Thereis a moment in every film where the main character finds himself unable to return to his former life, that part of his continuum that existed before the opening of the narrative. Generally, this point of no return occurs at the midway point of the story, but not always.
I have passed that point.
Tonight it is 1980. Miami Beach. I close my eyes, find my center, hear the salsa music, smell the salt air.
My costar is handcuffed over a steel rod.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
I could tell him but-as all the books on screenwriting say-it is much more effective to show than tell. I check the camera. It is on a mini tripod, poised on a milk crate.
Perfect.
I put on the yellow rain slicker, hook it closed.
"Do you know who I am?" he asks, his voice beginning to ascend with fear.
"Let me guess," I say. "You're the guy who usually plays the second heavy, am I right?"
His face looks appropriately mystified. I don't expect him to get it. "What?"
"You're the guy who stands behind the villain of the piece and tries to look menacing. The guy who never gets the girl. Well, sometimes, but it's never the beautiful girl, is it? If at all, you get that hard-looking blonde, the one who drinks her bottom-shelf whiskey neat, the one who's going a bit thick around the middle. Kind of the Dorothy Malone type. And only after the villain gets his."
"You're crazy."
"You have no idea."
I step in front of him, examine his face. He tries to struggle away but I take his face in my hands.
"You really ought to take better care of your skin."
He stares at me, speechless. That won't last long.
I cross the room, take the chain saw from the case. It is heavy in my hands. All the best weaponry is. I smell the scent of oil. It is a well- maintained piece of equipment. It is going to be a shame to lose it.
I pull the cord. It starts immediately. The roar is loud, impressive. The chain saw blade rumbles and belches and smokes.
"Jesus Christ, no!" he screams.
I face him, feeling the terrible power of the moment.
"Mira!" I yell.
When I touch the blade to the left side of his head, his eyes seem to register the truth of the scene. There is no look quite like the look people get at this moment.
The blade descends. Great chunks of bone and brain tissue fly. The blade is very sharp and in no time at all I have cut all the way down to his neck. My raincoat and face mask are covered in blood and skull fragments and hair.
"Now the leg, eh?" I scream.
But he can no longer hear me.
The chain saw rumbles in my hands. I shake the flesh and gristle from the blade.
And go back to work.