fic: MMOM #30: How Beautiful You Are (Cary Grant/Randy Scott)
Title: How Beautiful You Are
Author: eggblue
Pairing: RPS Cary Grant/Randy Scott, Mulholland Drive’s Rita/Betty
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Hollywood, real or otherwise, are not belong to me.
Word Count: 500
Warnings: Dramatic license
Notes: I had to juxtapose my favorite couple and my favorite movie. Had to. A love letter to Hollywood, of the Babylon variety.
Sometimes there are two faces, two people, in the hidden face of the world:
One blond, one brown; the same sex, but not always the same gender at the same time in this story.
Moviestar masturbation on celluloid, on a screen, inside a computer -- the kind of story an auteur becomes obsessed with, spends his whole lifetime telling. The story of a love that speaks of the city - its birth and death, its romance and decay, its history and its secrets.
In one version of the story, Cary Grant and Randolph Scott meet at a party, or on the set of Hot Saturday, sometime in 1932. They will live together, off and on, for the next 12 years.
In the story, there are heiresses to marry, costars to steal, parties to crash. There are scenes to make and codes to create. There are drugs to binge on and fears about secret societies. There is under the table business and kidnapping and madness and scandal.
In the story, there are forgotten, insane, ruining, gilded parents. There are circus performers, pimps, agents, legends, all dressed the same.
In the story, there are awards collected and swords passed out as consolation prizes. The swords are golden, like Narcissus gave to Ameinias, a kind of suggestion, for Ameinias to use when masturbation was no longer enough.
The stars after the party:
Some of them turn to God and Jesus Christ. Others turn to family and money. Others to drugs and suicide. Others to roast in the limelight, fade in the sun and die of a brain aneurysm.
Some wear lingerie and pray for a bed with an office attached, a television with new cable, and a phone they use as a talisman. They cry half the day away and take part in LSD experiments. They hide in Vegas and watch Elvis self-destruct.
Some pray in a garden or golf, moving from one green area to the next, planning for money, retirement, the wrath of God. They put their faith in their German Shepherd and their President. They hide in the desert and check the stock exchange.
But first, there are cruises, pretend weddings, days spent in a room. There are days spent in the sun with whiskey, nights spent around a table with gin.
In this town, where the trade is irony and only dogs keep their birth names, where the highways feel like Disneyland and are treated as such, where beach houses and hamburgers rule, yet no one swims or eats.
Around the world, fans that come with stars’ names on their lips create a feedback loop of karma that erases their sins. This has been proven so many times, there is no longer any question. (Beware of when this spell goes sour, for fans who call for blood will leave them with their sins alone.)
And stars that fall for each other leave haunted houses in their wake, ghosts who haunt restaurant tables, lost relations to wander the streets, orange roses in royal gardens, ex-wives on television, golden swords in spent hearts, tragic princesses in the sea, troubled children without purpose, lifestyles that can’t be matched, the mystery of film.
The End
Author: eggblue
Pairing: RPS Cary Grant/Randy Scott, Mulholland Drive’s Rita/Betty
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Hollywood, real or otherwise, are not belong to me.
Word Count: 500
Warnings: Dramatic license
Notes: I had to juxtapose my favorite couple and my favorite movie. Had to. A love letter to Hollywood, of the Babylon variety.
Sometimes there are two faces, two people, in the hidden face of the world:
One blond, one brown; the same sex, but not always the same gender at the same time in this story.
Moviestar masturbation on celluloid, on a screen, inside a computer -- the kind of story an auteur becomes obsessed with, spends his whole lifetime telling. The story of a love that speaks of the city - its birth and death, its romance and decay, its history and its secrets.
In one version of the story, Cary Grant and Randolph Scott meet at a party, or on the set of Hot Saturday, sometime in 1932. They will live together, off and on, for the next 12 years.
In the story, there are heiresses to marry, costars to steal, parties to crash. There are scenes to make and codes to create. There are drugs to binge on and fears about secret societies. There is under the table business and kidnapping and madness and scandal.
In the story, there are forgotten, insane, ruining, gilded parents. There are circus performers, pimps, agents, legends, all dressed the same.
In the story, there are awards collected and swords passed out as consolation prizes. The swords are golden, like Narcissus gave to Ameinias, a kind of suggestion, for Ameinias to use when masturbation was no longer enough.
The stars after the party:
Some of them turn to God and Jesus Christ. Others turn to family and money. Others to drugs and suicide. Others to roast in the limelight, fade in the sun and die of a brain aneurysm.
Some wear lingerie and pray for a bed with an office attached, a television with new cable, and a phone they use as a talisman. They cry half the day away and take part in LSD experiments. They hide in Vegas and watch Elvis self-destruct.
Some pray in a garden or golf, moving from one green area to the next, planning for money, retirement, the wrath of God. They put their faith in their German Shepherd and their President. They hide in the desert and check the stock exchange.
But first, there are cruises, pretend weddings, days spent in a room. There are days spent in the sun with whiskey, nights spent around a table with gin.
In this town, where the trade is irony and only dogs keep their birth names, where the highways feel like Disneyland and are treated as such, where beach houses and hamburgers rule, yet no one swims or eats.
Around the world, fans that come with stars’ names on their lips create a feedback loop of karma that erases their sins. This has been proven so many times, there is no longer any question. (Beware of when this spell goes sour, for fans who call for blood will leave them with their sins alone.)
And stars that fall for each other leave haunted houses in their wake, ghosts who haunt restaurant tables, lost relations to wander the streets, orange roses in royal gardens, ex-wives on television, golden swords in spent hearts, tragic princesses in the sea, troubled children without purpose, lifestyles that can’t be matched, the mystery of film.
The End