It's Like Magic

The #9 line of the Metro stops about a billion times between Strasbourg-Saint Denis and Trocadero station, where Signor Producer was presenting his film. It was 4:47. I calculated that, if I didn't get lost and it only took one minute to get to each station, I'd be on time.

I watched the clock creep irrevocably toward 17:00 and burst off the train at Trocadero in my stupid but stylish heels. The Auditorium de la Cité is on the opposite side of the building and down several spiraling sets of stairs. I ran through the maze of the Cité de l'Architecture & du Patrimoine, doubling back twice and asking for directions from rather sleepy museum employees.

Finally at the Auditorium, the first set of doors in the vestibule closed behind me with a subtle sonic boom. Shit. I opened the second set slowly, peeking through the crack. The entrance was in the centre of the auditorium and Signor Producer was already introducing the film. Chances were these doors would offer the same colossal banging as the first set, so I'd have to stand there in the middle of everything nursing the doors shut. Double shit.

Not an auspicious beginning. I have learned about myself that I am either ridiculously early or just a little bit late. There is no 'on time' in my world. I wonder what that means. I "snuck" in and sat down while Signor Producer passed the microphone back to the man hosting the presentation.

The film is called Tramas, an avant garde documentary on life in Sao Paulo, Brazil. This was its Paris premiere and the film was just accepted into one of the "big festivals," although Sig. Producer couldn't tell me which. It's confidential.

As the film began, I worried briefly that it would be terrible. But that feeling passed as I undertook the daunting task of reading the French subtitles. I did fairly well, actually. And by the end of the evening, I decided that I must become fluent in French. It is now a personal necessity.

Tramas is a documentary that isn't a documentary. The narrative is fragmented and mediated – projected on to other surfaces or through computer screens – a film within a film. The sound bites were funneled through answering machines or telephones. Again – pushing the boundaries of form.

The film ended and Signor got back up there for the always-embarrassing Q&A. He spoke in French and I picked up something about the music. They gathered artists from Germany, Canada, the US, Australia and France together for the strange and dissonant soundtrack.

Afterward, several of his friends gathered and I lingered in the periphery. It was like being at a junior high birthday party of the guy you like. A game of space and proximity. A social job interview. "C'est genial," I gushed to his girlfriend. Producer introduced me to his friends and said, "We gonna go hout. You welcome to join us."

I flowed with the conversations between the theatre, the street and the cafe, drifting in to chat with Signor about funding and his attraction to Brazil, before drifting away. When we got to the cafe, I placed myself beside him, but turned my attention to the woman across from me. She was an Italian performance artist and she pulled out a catalogue of her work saying, "I go places without him (her boyfriend) but never without my catalogue."

It was time for us to talk. Signor Producer asked about my work, my screenplay and my plans for it. I asked about his companies and the work he's interested in making.

I made the first move.

"We should make a movie together, " I said. He nodded. "I want to read your screenplay," he said. I nodded. "Leave a copy on the table," he said.

I almost fell off my chair. These are the exact words I've been saying for two months.