Bridgetown, Issue #1: Arrival by Giovanni Iacobucci Page A

kingdom
over to Lenin-bearded, wild-haired youth with Something To Say.
This new set was driven as much by a thirst for mescaline and
intellectual cockfighting as it was by the promise of studio
dollars. Butch Cassidy , Midnight Cowboy , and Easy Rider had been the three highest-grossing films of the
year.
    Any rules in the seventy-year-old institution
of cinema were due to be stripped off the walls like so much old
paint. The film students, therefore, viewed their professors as a
formality, a minor impediment to be dealt with in the course of
finally getting their hands on cameras, and time in the edit
bays.
    Film was spliced, slashed, chopped,
scratched, and burned. Permits were disregarded. Juxtaposing
man-on-the-street interviews with scripted narrative became a trope
trotted out by so many students, eager to do something new, that it
just as quickly became old hat. The shelf life of novelty was
infinitesimal in this cauldron.
    It was in this environment that Jesse Cole
began his final year of undergraduate study.
    Well, Jesse told people it would be his final
year, though it wasn't the first time he'd made that claim. At
twenty-six, he was beginning to notice his interests diverging from
those of the younger students. They were so engaged in the
aforementioned intellectual dick-measuring contests that they'd
forgotten cinema had a utility beyond the confines of the
department's own screening rooms. They'd neglected to consider that
in these times, if you didn't have something to say, you might as
well just stay home.
    This concern was occupying his mind as he sat
in a too-tiny classroom desk chair and watched Kevin Morris' last
project for the semester. Kevin Morris, the irritating,
self-satisfied douchebag whose record producer father had more
money than God.
    Kevin's film was a series
of static shots of still photos, titled Still Life No. Seven :
    A photo of a bird, a potted plant, a girl's
eye, a naked breast.
    Then Kevin himself appeared in celluloid
glory, his eyes flitting back and forth.
    The last frames of the film ran through the
projector, and abruptly cut to scratchy gray leader film.
    "I hope installments one through six weren't
such bullshit," Jesse muttered under his breath, just loud enough
for those around him to hear.
    The professor shot Jesse a look. "I encourage
intellectual disagreement in this classroom. But I do expect it to
be intellectual. You're going to have to clarify your thoughts on
Mr. Morris' work."
    Jesse considered his words for a moment.
"It's not just you, Kev. Everyone who's screened tonight is trading
in cinematic masturbation."
    The professor held up his hands. "Jesse—"
    "Humor me," Jesse said. "We're sitting here
in our trust-fund privilege, patting ourselves on the backs for how
much we can fucking talk about Godard, and meanwhile, kids in
Vietnam are getting burned to death with American napalm."
    The class was quiet.
    "But you sit here and clap, and regurgitate
the same art theory bullshit that's been getting passed around for
twenty years because it's something new and shiny and you've just
discovered it."
    The professor huffed. "Alright, alright,
Jesse. I think we all understand what you're saying," he said. "But
don't criticize everyone else for doing what they've been asked to
do—to experiment, to learn to use the language of the form—" He got
up from behind his pedestal and took a few steps forward, to the
center of the floor. "We all have to push the boundaries, we all
have to learn to wield the instruments before us, before we can
hope to make a real difference. And if you feel you are ready—and I
say this with full sincerity—than I look forward to seeing what you
have to show the class."
    Jesse could feel the angry glare of the
others upon his back. He shrugged. "Gladly."
    "What day are you showing? Thursday?"
    "Yeah, Thursday. But, uh, there's going to be
a little sneak preview, if any of you are interested. Tomorrow
night. At the Hard Rock."
    They weren't