Father Geek here to tell you it looks like Doctor SOTHA's captors have loosened their bounds somewhat... we expect him home in South Africa soon... a relief to Head Nurse Hollis I'm sure... no more performing her duties thru those cold iron bars for one thing...

Last night I performed Marvin Gaye's 'I heard it through the Grapevine' for
the prison owner. He liked it so much, he let me live for another day.
Tomorrow he wants me to try out the Creedence Clearwater Revival version.
Who knew the French were big on 60's Motown? So anyway, DR.SOTHA here still
alive for the time-being in a Nice Prison Cell. As painful as the buttered
croissants are to digest, I cast my mind back to day 2 of the Cannes Film
Festival. What at first looked like a fairly simple day of watching films
and pitching my lizard experiment to Harvey Weinstein, soon turned into a
surreal nightmare, the like of which my lizard and I wish to never
experience again. Cue soft focus flashback as I regress to the day the earth
stood still.

The Les Ambassadier Hotel in Juan Les Pins. Harry and I get up at the crack
of dawn. No time for breakfast as Harry gets ready to trek up some mountain
to the official Lord of the Rings castle, where interviews will be conducted
with the cast and crew. Before Harry can say anything, I say, 'I'd rather
not, Liv Tyler got pissed off with me when I told her about Alexandra
DuPont.' Harry responds quizzically, 'rather not what?' 'You know', I say,
'like come with you, just not my thing, I'd just take away from the whole
spectacle'. Before I leave Harry, he says, 'you don't know Liv Tyler do
you.' I say, 'I used to think I did, but she's a completely different person
now'. Harry gives me a 'what the fuck' look. I wink back at him, thinking
he'll get it in about 5 minutes. 'I'd rather not talk about this now, it's
history, you can't dwell on history, I'll see you later Harry.' Harry still
has that 'what the fuck' look plastered on his face.

I have to get from Juan Les Pins to Cannes, and you know for damn sure I
aint taking another cab. I ask Rita Hayworth/Kathy Bates mutation at
reception if there's a train station in the area. 'Ofcourse, here ees a map
to get you started. Eeets only 5 minutes walk'. 'Uhuh, 5 minutes you say,
we'll see about that.' I snatch the map from her, and waltz out of the
hotel. The map looks nothing like France; oh sure all the street names are
the same, but what's up with these cryptic bone and dagger icons? When I get
to the station, all the officials stare maniacally back at me. I go up to
the ticket booth, 'return ticket to Cannes, please'. The official looks
across at his superiors and offers a perplexing nod. 'Yes, Mister.', 'SOTHA,
DR.SOTHA, but I don't see what that has to do with it.' He produces the
ticket. I put my hand across to take it, but he holds on. We tug at both
ends. 'Hey'. 'Mister DR.SOTHA is it, we were expecting you.' He lets go of
the ticket, and I stumble over. 'Enjoy your ride, sir'. I pull out my needle
and say, 'If any of you fuckers come near me, I'll spike you.' They start
surrounding me like that Michael Jackson 'Thriller' video. Just then a horn
blasts, and a few French locals walk through the gate. The officials get
back to whatever fake job they were doing. I run through the gate and hop
onto the French express. What just happened?

On the way to Cannes, I see a man lurking in the back of the compartment. He
wears a fedora with a beige trench coat. Who wears a beige trench coat in
the middle of summer? It's quite clear he's eyeing me. As the train comes to
a stop at the Cannes station, I give him the finger. The sick fuck proceeds
to blow me a kiss. I harry myself through the station, and end up running
down the streets, past the Hotel Gray D'Albion to the Riviera like a madman.
I look around, and grab hold of the nearest person next to me, a
professional porn actress. Paranoid I scream into her ear, 'A man with.a
trench coat.beige.blew me a kiss.on the train'. 'Hey honey, I don't know
about any man with a trench coat, but you sure look fine.' 'What, Jesus, is
everybody in this town on drugs.' I run to the Palais. I look around, no
sign of the stranger. Looks like I lost him. I enter the press registration
office, and decide to put this whole misadventure behind me. Probably just
hallucinated half of it. Yeah that's right, crazy me, gave myself a drop of
lizard mescaline to pep me up in the morning, and it's obviously gone
straight to my head.

The lady behind the accreditation counter looks like Jack Palance, only more
masculine. 'Hi, yes, ummm, sorry had a weird morning, never take mescaline
in the morning.' 'Excuse me sir' she says as if not understanding my tip.
'Forget it, I'm here to pick up my press pass, I'm with Aintitcool.'
'Sorry, we don't serve Heineken at the press counter'. 'What?! No
A-I-N-T-I-T-C-O-O-L, here to pick up press pass.' 'Just one minute' she says
in a rasping Linda Blair voice, and disappears behind the door. I wait for
about 10 minutes before she returns. 'Yes, I'm afraid we can't give you
one.' 'What, why not?' 'Your application was rejected'. 'On what grounds' I
say furiously. 'Anyone who takes mescaline in the morning is banned from the
event.' 'What, the mescaline comment, it was a joke.' 'Not the way you said
it Sir, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do.' I think of saying, 'you don't
intimidate me with your Jack Palance stare', but think better of it. I walk
out ready to throw in the towel. Just then I bump into beige trench coat
wearing stranger. 'Shit this mescaline is really kicking in', I say
deliriously. The stranger sucker punches me, and I'm out.

I come to in an empty theater. High columns, Victorian corners, very old
guard in this cramped 50 seater. I hear a voice from the top of the
projection booth. 'So you finally woke up Mister.' 'SOTHA, DR.SOTHA, what's
going on here?,' I say nervously. 'I'm afraid we have to keep you until our
boss gets back in 102 minutes, just enough time to show you this.', he
flicks on the projector and an image casts itself upon the screen:

TROUBLE EVERY DAY By Claire Denis

What are these renegades up to? There are rumours going round, that this is
a pretty interesting film. So I look back at the projection booth, and shout
nonchalantly, 'Thanks guys, I'll be with you after this then.' I thought
that must really screw with their brains. Anyway onto the film.

The film takes place in a slightly.make that completely subversive Paris. It
takes you through the seedy underbelly of the city, starkly contrasting any
romanticised inclinations you may have of the place prior to watching the
film. I'll lay the opaque plot to you on a plate:

Shane (a scruffy looking Vincent Gallo - contradiction in terms I know) and
June (Tricia Vessey) fly from Denver to Paris for their honeymoon. Shane has
an anxiety attack on the plane, presumably to insinuate the horrors to come.
They check into their hotel, and Shane proceeds to call a lab technician
who is casually dissecting a brain. The guy tells him to call back. Shane
throughout the entire film is searching for someone. Why? We have no idea
until the last scene. June's body presents a carnal and appetising
invocation in Shane. He sees her naked body in the tub, and wants to devour
her (and not in the way you think.) His ravenous desire spills over when he
eats a chambermaid. What illicits this cannibalistic obligation, we don't
know. Meanwhile, there's a seductive young woman, Core (Beatrice Dalle), who
picks up a trucker off the highway. During sexual interplay, she murders
him. A while later, she's picked up by a black man (Alex Descas) and
dungeoned in his commodious vicarage. Turns out the black man is Doctor
Semeneau. He sets off for work the next day, and leaves Dalle locked up in a
bedroom. Why? We don't know. Could it be a foreboding subtext of sexual
repressiveness gone wrong? We don't know. Some youths then break into the
house in his absence. She ends up feeding on them. How this contributes to
the narrative? We have no idea. Is there a pay-off? Maybe, but I must have
missed it. After much exploitative cannibalistic and sexual encounters, we
finally realise that Shane was trying to track down Doctor Semeneau, because
the dude had disappeared with his research paper. What can I say, this is as
coherent a synopsis as I can offer on this film.

I like Vincent Gallo at the worst of times. This is almost certainly the
worst of times. At least he's consistent when picking his projects: always
obscure, minimalist endeavours that inevitably escape the mainstream, and
sometimes even the repertoire theatres. His directorial debut, BUFFALO 66,
is a gloriously acerbic semi-autobiographical look at a dysfunctional
family, and the offspring it creates between him and Christina Ricci's
character. I loved it, but always found it hard to convert the cynics. His
work with Abel Ferrara has always complimented his grotesque tendencies.
He's not bad in this, it's just that, well, no one is particularly good in
this film. He's the best of the worst, and that's as good a compliment I can
give him. Gallo wades through this film glum and plaintive. You wonder if he
got screwed out of royalties for the film and resolved to play this 'by the
numbers'. There's nothing particularly striking about his work in this film,
it's the same kind of stuff, only he's in a different country.

Tricia Vessey is hot. Tricia Vessey gets completely nude in this film. I
hope that's enough for all of you, because that's as much entertainment as
she offers in 'Trouble Every Day'. I can't really tell if she has any acting
ability, because she rarely says much and looks like she's been pumped with
way too much Valium (much like all the other characters.) I was literally
shouting at the screen at points for her to say something (long beat)
anything. It was like those over-dramatic pauses in 'Meet Joe Black' between
Pitt and Hopkins. I want to make a plea to all writers to 'beat' the beat. A
beat should be reserved for a pivotal turning point in a film or a crucial
dramatic moment, and NOT some mundane sequence, where it is rendered futile.

Beatrice Dalle is also hot. I'll give her this: she's in a sex scene in the
beginning that's worth watching. She also gets in on the cannibal act, in a
sickly scene where she dines on some housebreakers. Well done Beatrice, and
in your next film let's try acting.

Of all the people responsible for this mess, the one I'm most disappointed
with is Claire Denis - the director. What were you thinking? Your previous
films 'I Can't Sleep' and 'Nénette et Boni' are beautiful portraits of
working class/street life in village pockets around France. For those who
don't know, Denis was born in Paris but grew up in Africa as the daughter of
a civil servant. She was always the quintessential outsider, and understood
the psychology behind such characters better than any other contemporary
French filmmaker. Arguably her best film was her last one, 'Beau Travail'
(Good Work) about the waves made by a newcomer in a society of outsiders who
have created their own world, adapted from Herman Melville's book 'Billy
Budd.' In lyrical detail it looked at the physical rituals of military life
in a French Foreign Legion outpost in East Africa. It's a stirring
exploration of moral and social values. The haunting silences in the
narrative lent the film a foreboding quality of destruction. With 'Trouble
Every Day' you have completely abused this technique, and it offers nothing
emotionally or psychologically. Worse still, is the sterile cinematography
by the usually reliable Agnès Godard. It has no texture or style in its
execution. I mean you're making a film with gratuitous sex and cannibalism,
at least compliment this visually. But nooo, you had to shoot this little
abortion with no impressionable design. If 'Hannibal' was shot in this way,
you'd be asleep before Verger made his appearance. Why, oh why did you
disappoint me, Claire? I don't even know what you're trying to say in this
film. It took me about 5 hours to write that obscure synopsis. I checked out
IMDB and they have this up as the tagline: "In an X-Files style mixed with
Parisienne angst, a few good men and women seek to expose the strange secret
behind a series of government (?) experiments that may be turning
otherwise-decent Parisians into bona-fide cannibals. " Is that what you were
trying to do? Was I watching the same film? Are the men who have kidnapped
me your PR agents?

The credits roll and the lights come up. I look back up at the projection
booth, and a voice bellows through the loudspeaker belonging to Big Bossman,
"DR.SOTHA we all hoped you enjoyed it. We just need you to sign a form that
verifies that you were the first person to screen this print." A lady then
comes down, and offers me a paper that has the words I TAMPER THE PRINT -
TROUBLE EVERY DAY. What the fuck does that mean I think to myself. 'Just
sign at the bottom and you're a free man.' 'I'm free if I sign that thing?'
'That is correct.' With my lizard crawling into a foetal position in my
pocket (not a good sign) and myself getting increasingly paranoid, I sign
the form and run down the aisle to freedom.

In retrospect this was the wrong thing to have done. As the story goes
(reported by all the trade papers the following day) Claire Denis's 'Trouble
Every Day' was having its premiere a mere hour after my screening. After all
the luminaries packed the theatre at the Palais, the projectionist informed
the mass of attendees that the print had been damaged. Denis burst into
tears.her big moment ruined at the most inopportune of times. How
embarrassing for all concerned. What the trade papers (thankfully) decided
against mentioning, was that every cataclysm has a scapegoat. For all
intense and purposes, I - DR.SOTHA, was made the patsy. After word spread
that the authorities had linked the irregularity to a very dangerous and
cunning African Doctor (I'll put that on my resume thank you very much)
through a signed confession, all the pieces began to fall into place. Seems
the people who had me followed all the way from the station, were a renegade
group of filmmakers pissed at Denis for not helping them out in industry
circles. They chose me, because - in their minds - I had the perfect motive
and would end up being the perfect decoy. Firstly, I was African, and
secondly, I had done some time in Tunisia right around the time Denis was
shooting Travail. There were rumours that someone had tried to flame the set
during the shoot, but had never been caught. Naturally, the authorities
would think that that 'someone' was me, and that I held some personal grudge
against Denis. For the record, the only grudge I hold against Denis is that
she had made a disappointing film in 'Trouble Every Day.' Those renegades
had done their homework. My remaining days at Cannes were wrought with
paranoia and mistrust, with the authorities issuing an APB out on my arrest.

When I got back to the hotel and told Harry about the hideous chain of
events, all he seemed bothered about was Christopher Lee's exploits in the
war. I'm shouting at Harry, 'and then this big mutherfucking dude in a
trench-coat sucker punches me, and I find myself in a deserted theater.'.
Harry starts to intercede my story by saying, 'It's amazing how this period
in Christopher Lee's life has foreshadowed his work in the arts.' Defeated I
tell Harry not to tell anyone that he knows me, or for that matter, that I
am staying with him. Harry agrees and continues with his Christopher Lee
findings.

That pretty much was Day 2 at Cannes, and that's not even the reason I got
jailed in the first place, but it certainly didn't help my cause. Anyway,
that's my cellmate calling wanting to practice harmonies on 'Susie Q'. I'm
confident that I will escape soon - my lizard will see to it. Until then, I
leave you in the capable hands of Nurse Hollis.

Day 3 at Cannes is forthcoming - bear with me.

DR.SOTHA REVO & OUT