ZEROVILLE
                                 by STEVE ERICKSON

WHEN HE WAKES in the early hours before dawn, one morning near the end
summer, he knows he's almost reached the door. Lining the stairway of his
house are the enlarged celluloid images of a thousand doors, although really
they're all the same door, moving from one location to another, each growin
closer to him or, more exactly, he grows closer to each.
    It's the first or second summer of the new millennium, depend-ing how y
count one or zero. By now Monk's dreams have enough precision that a part
him would like to know, How do you count one or zero, and is it the first
summer, or the second? He dreams very efficiently. Over the past two decade
the scenes in his dreams have become almost exact replicas of those from th
movies that inspired the dreams. Lately when Monk wakes, he knows right a
which reel to pull from the wall of shelves around him; he's taken to sleep-in
on the floor of the library so that when he has such a dream, immediately th
film is at his fingertips. Up until now he's known the films well enough that h
could put them in the projector and go to the very scene he's looking for, an
then begin searching frame by painstaking frame on his editing table.
    In the beginning, he barely realized what he was dreaming. Only from h
years as a film editor had he developed an affinity for the subconscious of
montage, for the id of the film that even the film maker doesn't know is ther
and in the beginning almost twenty years before, when he had the first drea
night after night lie tossed restlessly in a sleep mottled by glimpses, flashes,
messages, echoes of one film in particular he had recently seen on
videotape-until finally he tracked down a print, paying good money for it. "B
you must love this picture, huh?" the guy in the Valley had said to him. It wa
porn movie called Nightdreams about a woman in a psychiatric ward having
series of carnal hallucinations: in one she's a slave on her knees in the Arab
desert, being taken by two men at each end of her; in another she's in Hell
being fucked by the Devil ... but while these images slithered into Monk's sle
as visual ephemera, what became clearer with each passing night and each
passing dream was the door in the far background. In this particular case th
door, just slightly ajar, stood alone on a distant barren veldt, although as far
Monk could tell there was no such image in the film at all.
    For some weeks Monk watched the videotape over and over, freezing eve
new scene trying to find that door that beckoned him every night in his slee
After a while he gave up and the dreams began to fade and he went back to
watching other movies, at home on TV or sometimes-if something he wanted
badly enough to see was being shown-going out to a theater or one of the
nearby campuses; he hated going out. One night, four months after first see
the porn picture, he began having another dream, follow-ing a screening at
UCLA of an old silent Danish film: there among the stark black-and-white
images of forbidding robed inquisitors and a young girl burning at the stake
was the door again, this time a little bit closer than it had been before, a litt
more ajar than before, standing on the edge of a dark woods. The next day
Monk returned to the school. "I can't let you take the print," the film
department's curator told him.
    "What if I use one of your editing rooms here on campus'" Monk asked.
    "What are you looking for anyway!"
    "I'm not going to hurt the print," Monk said.
    "You're not William Jerome the film editor, are you'" No one called Monk
that, anyone who still called him anything called him Monk. Something more
than a reputation and less than a legend preceded him, built largely around
the first picture Polanski made after the murders and then the Friedkin pictu
and Your Pale Blue Eyes ; he had received Oscar nominations for the last two
Enough people knew about the troubled production of Your Pale Blue Eyes t
it may have singularly inspired one of Hollywood's most perennial urban myt
that of the film that's "saved" in the editing room-except that Monk hadn't
merely saved the film but trans-formed it. At Cannes that year, for the only
time in the festival's history the jury invented a new award, the Prix Sergei,
presented to Pale Blue Eyes for "the art of montage at its most revelatory. - I
the mid- to late seventies Monk had run with that Malibu crowd out at the
beach for a while, Marty and Brian and Milius and Schrader and Ashby, and t
crazy chick with the tits who played Lois Lane in the Superman movies. "Wha
are you doing these days?" the UCLA film curator asked. "I heard you were
directing some-thing of your own."
    By then it already had been, what, almost three years since Monk had
worked on anything, since Pale Blue Eyes and the whole business with Zazi.
"I'm ... between projects," he answered, not wanting to even get into the
Huysmans adaptation that he couldn't yet admit to himself was never going
happen. The curator sighed. "You understand it's on loan," he said, shruggi
at a canister on the table next to them that, with a start, Monk realized was
very movie they were talking about, "from the Cinematheque. You have to b
very careful."
    "I promise."
    "But . . . what are you looking for?" And it was almost a week before Mo
found it, poring over the film exhaustively: there it was; and then, going bac
to the porn flick, as with the Joan of Arc picture he went through frame by
frame until he found it-and what could such a thing mean? That buried in b
a 1928 silent classic made eight thousand miles away and a 1982 porn movie
was, in a single frame that no one could see when the films were run, in a
single frame that revealed itself in the sort of clandestine bulletins only Monk
received, was the same single door, on the edge of a woods in one picture,
an open desolate veldt in the other. From both movies Monk extracted the
frames and enlarged them, so that above his bed where he slept, the two do
loomed side by side.

Over the weeks before he wakes near the end of the first or second summer
the new millennium, he sees heron the hillside that cas-cades below his hou
The first time she's near the bottom, where the road that eventually leads to
him begins to wind its way upward. He sees her standing there looking up a
him, and the next moment she's gone; the next time he sees her, one dusk
several days later, she's moved up the hill but stands motionless as before, l
Last Year at Marienbad, where people are as statues oil it vast terrace, except
this woman plays all the statues, posed against the chaparral. Each time Mon
sees her, she moves closer up the hill.
    At some point in his long-ago career editing movies, he dis-covered that
cutting to a character's right or left profile, he could expose something abou
her. He could expose the side that was true and the side that was false, he
could expose the side that was good and the side that was evil, he could
expose the side that punished and the side that received, the side that
dominated and the side that sub-mitted. It was different with each person a
each profile: what was represented by one actor's right might be represente
by some-one else's left. But once Monk deciphered which was which, a new
visual vocabulary of meaning became available. "I would never betray you,"
one lover might say to another in a given scene; but by choosing; one take
over the other, one profile over the other.
    Monk could bare credibility or mendacity, irrespective of the actor's
intention, or the director's or the writer's.
    This provided a modus operandi for all of Monk's work. It pro-vided the
prevailing logic by which all other decisions were made. As people had right
profiles and lefts, places and moments had them as well; in a film, every sho
was a profile, and by cutting from rights to other rights, or from rights to lef
or lefts to lefts, he could sub-liminally reinforce or sabotage the audience's
perceptions. In Monk's mind this was the key that would unlock the secret of
adapting Joris-Karl Huysmans' nineteenth-century decadent French novel La
Bas that was to be Monk's directorial debut, before two things happened tha
aborted the project altogether. The first and less important was the change
the movie business in the late seven-ties and early eighties that consigned to
exile the renegade film movement our of which Monk had originally emerged
disrup-tion in the very sensibility of moviemaking; profound enough to rende
the later technological changes irrelevant. It's just as well, Monk would musc
much later, staring out the windows of the house, that my career was over
before I ever had to deal with digital: computers and all that? No, I was bor
to cut film, not move around ones and zeros.
      The second, more important thing happened one morning when Monk st
before the mirror shaving. With his razor he was negotiating a mole on one s
of his chin when it occurred to him that what he always thought of as his lef
side was in fut his right, that his perception of his own right and left was ba
on the same reflective reversal by which an entire species, staring into mirro
or glass or lakes over the millennia, had always confused rights and lefts. Th
realization could only confound Monk's aes-thetic, which was to say that wha
he always thought of as his good side was in fact his evil, that what he alway
thought of as his true side was in fact his false. By the time Monk's blade ha
flicked the final streak of shaving cream, both his aspirations as a director an
his career as a film editor were over, not to mention his relationship with Zaz
"I would never betray you," she had told him in a hushed turn to her left tha
she believed was her right-or in fact r had she not said it to him at all, but
rather he said it to her, in a reversal of the right and left of speaker and
spoken-to?
      By the time Monk moved into the house in the Hollywood Hills, he had be
living on the edge awhile. Money from his film career finally running out afte
years of austere living, lie vacated his loft in the industrial section of L.A.; th
truth was he was slumming in the Hollywood Hills house, it wasn't his at all.
belonged to an old friend Monk hadn't seen since their school days at Emers
D, and he had dropped by one day to find the door open as though someon
ran out to the local convenience store for beer and would return any momen
But no one came back and Monk just stayed on, waiting for inevitable evictio
The house was stacked in three levels against a hillside, the top floor being
street level. On the third and bottom floor of the house Monk found the room
that now served as his film library; lining the walls had been a sprawling,
massive blue calendar that marked time according to the chronology of
apocalypse. Monk moved in his reels of film and put up the enlarged stills of
the door he had extorted from thousands of miles and a century of celluloid.
the time had long since passed when he really expected anyone to return, li
still thought of the house as anyone's but his.
      It's from the windows of this house where Monk watches the woman
advance up the hill in frozen Marienbad poses that he also surveys the city i
panorama that almost justifies it. In the dis tance to the southeast is the
cityscape of what might ironically be called a downtown-to the extent L.A. ev
has had such a thing-that desperately scrambled skyward in anticipation of t
Olympics back in the eighties. Directly below, occasionally blurting into Monk
view between the hills' knolls and gullies, is Sunset Boulevard, an asphalted
urban timeline with not simply geo-graphical addresses but temporal ones, f
the utopian sixties in the west where hippies rampaged the gutters to the
anarchic late seventies at the boulevard's far eastern end, where could be
found Madame Wong's and the Chinatown punk scene. Back then Zanzibar
Paladin had begun as bass player for the band the Rubicons before another
singer's overdose bequeathed to her the mic and punk stardom, which was
never the oxymoron punk culture liked to pretend.
     The Rubicons played both Madame Wong's and, before it closed, the
Starwood at Santa Monica Boulevard and Crescent Heights-and what was tha
club down on Pico, just west ofthe 405? By the time the Rubicons' Tick Tock
was released, Zazi with her Soledad Miranda face already had been cast in
Your Pale Blue Eyes , which Monk was brought onto after the studio replaced
the director. Even in her first picture Zazi was canny enough to understand
advantages of befriending the editor who was going to choose which takes o
her to use in the final film. As it happened, Monk had seen Zazi play at one
the local clubs not long before and perhaps could be excused for believing
some sort of fate at work, not having even been in a club since Ciro's closed
decade before. "What's this?" Zazi said the first night she came to Monk's lo
she held in her hand the small model of a church that sat on a bookshelf.
Standing in his small kitchen uncorking u bottle of red, Monk stared at Zazi
holding the model a long time as he contem-plated an answer. When was th
moment in a relationship for such illicit biography, assuming this was to be a
relationship at all , When was the moment for any sort of biography, illicit or
not? "It's a church," he finally answered, knowing there was no way that cou
be enough.
     "A church!"
     "Uh, I designed it," he mumbled, "when I was a graduate stu-dent in
architecture, at Emerson Divinity." Raised in northeastern Pennsylvania in a
strict fundamentalist faith, Monk nonetheless had found the main advantage
divinity college was the small theater in the next town over, where he could
all the movies that had been prohibited to him as a child and adolescent.
     "There is," Zazi said, cat eyes narrowing as she peered closely at the model's tiny
solid walls, "no way in."
     "Yes," Monk said, "the review committee was struck by that it', well." It never
occurred to them that it might rather be a church with no way out. Passing from one
of righteous hands to the other, the model had been appraised, scrutinized, scoured
an entrance. "Mr. Jerome," the chairman finally intoned, "is this some sort of joke?" I
don't see, the student had answered, what's so funny, to which the chairman said,
"Neither do we." He seemed so angry that for a moment Monk thought he might hur
the model to the floor like Moses hurling tablets, or Jesus a box of merchant's gold in
temple-at which point the committee would have seen the true sacrilege of Monk's
thesis: that sealed inside, in the place where an altar might be presumed, was a tiny
movie screen, white and blank because Monk had racked his brain to no avail trying t
think of a single perfect image. L.A., on the other hand, is the cathedral of no walls, o
nothing but ways in, built upon the dream of a species when and where the world ha
run out of space and time to dream. In his loft that night Monk and Zazi had the mos
demented sex of his life. "Through sensuality," she purred in his ear in the dark,
tightening the collar around his neck and giv-ing the chain a yank, "we make death n
a lonely individual expe-rience but an ecstatic collective one," and then another yank,
"don't we, Mister Church Builder?"
     When their romance went badly, was it worse that Zazi had left a woman for him
her first physical relationship with a man, was there that much more at stake for her,
had it been that much more a leap of faith for her, so that when they wouldn't take t
attraction to a fatal end, it was that much more a betrayal? Not to mention the rumor
after the split, of Zazi's pregnancy and abor-tion, which sent a pang through the hea
Monk no longer believed he had. Then Zazi's movie career nova'ed, imploding into
noth-ingness, and she disappeared: "I would never betray you," but the more Monk
thought about it, the harder it was to remember which of them had said it. Maybe it
didn't matter. He left only so that she couldn't leave first. Now he watches a woman
advance up the hillside in Marienbad freeze-frames, in sight one moment and invisibl
the next, as though someone is excising frames of her from the film of his life.
     "So what do you think?" Monk asked one afternoon years later, returning to UCLA
show the film department's curator what he had found. Over the months that followe
his discovery of the common door in the porn and Joan of Arc films, Monk began hav
more dreams and finding more doors in movies old and new, near and far-flung, fore
and domestic, celebrated and obscure. At the top of a Himalayan monastery when
Kathleen Byron's jeal-ous, lust-mad nun tries to push Deborah Kerr into the abyss and
flings herself off instead, what seemed to an audience like attempted murder was a le
for the door that hovered in space just beyond the porticos, the same door that was i
the adobe hut just above Mar-lon Brando's shredded and bloody right shoulder as Ka
Maiden lashes him with a whip. The same door that was there on the lake, not in the
boathouse on the far shoreline but floating above the water itself, where lush Gene
Tierney in dark glasses and bloodred lipstick coolly watches drown her husband's
meddlesome brother as he frantically cries to her to save him. Monk excavated
method-ically, turning off the films' sound completely and replacing it with the music
new L.A. noir on the CD player-Ornette Coleman's Virgin Beauty, X's Unheard Music,
Japanese film scores-and from each and every one of these movies he would excise it
single secret frame until, put together, the frames formed an altogether differ-ent film
film that slowly closed in on a door that swung ever more open into a black void behi
it. The curator shrugged, looking at a dozen of the frames laid out on the light table
before him. "It's ... a door." The two men stood staring at the light table for some tim
"Is it supposed to mean something?"
     Monk bit his lip. For a moment he was tempted to try to explain.
     Then he decided against it. "It means," he finally said, "that some-one else sees
too. It means," he said, "that someone else sees what I see." Maybe it even means, h
wondered, that I haven't lost my mind.
Ten days before the end of the first (or second) summer of the new millennium, Mon
awakes in the early morning hours before dawn to find the door nearer than ever, jus
within reach. In a pink wall, it stands clearly open.
     A month ago, he had his new and final dream. It was of a movie he had never se
before, but so clear that he could describe it in detail: a young Japanese model arrive
one day at an art gallery showing an exhibition of bondage photos for which she's po
There she sees a man running his hands over a sculpture of her; feel-ing as though h
hands are on her own body, she flees the gallery. Later that night in her apartment,
distressed from her traumatic day, she makes an appointment for a massage. The
masseur who arrives is blind, and the woman is startled to find she recognizes his tou
"I have eyes in my fingers," he announces, and just as he's chloroforming her into
unconsciousness, she rips the dark glasses from his face to recognize him as the man
from the gallery. When she comes to, she's in a strange warehouse, cavernous as a
cathedral. On the walls are the sculptures of eyes, noses, mouths, torsos, arms and le
and as she scurries among the shadows try-ing to elude her abductor, who can smell
scent and hear her panicked breath, she scrambles over the monumental replications
reclining female bodies, lurking in the valley of monumental breasts, darting in the ra
of monumental thighs.
     "It's called Moju," explained the film school curator to Monk over the telephone. "
the States it's been released variously as Warehouse and Blind Beast. Director's nam
Masumura, a former law student who drifted into movies after the war-not respectab
enough to receive the sort of attention Ozu or Kurasawa get, but Antonioni among ot
championed him. Where did you say you saw it?" It took a week for the curator to ru
down on the Internet a print that had made its way from Tokyo to East L.A. to Londo
Paris back to a small collectibles shop at Vesey and Church in lower west Manhattan.
Driving out on Sunset Boulevard to UCLA to buy the film with practically every cent he
had left, Monk felt a strange sense of urgency.
     Whereas before some instinct had led Monk to the precise place where the hidde
image was to be located, now he found himself searching the entire film. From its
beginning to its end Monk prowled each scene as the young woman, imprisoned in th
blind man's strange studio Where he sculpts a statue of her, even-tually becomes
blinded herself by the endless darkness. Soon she seduces her captor, scheming to
escape, only to submit willingly, becoming not just the model of his art but the art itse
the blind sculptor lopping off real arms, real limbs. Days passed as Monk searched. In
house the film unspooled from one floor to the next, loops o( film hanging from the
rafters like webs. As Monk felt time slipping away, as lie felt himself racing to meet so
dead-line he neither knew nor understood, music without latitudes or hours that had
been playing on the CD player-Duke Ellington's "Transbluency," Joy Division's "Decad
strange female chants satellite-broadcasted from Tuva-finally lapsed into silence. Yard
film unwound from the library to the screening room uh to the living room as Monk w
over every frame. In small handwritten signs fixed to the walls and draped with film
strips, lie charted the celluloid's narrative topography, psychic territories: Obsession.
Seduction. Submission.
     The days turned into weeks. Monk stalked the film's secret door on foot, sleeping
less and then not at all. He grew more delirious with fatigue as he also grew more
frantic; some irrevoca-ble moment was at hand. Racking his brain to no avail, he sou
a single perfect image of the door amid the walls of the movie's warehouse, among th
bodies of the movie's characters. Soon he was chopping up the film viciously, as thou
the frame he was looking for was hidden not only from him but from the film
itself, as though it might only be found somewhere within the film's flesh. Lit
pieces of black celluloid littered the floor like the ash and granite of toppled
towers, up and down the stairs beneath a thousand stills of the door from a
thousand other films, each grow-ing closer. Isn't this dream mine to edit as
choose? Monk won-dered. To cut as I choose? To flop right profiles with left
and left profiles with rights, to reverse the utopian and anarchic ends of the
boulevard as I choose? Outside he was certain he heard approach a
Monumentalist Age, somewhere within the collision between an age of
reckoning and an age of chaos. Mere blockbusterism! he howled to himself:
what is it before the true monuments of tile epoch come? Stumbling through
the dark of his house, he ran his hands along the walls to follow up the stair
the trail of enlarged stills- I have eyes in my fingers- only to feel bare walls
instead, and to find all the stills of the door gone. The door at the base of th
spiraling steeple where James Stewart's eyes glint with rage at Kim Novak. T
door
     in the Hollywood cottage where a stormy Bogart loves and loses a terrifie
Gloria Grahame. The door
     in a far medieval corridor as Vincent Price's depraved mas-querade ball
swirls by and Plague laps at the outer palace walls. The door
     beneath the stone bridge that crosses a château moat where Brigitte
Lahaie, nude beneath a black cloak, holds a bloody scythe. The door
     in the Venice archway just beyond Janet Leigh's window, as Orson Welle
leers over her in her sleep, pulling gloves onto fat hands. The door
     that is anonymous among all the doors of a labyrinthine com-plex where
Eddie Constantine pursues Anna Karina into the future. The door
     in the corner of a balcony where, taking refuge from a party, Elizabeth
Taylor and Montgomery Clift in each other's embrace are made of nothing bu
light and shards of the Void, the most beautiful couple in the history of movi
he the male version of her, she the female version of him. Down through the
history of the movies, Monk will ponder at the end, what Wanderer has left
these clues for him, in the form of the Movie of the Future, hidden one fram
at a time in every movie ever made? Who has invaded every movie ever mac
in order to leave a single image among the twenty-four frames every second
What does it mean that there are the same number of frames per second as
there are hours in a day? What does it mean that every second of a film is a
day in the life of a secret film that someone has been waiting for Monk to fin
In the final hours before dawn, Monk startles himself out of sleep, sirs up fro
the library floor to the vision in his eyes, and stumbles to his feet to find all t
images of the door on his walls gone except the last, now finally revealed its
to him, at the top of the stair within his reach. It is there, in a wall that is th
color of a woman's body.
    Or did whoever made this secret film of the future mean to show him a w
out, or a way in? Outside, something in the hills casts a shadow. In his
entryway, he still sees just well enough to make out someone's silhouette. Za
But he can't even be sure he has said it out loud.
    Monk takes the knob in his hand. The door swings into a black gust. He's
disconcerted to note that what in all the movies has always swung from left
right now swings from right to left. Momentarily he hesitates-somewhere
nearby, at the foot of the hills and the coordinates of chaos, there seeps up
from the ground a deluge-then steps through.



                 scanned from the pages of McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories