In Memory of Angel Clare by Christopher Bram Page B

the movie with his jaw clenched, so intent on the movie he did not look at the cat or glance at the door when Jack’s body blocked out the light from the kitchen. Jack wondered what the boy was looking for. Was there really any trace of Clarence in the movie? Already it was lurching into its climax, a long, beautiful sequence filmed at The Saint, where Clarence had once been a regular. Here it was used as a straight dance club in an attempt to recreate the Parisian dance hall scene from The Conformist. What failed as imitation became original by default. The camera slithered across the floor, among jerking legs and hopping feet, then craned up until it floated just above the heads of a stormy sea of dancers, lit by strobe as if by lightning. Jack hadn’t really wanted Clare to die at the very moment he had begun to use his gifts. The feeling of satisfaction had lasted less than a second. It was only guilt that fixed it in his memory and made it seem important.
    A practicing ex-Catholic, Jack was at home in guilt; he was proud of his ability to live with it. But he knew he should do more than accept guilt, knew he should put it to work, although all he had done so far with it was write a silly little article for Film Comment. He stood in the doorway and leaned against the jamb, pretending to watch the end of the movie, stealing glances at Michael.
    He shouldn’t pretend the boy was still Laurie and Carla’s problem. It was time he did something, said something, helped this arrogant boy he disliked so much. He knew he disliked Michael partly because he saw his own egotistical suffering in the boy, untempered by age or self-understanding. Jack understood himself all too well. He owed it to Clarence and the others to come down from his critical height and make some of his self-awareness Michael’s self-awareness.
    There was a theatrical scream as the sex maniac-killer fell from the catwalk and crashed through the lights. The body hit the dance floor like a side of beef, which was what Clarence had used for the sound effect. Then more dancers arrived, Danny among them in his third role. Not noticing the stunned people staring at the corpse in the flashing, thumping darkness, the newcomers began to dance around the dead psychopath. Fade-out to the closing credits, accompanied by another shrill song from the East Village band managed by the producer’s girlfriend.
    Jack stepped into the room and gingerly sat on the edge of the bed. Reverently watching the credits, Michael drew back an inch so they wouldn’t touch. Jack knew what he watched for and patiently waited for it before he began the conversation.
    There it was: “Special thanks to… Jack Arcalli… Michael Sousza…” Then the disclaimer about the story not representing real people, and the screen went blue and silent.
    Jack leaned forward and turned off the set. “And they all lived happily ever after,” he joked.
    “Get away from me, stupid.”
    But Michael was only pushing Elisabeth Vogler off him, as if ashamed of showing affection to Jack’s cat. He sighed importantly. “I’ve now seen this sixteen times,” he announced.
    “Really? I’ve seen it maybe a dozen,” Jack admitted. “It’s better in a theater. You know, they’re showing it next month at Cinema Village. On a double bill with Suspiria .” An artsy, incoherent Italian horror film Clarence had hated. Jack attempted a wistful smile. “It’s funny. Both of us giving so much time to a bad movie.”
    Michael looked puzzled. “You think it’s a bad movie?”
    “It’s your basic generic horror film. Except for the dance scenes and some of the camera angles.”
    “You must not understand it,” Michael sniffed.
    Jack had intended to use the movie only to talk about what they had in common. He tried to resist the impulse to argue film. “No, it’s nicely shot and some scenes without dialogue are striking, only—What do you see in it?”
    “It’s a disturbing film.” Michael addressed