cut off his lifeline a few years before he actually felt the aftershock. He’d been dead but just didn’t know it. How ironic that these same people were now giving him an award. He suddenly felt like punching someone, anyone, but instead stifled the urge. The internal struggle to suppress his anger caused him to emit a low guttural groan from somewhere deep within his own abyss. The annoyed woman in the next row again turned to ssssh Alex but when she saw the expression on his face thought better of it and returned her attention to the comic dying onstage.
Alex suddenly stood. He wanted to leave. It took exactly one second to realize he couldn’t do this as his son was excitedly watching the telecast with some friends and would no doubt be disappointed. As a father, he sat back down.
The comic ended his act, and possibly his career, to the thunderous applause of relief from the thankful audience of snobs and has-beens.
Then, the organizers rolled out the big guns by announcing the next presenter, Olivia Koomash, one of the bright stars of Australian cinema. Olivia had made her name in all the usual suspect Aussie teen soaps on prime time as well as a few Aussie movies that critic Margaret Prune adored and everyone else had avoided. Australia’s bright star was now a resident of Los Angeles and reading lots of scripts as well as sleeping with every sleazy producer in town. Her rent was paid by an old man she’d found on Sugerdaddy. com and she was being seen at all the right places with all the wrong people. It was rumoured she’d once said “hello” to Julia Roberts. It was only fitting, thought Alex, that this girl had been chosen to introduce him. She was perfect. She didn’t know him from a bar of soap and was born after his last film had been made. She even succeeded in mispronouncing his surname. No doubt the organizers had thought long and hard about this choice and it was designed to demean him one last time. It reeked of “If we have to give him an award let’s make it as frivolous as possible” – giving the impression that Alex Winehauser’s films had been pop in a classical world. This assumption had been compounded by his omission from most academic books published on the history of the Australian Film Industry. His films were not even mentioned in what were deemed to be comprehensive listings of all local movies. Alex knew this was not just his paranoia – these listings were compiled by industry “experts” who knew better. If it had been designed to hurt Alex it’d worked. It had damaged him in ways far greater than mere sadness or anger – it had broken his faith in human nature and the belief that at the centre of things was a goodness.
As Olivia Koomash waffled on about things she had no understanding of and continued to mispronounce words including some of the titles from his lifetime of work, Alex wondered, for the first time in his life, how and where one could purchase a handgun. It was one of those thoughts that are captivating for a few seconds until reality kicks in reminding you that, as a father, murder or suicide are not an option and are only a solution for those with nothing more to lose. Or to live for.
Alex was jolted back to the unreal world by the bubbly announcement of his name by Australia’s new golden girl. She mispronounced it again but by now Alex had joined the rest of the room in not caring. Once, in his youth, Alex Winehauser had stood for things. Now he rose to his feet to stand for nothing. He was so conflicted that the applause sounded like surface noise on his brain. As he walked to the stage he was hit with an overpoweringly deep urge to vomit. They had finally tricked him into selling out and condoning their appalling behaviour. Accepting this award made him no better than them. In fact, worse.
He wasn’t sure if he thanked Miss Golden Girl or not. Everything had seemed to blur for a few seconds. Lost. He was surprised to see he was actually holding the award in his hand. He looked out past the bright lights to the shadowy figures in the auditorium and saw that quite a few had even risen to give him a standing ovation. Perhaps they confused him with someone else. An easy mistake. Tonight he was actually someone else. The young man that’d made those films would’ve not been here tonight. He had principles. Alex heard the applause finally die down and then that deafening silence of dead air time. A message scrolled down on the teleprompter…”Say something!”
And in that few seconds it took Alex to draw breath, a miracle occurred. That young man, filmmaker Alex Winehauser, returned. He eyed the room as surely as Wyatt Earp took in every detail of any saloon he entered. And he began to speak…
“I had a speech prepared but…I tore it up.” A few people laughed. Nervously. So far he was getting a better reaction than the opening comic.
“Creative people don’t need awards. They need encouragement. It’s scary being out there all on your own. Sometimes all you need is someone to say, “Just do it. I believe in you.” You people, on the other hand, never ever believed in me. And here we are tonight co-conspirators in a big lie. This is not an award you wanted to give, it’s an award you felt you had to give. You see, history has treated me better than you ever did. And now you’re embarrassed. Well, I’m embarrassed too. Some of you people hated my films sight unseen. That tells me you hated me and what I stood for but in order to disguise your personal resentment, you targeted my work. The thing I loved. The thing I lived for. The thing that made me get up in the mornings. But you’re safe now. Alex Winehauser died 20 years ago.
All that exists of him now is a pathetic old man who is so need of love, even insincere love, that he got talked into coming here tonight. I often wonder what that young boy would’ve achieved if he hadn’t been driven away. We will never know.”
The teleprompter scrolled the message from the producer, “Just say Thank You and get off.” Alex couldn’t help but laugh, which confused the audience even more.
“I have been told to say thanks. Well….I see out there in the audience Mr Alan Foley, a man who worked tirelessly to see that my films never achieved the distribution they deserved. It was not enough for him to help bury me, so he has continued to bad mouth the corpse for the past 20 years. I sincerely hope it has brought you some pleasure, Alan.
Now that we’re old men it’s important to feel good about ourselves. You know why we don’t make great movies anymore? Because none of these mean-spirited and envious people ever encouraged anyone. That’s what we’re paying for now, folks. We reap what we sow.”
Another message screamed across the teleprompter, “YOU ARE TAKING TOO LONG! AND STOP SWEARING!”
“I’ve been told to get off. So I will. What a shame, I had so many others to thank. As for this A.S.S Award – you can stick up your ass! You’re safe now. I’m going home. There’s only one person who’s opinion means anything to me, and that’s my son. I know he’s watching this and I just want to tell him how much I love him. As a father, I have taught him many important lessons for life. And this is just another. Hold on to who you are, young man. Everything you do, do for the right reasons. Fuck the awards. Fuck the praise. Fuck the criticisms. Fuck the phony friends. Fuck the history books. Fuck the money. For they will surely fuck you!… Take it from one who knows. If my language has offended any of the 15 people watching this telecast tonight I am very sorry but you can go fuck yourselves too! Good night, and thank you for having me.”
With that, Alex Winehauser put his trophy (which resembled a glass dildo) on the podium and left the stage to stunned silence. He walked down the stairs, up the main aisle and through one of the exit doors. He was seen hailing a taxi in the rain. Then he was gone.
(c) Frank Howson 2014
