VIDEO NASTY
Sunny Movies sat on the high street like it had been dropped there by mistake – a squat, fading shop front with sun-bleached posters in the window and a defunct neon sign.
Inside, Shane was busy at work, replacing display cases in a three-tiered VHS section that consumed the bulk of the store (Betamax customers had to fight over Sylvester Stallone’s back catalogue and not much else). Glossy titles from the big Hollywood studios were dwarfed by a vast collection of low-budget dross, enough to give exploitation movies a bad name. Lurid art work sought to entice the onlooker with a giddy kaleidoscope of sex and violence – half-naked men firing machine guns from both hands; terrified women in skimpy bikinis, pouting under duress; foreign-language cowboys, unconvincingly dubbed.
As much as he loved cinema, Will hadn’t dared to set foot inside Sunny Movies until now. This was partly because his family didn’t possess a VCR and partly because, from the outside at least, the shop was overwhelmingly grim. Never had the word ‘sunny’ seemed so morbidly ironic.
But as Shane beckoned him inside with a winsome smile that was oddly out of character, if not downright suspicious, Will quickly surmised that his low expectations had probably been a bit too high. The shop’s interior, migraine-inducing under faulty fluorescent lights, was even more squalid than its crappy façade. A metallic tang, from aging audio-visual equipment, contended with the more pervasive smell of disinfectant and despair.
And yet – sandwiched between the depleted Betamax section and a makeshift hardboard counter was a modest selection of Super 8 titles, available to rent. Three small shelves held a few dozen reels in decaying cardboard boxes. A brittle print of Metropolis across several 200’ reels, early Mickey Mouse cartoons in their promised entirety, Ben-Hur and The Ten Commandments boiled down to twelve minutes. And best of all, the Bond film Diamonds are Forever. Will avidly surveyed its coffee-stained box. Manna from heaven.
Behind the counter, Sunjay Prasad sat with an erect, attentive posture. His hair was salt-and-pepper, his eyes tired, but the smile he gave Will was warm and wise.
‘You like those?’
Will nodded gamely. ‘I’ve got my own projector.’
Sunjay failed to look impressed. ‘You’re the only person who’s looked at them in the last month. Haven’t you got a VCR?’
‘No.’
‘You should get one. Need to move with the times.’
‘It’s not the same,’ muttered Will.
‘You’re right. It’s much better.’
Will held up the truncated Bond epic. Connery’s swan song as 007 (until the disappointing, non-canonical Never Say Never Again, two years ago). ‘How much to rent this?’
‘For you, three pounds!’
Will referred to a tatty piece of cardboard Sellotaped to the bottom shelf, inscribed with faded black ink: ‘Rentals £3.’ He reached inside his trouser pocket for some change and retrieved a pathetic collection of silver and copper coins.
‘I’ve only got 85p.’
Sunjay heaved a small sigh. ‘Go on, then. But I’ll need to see some identification.’
Shane shouted over: ‘Don’t worry, Sunny. I can vouch for him. He’s my girlfriend’s little brother.’
Will smiled at this. He was beginning to suspect that Shane wasn’t quite as objectionable as he generally appeared. He shuffled closer to the counter and gratefully dispensed the coinage into Sunjay’s open palm.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve got Octopussy?’
Sunjay chuckled. ‘On Super 8? No! I’ve got eight VHS copies, one Betamax.’
The door banged open.
Trent Hodges marched into the shop with his usual swagger.
He glanced witheringly at Will, then bellowed to Sunjay: ‘Got Porky’s 2?’
‘Not for you, I’m afraid. It’s an 18 certificate.’
‘I am 18.’
‘You’ll need to get your mother to rent it.’ Sunjay’s tone was gentle, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Trent snorted hatefully, then gobbed on the carpet, watching to see who’d react first.
Shane marched up to him, aghast. ‘You little fucker!’
Trent, delighted by the attention, thumped a twenty-strong tower of cassettes on Shane’s plastic trolley. It toppled like a slow-motion avalanche and clattered noisily across the floor.
Shane raised a fist at Trent, then looked to Sunjay, requesting his authority to use violence.
Sunjay shook his head twice. Firm. Dispassionate.
Trent smirked at each of them in turn, then sloped off at a smugly relaxed pace.
‘These latchkey kids,’ rued Sunjay. ‘I blame the parents.’
Will returned to his propped-up Raleigh Chopper, relieved that Trent had neglected to steal it. He placed the rented reel inside his PVC satchel, a sacred place that also contained a notebook of hastily-scribbled film ideas and an empty packet of Monster Munch.
The bike was new when his parents had bought it for his ninth birthday, but Will had done a poor job of maintaining it. The saddle was torn, a trail of rust crept along the frame, and the kickstand had mysteriously disappeared (pinched by Trent, probably).
Most boys in his year boasted of BMXs, which Will regarded as an overhyped fad. He relished the Chopper’s extravagant handlebars; their motorbike shape made him feel brave and subversive, a bit like Marlon Brando in The Wild One (had Brando’s character been a 13-year-old schoolboy from Buckinghamshire).
He was just about to mount it when he saw her. Jodie Fawcett. Walking to the shop, head down, smiling to herself.
The September drizzle had darkened her fringe. A few raindrops beaded on the lenses of her horn-rimmed glasses. She looked like she belonged in a French film, one of those edgy, serious ones which Will pretended to understand.
He grinned. Too widely. Too quickly.
She kept walking, a soft blur of perfume and wet hair, registering him only in the periphery.
A crack of distant thunder rolled through the clouds. Will’s heart tripped. A sign? A warning? A cue?
He fumbled for an opening line.
‘Are you Betamax or VHS?’
Jodie stopped. ‘Sorry?’
‘Have you got a video?’
‘Oh.’ She blinked. ‘It’s a Betamax. Worst luck.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up,’ Will reassured. ‘The picture resolution is much better than VHS.’
She considered this, not obviously encouraged. ‘But there’s a lot less choice in here. I’ve been waiting three weeks for Flashdance.’
‘Great film,’ said Will, automatically.
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But I’ve heard it’s okay. Pretty good.’
Jodie smiled – really smiled! – and Will felt the air brighten.
She walked on, pushed open the shop door.
Will had to think fast. ‘So you like films?’ he blurted.
‘’Course,’ she said, as if liking films was as basic and universal as breathing.
‘I’m making a film!’
Jodie paused, her hand still on the door. ‘Oh– really? On video?’
‘On celluloid,’ he replied, savouring the word. ‘The real thing!’
Something flickered across Jodie’s face, though Will wasn’t sure what it was. Mockery, or pity? No. It was more like curiosity. She let the door swing shut again.
‘Cool,’ she finally replied. ‘I don’t suppose you need any actors? Or actresses?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve done a bit of acting work. If there’s a suitable part up for grabs, let me know. I’d be happy to help.’
Was she really saying this? Offering up her talents, her beauty – to Will’s not-yet-scripted film? He reached for a winning reply. The best he could offer was an ambiguous grunt.
But Jodie wasn’t fazed. ‘See you around,’ she smiled, gliding inside the video shop with ethereal grace.
Rain began to fall in earnest. A strong wind whipped through the hedgerows as Will pedalled furiously along the single-track lane. His world felt electric. Impossible. Alive.
Water streaked across his face. His fringe clung to his forehead. Mud splattered up his legs. But he didn’t care. His heart soared.
The music that played in his mind was orchestral, Technicolor, golden: Gene Kelly belting out Singin’ in the Rain as he hurtled home.
For the first time, he believed that his life might be more than the shadows of other people’s dramas.
It might be something like a movie.
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