Often, the myths and legends that surround a movie are as interesting as the movie itself. Potential miscasting – Ryan O’Neil as Rocky Balboa, Christopher Walken as Han Solo – chaotic shoots running massively over-budget (Apocalypse Now), famous feuds (Bette Davis and Joan Crawford).
What could’ve been, what never was, and what will never be.
At the height of her fame, post 9 ½ Weeks, screen siren Kim
Basinger agreed to play the titular role in a controversial film based on Philippe
Caland’s story Boxing Helena. Whether she was badly advised, or whether
she simply hadn’t studied the script in enough detail, Basinger pulled out of
shooting the movie (as did, interestingly enough, Madonna). As a result, she
was sued for such a huge amount of money by the production company, it all but
bankrupted her.
What was Basinger’s beef?
Simply, that she would spend half of the film minus her arms and legs.
For those not familiar with the storyline, Boxing
Helena is a tale of dangerous obsession. A surgeon, played by Julian Sands,
becomes so infatuated with Helena, a stunningly beautiful woman played (in the
end) by Sherilyn Fenn – a love that is not reciprocated – that he removes her arms
and legs so he can keep her all to himself.
Although it sounds like a typically dark male fantasy based on feelings
of insecurity and low self-esteem, and although the film was panned by the
critics (and seen as pure Rotten Tomatoes award-winning fare), there was
something about the premise that always fascinated me.
Many years later (nearly 30 to be precise) an idea starting forming in
my head after I revisited Boxing Helena during the lockdown period. I
saw a link – tenuous, admittedly – between people being confined to their homes
and the dreadful fate that awaited Sherilyn Fenn’s character in the film. I ran
with the idea – a story about a man waking up one morning to find that both his
arms and legs had been mysteriously removed, and no one being able to explain
the why, the how, or the wherefore behind it.
And I’m delighted to announce that the story, entitled Helplessness, has just been accepted for publication by the Fahmidan literary journal.
To whet your appetite, here’s the opening page or two:
Helplessness
During the height of
the lockdown period, Nigel Randolph awoke into a terrible nightmare reality.
Not only had both his arms and legs been removed, but he could no longer speak,
only gurgle like an infant. At first, he thought he was indeed dreaming. Neither
in pain nor particular discomfort, he had no memory of anything untoward
happening. Moreover, when he examined himself, each point of amputation looked
to be smooth and clean. There were no signs of redness, recent scarring, blood,
no bandages for that matter.
None of which made any sense.
Ever since the restrictions came into
force, Randolph had spent the vast majority of his time working on his latest
screenplay. Progressively, he had lost all track of time. He had become so
absorbed in his work, he found it hard to distinguish where one day started and
another ended. As far as he could remember, he had written until the early
hours of the morning and gone to bed as normal.
Lifting his head, he looked over towards
the desk by the bay window. As expected, he saw his laptop, a pile of
manuscript pages, old print-outs from earlier drafts, his notebooks, a few
empty wine glasses and coffee cups. Turning his head to the right, he managed
to steal a glance into the adjoining kitchenette. Like his desk, it was in a
state of semi-disarray. There were dirty plates piled up in the sink, empty
beer and wine bottles on the work surfaces, alongside fast-food containers and
a pile of old newspapers he had been meaning to throw away for weeks.
Wearied by his exertions, he let his head
sink back down onto the pillow and then burst into floods of tears.
It took quite some time for Randolph to calm himself down, to gather his thoughts and assess the true gravity of the situation. He lived alone, was unmarried, and didn’t have children. He kept himself to himself. He rarely saw other people or left his bedsit for any period of time. Not being able to go out or meet in large groups had been natural for him, an extension of his normal working routine. Nobody – not even his agent – would find it odd or out of place for him not to make any kind of contact for weeks on end. This scared him. He was completely helpless. If he didn’t manage to raise the alarm somehow, he faced a slow and horrible death. But how he would go about doing so, he had no idea. The block of flats was populated by a rough mix of drug dealers and misfits, migrant workers, prostitutes. Even if he manoeuvred himself off the bed, he would still have to crawl or roll some fifteen feet to the front door. And there was no guarantee that he would be able to generate much noise, or that any of his near-neighbours would take much notice if he did.
If you like what you read so far, you can
read the story in full on the Fahmidan website.
If you’d like to find out more about my published work, why not visit my amazon page.
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