Martin said this was the last day. There are no more tasks, no more games of torture to play at 11am in Studio 6, no more wondering which of the 23 dancers are going to be doing weird things (or in my case killing or fucking each other). It’s all about the product now. And there is product in quantity.
There was one last task, a grand finale of presidential inauguration size, but with only 15 minutes each to slap it together. The door revolved, the choreographers went in or out – or if they were Hans, just stood there, tall, bronzed in powder blue speedos flexing his stomach muscles and completely unaware to the effect he just had on the whole room.
My turn came around just before lunch, when everyone was looking slightly hysterical. Naturally I had to organise an orgy and cradled it in rings of Buddhist demi-gods flashing the ‘Satan-I-salute-you’ mudrah, while the smut paraded and rolled on, oblivious. Herbie Hancock blows the signature tune from Blow-Up and the whole thing slides into a languorous opium dream, sense-crazed and narcotised.
The afternoon was all about Nigel. I dunno what black magic or how many goats suffered and perished for him to manage to stitch every little piece of ours that made the cut into one (currently very) long and fairly coherent whole. It also went smoothly and gave noone an excuse for indulging in psychopathic moments of high-drama stress. Shame. Martin and I have reached the trouble stage, and any sensible person would separate us to opposite sides of the room. There was noone sensible present, so now we are selling blow-up sex dolls of ourselves, have perfected an imitation of Caroline (“Once I was afraid…”), and are only funny to ourselves.
The sky is no longer low and grey with winter, so lunch is a time to sit outside, there is more skin than clothing and the end of the day drifts into hazy night along the river banks, the cameras out in a feeding frenzy, and the water clogged with dancers bodies. Love is in the air. Oh, it’s so beautiful.