P.S: The Man On The Front Page
Following up Varda’s Vagabond with the help of Nick Cave, and an exercise in creative constraint
By Tom Miller
Agnes Varda’s description of her heroine - ‘I know little about her myself, but it seems to me she came from the sea.’ - reminds me of the Nick Cave line from the song White Elephant - ‘I'm a sea foam woman rising from the spray. And I'm coming to do you harm’.
This opposition shows the difference in attitude between Varda and her characters. The director treats Mona with humanity, care and curiosity, while the others are suspicious and expect violence.
If we imagine Varda and Cave to be talking of the same figure, we can imagine how formations mutate and evolve in either direction. This is the key dividing line in the film. When the police officers discuss Mona’s death they deem it to be ‘natural’, we are supposed to think it is anything but.
Cave outlined his writing process of White Elephant during lockdown. An artist friend, Thomas Housago, had suffered a breakdown and was struggling to create. The pair agreed over the phone to write a song and paint a piece for each other. This is how White Elephant was born.
Nick Cave with collaborator Warren Ellis during the creative process of White Elephant. Photo by Joel Ryan.
This process speaks to the power of imposing limits on our creativity in order to go beyond. The infinite of our own personal voids are intimidating and dark and pulsing with sharp fire that will burn one into numbness. But cutting a dotted line in through it, of any size, even when the true limit is far out of sight, lights some of the path.
So I endeavour to emulate Cave, in hearing of his friends' struggles, and more specifically Varda, in hearing of the death of a young girl by consumption and turn to a newspaper I glanced over in work as inspiration for a creative writing exercise.
The man on the front page
‘I got you a paper,’ said Eli.
His father limped into the house, unbuckled his helmet and heaved the bag from his shoulders. It dropped with a thud. The door clicked behind him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hey… I got you a paper.’
The mosaic of his features materialised as he stepped from the shadowy hall into the kitchen, tall and imposing, but at the same time hunched and viscous, as if his body had one day decided to start growing in whichever direction it liked.
‘Huh? Oh… I saw it already.’ He gestured to his pocket.
His father sank into the chair across from Eli. The air grew heavy and hot as he groaned. He touched the corner of the newspaper. The scrape of Eli's fork on his plate jolted him and he pulled back his hand.
‘I thought it would be nice to have an actual copy. It’s a momentous day, no?’
‘Hmm. Maybe.’
Their eyes met.
‘We’ll have to wait and see.’
He shut his eyes and the room welcomed his familiar sigh.
‘How was your day then?’
‘Busy,’ his lids still clamped shut.
Eli rose from the table. ‘Want a cup of tea?’
‘Are you going to eat this?’ He said, gesturing to the plate.
‘No I’m full, all yours.’
Eli busied himself at the sink, washing a fork that didn’t need washing and biting his lip. He could hear the sound of heavy breathing and chewing over the running water. He turned off the tap. His father recoiled behind him, rasping and coughing. He slapped himself on the chest and shook his glistening eyes.
‘Too spicey.’
‘Sorry,’ Eli muttered, unheard.
His father turned from side to side in search of some kitchen roll but found only naked cardboard. He grabbed the newspaper from the table and lifted it to his mouth. As he did so, a grating splutter choked him. His eyes snapped from mild discomfort to wide, bright and wild. His lolloping tidal torso snapped to attention, erect and taut and threw the paper to the table.
‘Dad?’
He stared at the newspaper and fumbled for his glasses.
‘Dad? What is it?’
He placed the glasses on the bridge of his nose and lifted the front page to eye level, inches from his face.
‘I know him,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
He cleared his throat and looked round at Eli.
‘I know him. Well, I knew him.’
‘From back home?’
He nodded.
‘Which one?’
His father flattened the paper and pointed to a man with white hair and a grey beard. He was short, but stood tall and proud with his chest impossibly forward. The wrinkles on his sun-beaten skin could not hide the fire ablaze in his eyes. He was dressed in simple slacks and a short sleeved shirt, and was face to face with a figure clad head to toe in black armour. The reflection of other identical soldiers shone in the helmet. The figure’s left hand held a riot shield in front of his torso and his right stretched out towards the old man, a can of pepper spray primed.
‘We used to play together. He was from the next village. His brother got some job or something in the city so they left.’
His father’s mouth was slightly open and he kept staring at the picture as if it might disappear should he look away.
‘And he stayed?’
He looked at Eli, the words biting him like daggers.
‘Apparently.’
‘What’s his name?’
He thought for a second. His phone buzzed in his pocket.
‘I have no idea.’
