1 movie Click! Sharp as ice picks spiking hold in verglas, her stilettos strike frozen pavement . . . (Better she was anywhere now but on Glinkastrasse, those midnight shadow-shapes closing behind.) O, why did she leave Berliner Ensemble alone! And why is she walking the longer way home? Clink! clink! the pick-beat of fright hitting faster, clink! into ice—the dark, your own racing heart. No. Wait. See? She’s flashed the perfect weapon. The stiletto that freeze-frames, heel against night. ‘Vile rapist-slasher-thugs!’ And she’s spun, virago, braced to fight . . . huh? Just actors? a hired chorus? Ah, but it’s the masks. It’s the channelled voices —Hauptmann Weiss Brecht— it’s the line they lip-sync. Of all lines, it’s the one that must hold, or lose, her. Be aware, only be aware. 2 . . . and star Segue, a sunny spring day in the Third City of the Arts, New South Wales, Australia. Fronting the new shoe boutique, hand scribed in multi- lined texta, the whiteboard pitch insinuates: Walk as though you’re being followed by 3 men. Well, of course. (Isn’t there some echo there?) And now the smell of coffee, wafting, narcotic from the Paris end of town . . . and right on cue a busker on accordion with his cover of Je t’aime . . . Tu es la vague, moi l’île nue . . . Click, click, o dance those heels, sway those hips Gainsbourg, Clayderman, Aznavour are close behind.
Walk as though being followed by three men