Studio of Screams by Stephen Volk & Stephen Volk & Mark Morris & Tim Lebbon & Stephen R. Bissette & Christopher Golden

Author:Stephen Volk & Stephen Volk & Mark Morris & Tim Lebbon & Stephen R. Bissette & Christopher Golden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: PS Publishing
Published: 2022-07-27T00:00:00+00:00

INTERVIEW THE SECOND:

THE DEVIL’S CIRCUS

AS MAYER ESCORTED ME OUT OF THE SCREENING room, The Devil’s Circus movie tie-in paperback in my hand (“Step Right Up for the Three-Ring Nightmare—NOW a Major Motion Picture!”), I worked the stiffness out of my neck and back. Step by step as I made my way between the buildings, I turned my head back and forth, a twist or two but not too much, until a satisfying “crack” eased the lingering discomfort of the last half-hour of the feature, caught up in Hugo and Yvette’s ordeal.

Then I heard it, like a beacon: the received pronunciation of BBC news voices, drawing me into the dining room.

A proper dinner awaited me this time—an abundant spread. The aroma was intoxicating.

I should have asked what Blythewood was so attuned to on the BBC, but I was still in that delicious post-movie daze, stepping out of one non-reality into day-to-day—well, no, that’s not quite it. There was nothing day-to-day about this time with Lawrence Blythewood.

Again, his attentive body language, eyes closed, listening intently to the newscast; again, without so much as opening an eye or a glance my way, a deft tap at the laptop’s keyboard, the broadcast was cut off, and he folded and tucked his computer away. Out of sight, out of mind.

And then, to me:

“What was that old Punch line about English wines?” Blythewood asked. “English wine necessitates four people to drink: one victim, two mates to hold him down, and another to pour the wine down his gullet. It’s not as bad as all that now, of course. Very different from how it was when we made DEVIL’S CIRCUS, I assure you.”

Blythewood waved his hand over the feast.

“It’s early for dinner, I know, but here you are. Your choice of duck confit or trout filet, with twice-cooked crispy potato medallions. There’s also a vegetable—asparagus—or you can go with your choice of a green salad with mesclun, or locally-grown greens and an herbe vinaigrette with maple balsamic. Québec cheeses to follow, then coffee and some maple or fruit dessert. Will this do?”

“Oh, God,” I stuttered, “why, yes. Very much so.”

“In any case, we’ll have a nice Italian vintage this evening, now that you’ve had a fleeting look at the fate of the unfortunate heirs of movie vineyards.”

I raised my glass; “A toast, to Yvette and Hugo, wherever they wandered off to together.”

“Yes, it was at least still possible for a happy ending to a horror,” Blythewood said. “You could still lose everything, then find all you needed: Yvette lost everything, but gained Hugo. Hugo lost everything, gained Yvette. A happy ending with the source of all sorrows going up in smoke behind them. You could still carve out a future for yourself, and hang onto the hope it might actually be possible. But that would all change after 1968, like so many other things changed. It’s only got worse, so much worse, since then. Enough to make one wish for a proper end, a comeuppance, to all the nonsense.

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