Fame
BY NANCY LEE
When Coco says, Are you kidding? to the filmmaker who shoots
in the South of France like Godard, who tells her to loosen her
blouse, already I know I will waste years auditioning for the part
of girl-with-potential. A man wants to see how you take direction.
Outside these rooms: parties, parking lots, corridors to empty
elevators. After my first make-out session, the boy’s best friend
says, Next time, make her take her top off. Everyone’s an auteur.
Even Coco, shivering as she eases out of her shirt, hopes this film
will be, if not art, then artsy. Maybe the next Antonioni is lurking
in the frat house cellar, outside the gym bathroom, in a guest room
piled with coats while his wife serves hot hors d’oeuvres
downstairs. Now take your thumb and put it in your mouth like a
little schoolgirl. Coco knows with the smell of old spunk and stale
refrigerator, the cold against her nipples. Nobody goes to the
South of France. Outside the door, a hallway of other doors, and
behind each one, a man calling action.
