Now the director reveals himself. He looms suddenly from a sidestreet, producer, director, conductor of a mad symphony. Conductor of cacophonies! He's a fat grizelled American, and you know how Americans like to yell. This kid has taken upon himself a most ambitious plan, for what he has touted to the studio as The Neverending Movie.
He has long brown tresses, skateshoes, shorts, a Slayer T-shirt, sunglasses tinged with red. His forte hitherto has been shooting skate videos for Thrasher. He'd been hoping to branch out into extreme sports. He wouldn't look out of place in the mosh pit, plunging feebly, rolls of fat shaking, dropping curses.
Maybe he's running out of time or over-budget, it seems that way. He's continually stressed and excitable, yelling at everyone in sight, in fury and love,- "No no you're not doin it fuckin right, we gotta get this straight goddammit!"- His passion, his temper, his sweats and flip-outs, always seem to threaten to culminate in an inferno, a spontaneous combustion burning out from the inside. He sweats himself inside out in an orgy of violent creation.
And you can bet he believes in this movie like it was a sacred mission handed to him by God, with such religious fervour that he may at its completion drop dead from sheer exhaustion, from universes of expended energy.
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