The Picturegoers

by David Lodge

  On the other hand, there were religious people among the audience. Mr and Mrs Mallory for instance. What was the cinema to them? Perhaps just an opportunity to let someone else take over the burden of living for a few hours. But life didn’t appear to oppress them. He gave it up.

  But himself and Clare—why were they here? When they might be doing something significant. He tried to think of something ‘significant’ they might conceivably do together. Art? His mind seemed to have temporarily borrowed the technique of the trailer. He saw himself scribbling furiously in the early hours of the morning. Pouring out his inspiration white-hot. But Clare, what was she doing? Brewing the black coffee? Typing the MSS.? Filing the rejection slips? He dismissed the image impatiently.

  Significant. Something significant. Making love? In some wild, extreme and instinctive way that would express their contempt for the pantomime endearments of eunuchs and whores offered for their diversion on the screen? He saw himself and Clare spread a mattress on the floor before a roaring fire in a darkened room, and the flickering red light on their naked bodies as he exultantly deflowered her. The image provoked a sharp abdominal reaction, and he was jerked back into reality. The young virgin at his side would not see such an exercise as significant—merely as sinful.

  Then, something significant she did. He could not think of anything. Except perhaps praying. That was something she did remarkably well, it seemed. But himself? He had gone so far as to attend Mass again after so many years, and, with the help of a book on the subject, found it quite interesting, considered as a liturgical drama. (In fact he had once been able to correct Damien on some obscure historical point concerning the Kiss of Peace, which had been worth the total effort.) He had, in a way, come to respect religion—but to commit himself to the extent of personal prayer? No. ‘What is prayer?’ he had asked Clare. ‘The lifting up of the mind and heart to God,’ she had replied. He remembered that much from the catechism. Lift oneself up to someone who wasn’t there, in case He was? He would rather look a knave than a fool on the other side of death, rather depart into everlasting fire (where, according to Shaw, the company was so amusing) than redden under the mocking laughter of Chaos and Old Night, those two cosmic wide-boys to whom religion was a huge practical joke for tricking a man out of his fair share of lust and selfishness. ‘You really fell for all that stuff about heaven and hell …? Well, there’s one born every day …’

  Perhaps that was why he and Clare were sitting here, because they could agree on no common activity. It seemed an awful waste. And it raised again the puzzling question of why Clare should be necessary to his contentment. His arm was beginning to ache, and he withdrew it from her shoulders.

  Why had he taken his arm away? Had she not done something she should have done? Had she rebuffed him by some unconscious lapse in the strange new etiquette of … She was always at a loss to define her relationship with Mark in words that would not either overstate or understate the reality. Love? The mere word made her blush—(this hateful blushing!)—despite her ignorance of what it might mean. Friendship? Even she knew it was more than that, or entirely different. Affection? She was not his aunt. With a certain guilty and timid pleasure she was forced back on ‘love’. But what was it? Fragments of fifth-form Tennyson and Bridges tangled absurdly in her mind with ‘The Purposes of Christian Marriage’ expounded by a blue-faced priest at a recent mission sermon in Brickley. Neither seemed remotely connected with what she was experiencing at present—the strange traffic of hours of worry and misery for an occasional moment’s happiness, the need to be with him all the time, and the need to disguise that need, the constant embarrassment of not knowing whether she was being too forward or too cold, whether she was welcoming occasions of sin, or, as Mark had hinted more than once, dragging the convent watchfulness into ordinary life, where it strangled innocent pleasure.

  She still remembered vividly that when she was in her last year at the convent as a pupil, she and another girl who intended to take the veil had been skilfully abstracted from a particular R.I. lesson given by Sister Anthony, a grimly efficient nun who was generally given the unpleasant jobs, like dealing with the occasional boarder who smelled. She had been immensely curious as to the content of that lesson, but too proud to ask. It never failed to arouse giggles when mentioned, and the sophisticated Christina Lloyd had referred to it as ‘How not to make friends and influence people’. She was convinced that the solutions to all her doubts and difficulties lay in the lesson which had been denied to her. Her exclusion still rankled: why shouldn’t a novice know about such things?

  She had read books of course: pamphlets snatched hurriedly from a rack in some dim corner of a church, with titles like Growing Up, and Holy Purity, but they were all equally unhelpful. ‘A good Catholic boy or girl should not indulge in passionate kissing’ they said. But what was passionate kissing? She wanted to know if Mark should put his arms right round her, if their bodies should touch, and for precisely how long they should kiss. Not that she thought of such things when he kissed her good night, but afterwards she was always troubled by scruples of conscience. She couldn’t bring herself to ask a priest in confession. That was bad. But she was too shy. Or was it that she was afraid the priest would say she had been doing wrong, that she must retrace her steps, deny Mark the intimacy she had so far allowed him—which, she was only too well aware, would be to deny herself. Perhaps, having known him for such a short time, she should never have allowed him to kiss her at all. She just didn’t know. After all, she had known him for such a short time.

  She remembered the first evening so clearly, when she had returned home, fagged from working late at the school, to find Mark seated among the family like some lean, brown prophet from out of the desert. Was she foolish and vain in thinking that his dark eyes had flickered with a special interest when she was introduced to him, and that every time she looked at him that evening she looked straight into their thoughtful depths? Fortunately the blushes that followed inevitably on these glances were unnoticed in the babble and hilarity of the family circle. And how irritating Damien had been that evening. He had never stopped harping on that wretched room she had found for him. Why was it that whenever you did someone a good turn, they entwined you with their tentacles, and most unfairly made their debt a kind of claim on your attention and friendship? It always seemed to have been her eagerness to do good that led her into trouble. That, after all, had been the cause of her leaving the convent under a cloud. She had only tried to be kind to Hilda Syms …

  The painful memory scuttled towards her like a spider out of a dark corner. She squashed it with a slight shudder, and concentrated deliberately on the screen, which was showing the credit titles of the main film of the evening.

  * * *

  Father Kipling was beginning to worry. He had been in the cinema for over an hour now, and still Song of Bernadette had made no appearance. As the lights dimmed his hopes rose again. But no. While The Cat’s Away was announced as being considered more suitable for adult audiences. Perhaps it was another short film however. The curtains on the stage drew back to reveal a wide, slightly concave screen on which, heralded by a frightful squeal from some invisible jazz-band, appeared the mysterious words ‘AMBER LUSH’. Not till they were followed by ‘And LEN GESTE’ in While The Cat’s Away did he suspect that Amber Lush might be someone’s name. ‘I baptize thee Amber Lush.’ Frightful thought!

  There followed in rapid succession a series of strange, uncouth names—Mo Schnieder, Xerses Smith, Fritz Pitz, Lulu Angel—connected with equally bizzare functions: continuity, lyrics, additional dialogue. Finally it was announced that Color was by Technicolor, whoever, or whatever, that might be. He had always thought colour was by Almighty God.

  The first scene represented a luxurious room overlooking—was it not Brooklyn Bridge? He seemed to recollect having seen it before in a geographical periodical. One could not but be impressed by the magnificence of the scene, the wonderful panorama of the river. T
he room itself, though ugly and strident in appearance, was richly furnished with deep-piled carpets, broad, low sofas like beds, and gadgets with unimaginable functions cunningly disposed around its broad area. In the far corner, beside a kind of highly polished bar littered with bottles, a man sat slumped in an arm-chair, clinking lumps of ice in a large glass of some pale yellow liquid. He was in his shirt-sleeves, with the collar undone and the tie loosened in a rather slovenly manner. He seemed to be of an artificially preserved middle age, and wore an expression of comical gloom.

  ‘This,’ said a choric voice, ‘is a portrait of a man whose wife has gone home to Mother.’

  An appreciative chuckle rippled through the audience. They evidently perceived some joke unrecognized by himself.

  ‘It all started over such a little thing,’ continued the voice. ‘Just because he didn’t like his wife’s new hat. After all, it wasn’t such an awful hat. Or was it?’

  The scene melted into a picture of a really execrable hat—a kind of inverted lampshade decorated with seaweed. This time Father Kipling laughed with the rest of the audience. Very cleverly the picture was lowered to take in the wearer’s face—an angry, rather hard-faced woman. She was having a furious argument with the man seen earlier, now dressed in a light-coloured suit. Suddenly it flashed upon Father Kipling that this was happening in the past. He felt quite pleased with his perspicacity, and wondered if everyone else around him had understood.

  ‘If that’s all you think of me,’ said the woman, ‘I might as well go home to Mother.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you. Try yelling at her for a change,’ replied her husband crossly. A smile lit up his face. ‘That I would like to see.’

  ‘All right then, if that’s how you want it. And I’m taking the children and Betsy Ann with me.’

  ‘Take anything you like. Take the icebox, take the television, take … take the bed!’

  With fascination and amusement Father Kipling followed the rapid preparations for departure. A cheerful-looking negro servant (evidently Betsy Ann) said to her mistress: ‘Sure Massa Kennedy will starve without us ma’am; why, he can’t look after hisself no more than a baby.’

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Mrs Kennedy. ‘That’s why I expect to have a long-distance call to Mother’s tomorrow morning. Perhaps this will teach him to appreciate his wife.’

  Now the film was faded back to the future—or was it the present? Goodness, he was getting quite confused. Anyway the man, now back in shirt-sleeves, slapped his thigh and stated emphatically:

  ‘No woman’s gonna get the better of me.’

  He consulted a telephone directory, gargantuan like everything else in the room, and lifting the receiver snapped, ‘Get me the Ajax Home Help Service. Zero Two Double-Four Six’

  ‘Enter Amber,’ prophesied Mark silently. Sure enough, it was the world-famed yellow hair, pouting underlip and undulating body, coaxed into a dress three sizes too small, that stepped from the elevator and advanced hippily towards the door of Len Geste’s apartment. The latter’s astonishment on opening the door and identifying the vision as his ‘home help’ contrived to be funny despite its predictability. And this, he knew, would be true of the whole film, the course of which he could anticipate in every detail. Yet it would all be so professionally done, it would all cater so efficiently for the lowest and laziest responses, that he would enjoy it as uncritically as any of those around him, who knew of nothing better.

  He censored the undergraduate arrogance of this last thought as soon as it formed. He was no longer sure that there was anything better to know. His mind shrank nowadays from exposure to those gloomy, clumsily executed foreign film ‘classics’, those pathetically dedicated productions of esoteric poetic dramas on which his fellow-students expended their enthusiasm and energy. He was getting to the stage where the unambiguous sexual appeal of an Amber Lush seemed more honest and significant than the pretentious obscurities of the cultural establishment.

  In the Mallorys he felt he had rediscovered the people. The phrase smacked somewhat of ’Thirties affectation, but there was no other way of stating the fact. And it was a fact. But the popular art he looked for to accompany this rediscovery was sadly lacking. What he was witnessing was a fair sample of popular entertainment, and it was quite artificial and valueless: a circus cynically provided for the bread-filled masses by big business. Surely there must be an alternative? Something solid, earthy … But what could be more solid, more earthy than that? he reflected, as Amber, lifting a leg to examine a stocking, tensed her skirt over one of her famed buttocks.

  What a delightful girl, thought Mr Mallory, slumped comfortably in his seat, with his legs in the aisle. Voluptuous, yes; like ripe fruit waiting to be plucked and squeezed—but waiting, innocent. Yes, innocent. Never mind if she had been married three times, to him she was still innocent. He would think no evil of that round, babyish face, haloed with a poignant silliness. Lord, but these girls were bad for a man. They were beautiful, much too beautiful. They made him unhappy, discontented. Look at those magnificent breasts, how they jutted out as if eager to escape the constriction of clothing, and how they swept in sharply to a firm, flat diaphragm, how the curve of her rump bit deeply into her thigh as she lifted a leg … how could a man see all this, and then go home and caress sincerely the undramatic slopes of his good wife? It would be like the South Downs after the Pyrénées.

  Through a haze of growing drowsiness, Mrs Mallory disapproved of these exaggerated figures you saw everywhere nowadays on the films and in the papers. It wasn’t good for the children, especially Patrick and Patricia, growing up. Perhaps she shouldn’t have let them go and see it, but what could you do, there would have been a terrible row with Patricia that would have done more harm than good. What a beautiful room though, no cleaning to speak of, everything smooth and fitted, not that she liked the style much, didn’t have much time for this contemporary, though Patricia was always on at her to paint the walls in the living room different colours, wasn’t homely enough for her taste. The film was a lot of rubbish as usual, a waste of money, but Tom would insist on going every Saturday night, he was such a fanatic for a fixed routine, and if once she let him go on his own, well, there was no knowing where it would end. Though she was so tired after that shopping, and having to wait twenty minutes for a bus and then stand, wished she had given that conductor a piece of her mind, that she could have done with an early night. What Mass tomorrow? Better go to eight as usual to have breakfast ready for the others back from nine, must remember to set alarm clock or is it … With the index finger of her right hand just touching the small lump on her left breast, Mrs Mallory dozed.

  Father Kipling was shocked to find himself studying closely the very striking golden-haired young woman as she lifted her leg. Really, this was too bad. This Jezebel was of a most disquieting physique, and she was exploiting its disturbing properties by every gesture and art of dress. He was saddened by the presence of so many young people in the cinema, even some of his own parishioners—had he not seen two of the Mallory children when the lights were on? Surely this was to expose them to the influence of Satan, always tireless in leading young souls into sins of the flesh. And when was Bernadette going to appear? Reluctantly he resolved to interrogate the stout woman on his left.

  ‘Excuse me, madam …’ he began in a whisper; but stopped, as she continued to gaze raptly at the screen, guffawing from time to time. He touched her arm, and she started indignantly.

  ‘Excusememadam,’ he gabbled, ‘but could you tell me if Song of Bernadette is being shown tonight?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, mate,’ she answered cheerfully, ‘Amber Lush film tonight i’n it?’

  The woman with the whining child in front of him turned in her seat, and said:

  ‘Song of Bernadette’s on tomorrow, Sunday.’

  There were several irritated ‘Shh’s’ around them.

  ‘Thank you, madam,’ hissed Father Kipling, sinking back into his seat.

&nb
sp; So that was it. How very trying. After all the expense, inconvenience, embarrassment, to have missed the film he had expressly come to see. How had he contrived to muddle the dates? He felt the incongruity, nay more, the unseemliness of his situation, more keenly than ever, now his one pretext for being in the cinema was removed. There was no reason why he should continue any longer to witness this unsavoury performance. Now, for instance, she seemed about to undress—well really! Good gracious, she was undressing! But this was disgraceful. Why one could almost see her … He could swear he could see her …

  Behind his spectacles, Father Kipling strained his eyes to see if he could see her …

  With envy and with cold lust Harry watched the antics of Amber Lush. He slipped from his pocket a slim flick-knife. Amber unzipped the front of her dress and stepped out of it. Harry applied his thumb to a stud, and a blade shot out of the handle. Amber moved behind a screen, and began tossing her underclothes over the top. A brassière flew out of the door, and landed on the head of Len Geste, sitting in the next room. Harry cackled. A pair of rank, sweaty tit-holders on his head. Slipping the point of his knife under the upholstery, Harry made a long slit in the seat between his legs. Amber now emerged from behind the screen in a carelessly tied négligée. As she bent forward to pick up a slipper she paused, and the cameras lingered on her drooping breasts. Harry swallowed, and his spit was like bile in his throat. He wanted a tart like that and a car like that and a swank apartment like that, Christ, how he wanted them. He pushed his hand through the slit and grabbed a handful of Amber’s sorbo tits. Savagely he tore out a great lump and kneaded it between his fingers.