Over and over

Sun sloped over the rear steps of the American Bridge Community Centre, unseen. It narrowly escaped deprived daffodils, languishing over concrete that suffocated lives already gone. Inside the structure resided four teenagers, fixated on something that slowly reared into view and, once it did, may have provoked a laugh from any onlooker. But inside the building seriousness coated the walls, intensity as strong as the cool June breeze, in spite of the sun. The object of attention was a ship, located in a dense tank, where a despondent fragment of paper bobbed to the periphery of the model, flanked by impending doom. The fragment belonged to a sheet which, combined with another thirty, made up the musings of The Boston Film Club; a group of inexperienced, inharmonious dreamers, bonded by the silver screen. There was Jenny, the quaint, calculated ringleader, whose talent made up for other members’ lack of, and fueled their ambition. Then there was ‘vain’ Bobby, the pretty face of the team, whose charm all but ended there and shrewd ability to act rather masked an uninteresting personality. Next was Jonathan, whose great intellect diminished his otherwise mundane appearance, and love for the past rather filled in the historical side of this great escapade. Finally, there was Heather, whose fiery determination was both cause for conflict and entirely necessary, wielding productivity from an otherwise indolent group. All in all, The Boston Film Club was underwhelming, undersized and underappreciated, something each member knew all too well, yet refused to let temper dreams of stardom.

And stardom seemed essential in the purpose of the tank I bring attention to for, on this summer afternoon, The Boston Film Club flocked around the scene with an intensity as though their lives had depended on it. An onlooker may faintly recognise the ship for, in a downsized, inferior way, it somehow resembled the great Titanic. This was perhaps evident in the two domineering chimneys, begging the question of why a ship so small would need two chimneys. The upper deck was commanded by its lower counterpart, which was rather more elegant in stature, and all in all the boat rather parodied the ship of 1912. This was of course intentional, the group harboured a shared admiration for James Cameron’s blockbuster movie surrounding the event, to which Bobby had distant relations to. The exact relation escapes me now, but something to the effect of his great, great, great grandfather’s best friend had supposedly died on the ship. And since Bobby longed for fame, for prominence, he took this relation to heart, devoting himself to both historical and cinematic depictions of the tragedy. This devotion was something his comrades shared, being similarly massive fans of the blockbuster, and so the club had, naturally, made the decision to remake the movie. Now, you may wonder how on earth a group of four high school dropouts could begin to attempt to emulate Cameron’s multi-million dollar production, and this wonder was shared by the group. For days on end, uncertainty and creative staleness governed, with the inharmonious nature that defined the group causing much discomfort and disagreement. Marooned in the usual spot of meeting, alongside his future ‘lover’, Jenny, for this couple would play Rose and Jack, Bobby lay, unproductive.

“Wherever there’s a will, there’s a way”, the boy murmured, a rather comical claim given his usual abject failure to find solutions and intelligence that lacked in comparison to his listener. The comment passed without much response for, as she knew better than her partner, there may not be a way and the ambition that characterised this group of wannabes may, in fact, be greatly unfounded. Yet on that sunny, July afternoon, positivity somehow reigned, populating the air as oxygen does, and bringing with it distant fantasies.

And in their shortcomings, the group soon realised the true nature that the production would take, a decision that invigorated certain members more than others. The picture would be called The Ship of Dreams, serving as a parody of the blockbuster and an overstated retelling of history. Exaggeration was to be the spice of the production, leaving romance ridiculed, true tragedy emphasised, and independence placed thoroughly at the forefront. Due to their amateurish status, these four musketeers failed to see the offense that could come from such a charade, as, after all, the sinking of the Titanic was a tragedy unparalleled by many and responsible for the death of a great many more. But cinematic ambition overtook sympathy and, on the first of August, two weeks after I begin this novel, the plan was truly put into action.

To begin, Jenny had contacted a Mr Crankle, a friend of her father’s, who owned a ship company and, as familiarity brings fondness, the structure had been sold to the girl for a reduced amount. Mr Crankle, though, was a traditional man and, as was true of the friends and families of our team, was left in wonder by the hopeless ambition of his buyers. Still, the price was reluctantly agreed on, and eventually paid for. Given Jenny’s reliable job at the local gallery, Bobby’s unreliable role at the docks, Jonathan’s frugal yet selfish nature and Heather’s lack of employment, the ringleader supplied much of the funding, to her dismay. To Jenny it seemed that, as her witty enthusiasm had shaped the lines of the amateurish picture, her savings would largely bring it into existence. But torn between stardom and security, she observed that now the structure was bought and the plan begun, loss of faith would punish not just her comrades, but her own investment in the sorry scheme.

Jenny’s sorrow was extended when closely inspecting the craft for, alongside the ship’s lack of grandeur, the group’s diminishing strength was not the setup’s only weakness. For, early one Sunday morning as she surveyed the boat in need of inspiration, the planks of the main deck gave way, sending the poor girl through the object of her musings and into the hopeless abyss. She landed, rather uncomfortably, in the depths of the lower deck, to her dismay, as her once-great intentions of waking at this hour turned sour.

“I knew this was a waste of time, I should’ve never taken it upon myself”, murmured the forlorn girl, despising her ambitions more than ever from the vantage point of her unfortunate situation. Her leg ached like hell, her head hurt, and dreams were tempered by true pain. Not until an old sailor heard meagre cries was she rescued, at which point her hopes had been further dented by anxiety, and she lay on the deck in a state of regret.

Time passed, as time does, the cheery disposition of those waiting to penetrate the tamed sea failing to infiltrate Jenny’s own dark thoughts. These thoughts were not reflected in the beginnings of a quite brilliant day and, as the gulls surrounding the scene rejoiced, she felt rather silly. The inaccuracy of the pathetic fallacy she had learnt of frustrated Jenny, as she rolled from side to side, injured and hopeless. Perched on the broken deck and spying the steadily populating jetty, the girl had a dismal feeling that the pain of the morning would be diminished by atrocities to come.

However, in spite of her preemptive claims, the day soon took a turn for the better. The early promises of a bright day rang true, gracing the city with unknown serenity that locals muttered was, not wanting to jinx it, “the best day in many years”. And soon the mishap of earlier, which had brought injury, turned out to be blotted from memory by far better news. This much seemed apparent as the girl ambled along the lively streets, burdened by her sorrow and feeling as though she stood out like a sore thumb (or leg, in this case). Yet, as she limped up to the American Bridge Community Centre, where Jonathan and Heather were rehearsing, something seemed peculiar. The typical low, growling drones that could be heard from afar were today high-pitched, spirited and celebratory. Jenny’s mind took to wondering as she wandered along the soulless corridors of the complex and into the dingy, badly decorated studio. The scars on the walls remained, the lights were dim, lapped up by years of usage, and the carpet was as worn as the strains on the relationships of The Boston Film Club. Yet the two inhabitants were ecstatic, dancing and rehearsing with such positivity that the tragic nature of the film seemed offended. However, upon hearing the news all thoughts escaped the girl, as Heather echoed across the space,

"We won, Jen! We did it!", with such gusto for a disinterested girl, emphasising the magnitude of the achievement.

Presently, let me take you back to one year ago, when the group had not long since formed and consisted of several other members who are not worthy of description. Back then, a similarly dingy room had been home to these masquerades, and here a similarly amateurish film Lost had been planned, rehearsed and birthed. The film was polarising, controversial and confusing, but the group had felt immense pride nonetheless. And due to the strong ambition of its inhabitants, the club had decided to submit it for The Massachusetts Independent Film Award, which awarded ‘Outstanding Talent in the Independent Film Sphere’. ‘Outstanding talent’ had seemed a stretch, but not one member was willing to express their doubt at such chances. And the unconcealed doubt had remained hidden, gladly so, as a year on in this secluded, rented room, the group were pronounced winners.

Now, to say that this revelation brought unlaying enthusiasm to the project of The Ship of Dreams would be false for, as the three youths sat round stray scripts and overflowing beer bottles, the temptation to “take the money and run”, as Heather put it, was undeniable. But the difference between potential achieved and potential wasted is one so significant for a group so hopeful that the decision was made to invest, no matter the cost. And on that July afternoon, The Boston Film Club made up their minds: The Ship of Dreams would sail.

And in aid of the reader’s satisfaction I must say that now, in spite of the group’s usual undecidedness, the plan really was set in stone. The next twelve weeks brought steady embellishments to the boat, as it was furnished with majestic elegance befitting even the Titanic itself. The decks were fixed and strengthened; the ship was fitted with windows; two large, ‘make-shift’ chimneys were placed rather precariously on the top deck, and The Ship of Dreams really did appear so. By chance, every member had become proficient in sailing during optional high school modules, and so the escapade was declared to be in safe hands.

It was with both sorrow and promise that some time later, the group flocked around the same table as twelve weeks before, now complete with Bobby, in agreement that the desperate funds of winning The Massachusetts Independent Film Award were gone, and the ship was ready to sail. That November evening, a dream that had once lurked silently acted almost as prominently as a fifth member, and even the doubtful Jonathan had settled for yearning. For all the group’s disharmony, that day a bond was struck between them that had, until now, seemed dejected. Weeks of "ifs" and "buts", "maybes" and "don’t think so’s" had passed, and certainty reigned supreme.

And so, on the 16th of November of that year, The Boston Film Club’s ‘Ship of Dreams’ set sail, buoyed by a cluster of hopeless dreamers. The boat’s rich furnishings brought extravagance to the attitudes of its inhabitants, with each ebbing day bringing strength to Jenny and Bobby’s Jack and Roseish relationship. Even Jonathan and Heather struck up a surprising friendship that neither could have predicted, as they settled into their directory roles behind the digital camera. Of course, disagreement was inevitable, not least in a group such as The Boston Film Club, but all in all it was much less common than expected, as each member became steadily sure of success.

On the third day of sailing, Jonathan watched out to sea, relishing his time alone and reveling in dreams of the days to come. To an introverted soul such as he, the sea proved more serene than human company, with each splash of the ship reminiscent of the boy’s passing thoughts. It was with much surprise, then, that Bobby sprung up behind him, rather interrupting his musings and, as far as possible, bringing his crewmate back down to earth.

“Jon, I have a funny feeling about this”, the boy muttered, visibly struggling with emotion.

“About what, Bobby?”, his ‘mate’ returned, revealing his discomfort in refusing to shorten his crewmate’s name.

“It’s just, I don’t know, something is off. Not once in our, what, four years of knowing each other have we all got along so well, not once have I really thought that we have a chance. You know, the dream burdenin’ me seems as close as the gulls sittin’ off ship, and I just can’t help feelin’ like it’ll all slip, somehow” the boy muttered, leaving Jonathan bewildered in his negativity, for, in spite of his shortcomings, Bobby had always seemed certain of his dreams.

“I don’t know, Bobby, I really don’t.”, Jon replied, “it seemed that we dropped everything to be here and as much as I am happy and relieved that we may achieve something, I do feel as though it has to slip away.”

“Oh, Jon, I hope I didn’t plant a seed of doubt”, Bobby relayed.

“No, for seeds can’t flourish at a place as unruly as the sea”, responded his mate, bringing an end to the conversation with a tone of speech that implied his great intellect, yet betrayed his anxiety at Bobby’s out-of-character worries.

That night, the doubt that Bobby’s claim had sewed hovered over the craft as surely as salt in the air, an elephant in every room. The mood seemed both held together and damaged by this need to succeed as it became apparent that, truly, this crew were all in the same boat. And the doubt that had just boarded the craft began to flourish as a shadowy discovery was made by Jonathan, who was soon surrounded by his three crewmates. The ‘cluster of dreamers’, as earlier described, watched on as a washed up, lifeless bird lay before their eyes, basking in the looming moonlight, consumed by a pool of blood. To add to the spectacle, the bird was not just any old gull, it was an unusually large raven. Even Bobby knew the connotations this brought, and the disbelieving film nerds felt, on that autumn evening, that they were in their own story. For ravens were uncommon at sea, and the bloody scene surrounding the bird brought with it great suspicion. Had this been some kind of cruel joke? Were the sailors being driven mad by this unusual lifestyle? One thing was certain: the harmony acquired by these four friends was disturbed and, as all knew deep within, standing looking out to sea on that evening, disaster resided close by.

It was with heavy hearts that, the next day, The Boston Film Club began filming The Ship of Dreams. Each member had tried, and failed to put the events of last night out of mind, but somehow normality was soon assumed. This is how it was to go: Jenny and Bobby were to play the flamboyant Rose and Jack, portraying love in the most completely exaggerated of ways, yet remaining elegant. Jenny’s costume was rich, a collection of wildflowers bracing her neck, topping off a loose white dress which exuded wealth. Jack’s attire was less fetching yet what was lost in a cheap suit was made up for in his outward elegance. Together the pair were lavish, picking back up on the strong connection months of rehearsal had refused to suggest. Heather was to direct, with Jenny’s help of course, something she had both improved and began enjoying a lot more in this latest project. And Jonathan would film on his digital camera that, despite the lavishness of the boat, stood out as The Boston Film Club’s most fundamental possession. Tension rose high but potential was obvious as with the backdrop of Atlantic seas and choppy waters, and a ship truly resembling the Titanic in splendor, if not size, a new motivation claimed the inhabitants of the craft. It was with pride, then, that the crew gathered round for dinner on day four, pleased and relieved with proceedings thus far in spite of earlier happenings.

“Oh how I do like to be beside the seaside”, sang the jubilant Jenny, relishing the enthusiasm of both herself and those around her.

“Oh how I do like to be beside the sea”, joined Bobby, the pair, now, used to each other’s charm after such amounts of community.

Heather, though, not so delighted with the newfound contentedness, and obviously bothered by the unexplained events of the night before, shrugged, “I don’t see how enthusing in your environment will at all do in preparing for tragedy, exaggerated love is one thing, but the fate of this love is bleak, so prepare yourselves.”

Jenny and Bobby shrugged, in unison, blotting out Heather’s comments yet knowing, deep down, that Titanic’s iconic ending was what made it stand out and to fail in recreating that would be to fail entirely. Jonathan sat, unmoved, yet strangely amused by the dynamic of his shipmates, and partially relieved at the return to disagreements, a lack of such had greatly bothered him.

It is worth noting then, that the crew raised on the fifth and final day of filming satisfied, yet greatly apprehensive. The Ship of Dreams was to be a parody, with the depiction of tragedy its true point of judgement, therefore the day’s spectacle was imperative. It was noticeable, too, that the weather had taken a somewhat thunderous turn, pleasing Jenny’s love of foreshadowing as seemingly every take had to be reshot for the wind and breaks from filming due to the weather weren’t uncommon. The reader may, understandably, believe that the storm would improve the authenticity of the picture but for the cast of four, it was tiresome. The ship, which had become one of both dreams and life, was dwarfed by the arousal of the ocean, a minnow to the ever-growing beast. It took five hours of filming and even longer setting up the raft, before Jonathan could stand before the desolate doorframe and witness Jenny and Bobby cling to it with intensity, despite their terror. The flash in Bobby’s eyes was not telling of the power of his acting, as one might suppose, but instead the true feeling the storm had brought to each and every one of the crew.

And despite the group’s inexperience, Jenny and Bobby’s predicament seemed greatly reminiscent of that of the great Jack and Rose. The rotting door had been acquired from a scrap near Heather’s home and served as the raft, Heather loomed above, barking commands in order to be heard over the storm. Jonathan reached down, greatly worried but eager for the day of filming to be done. From his perspective, the picture was brilliant, but he wondered how far one should go for a good take. Down below, Jenny and Bobby, devoured by fear, clung to the raft, with Bobby ready to let go and feign death.

“Promise me now, and don’t ever let go of that promise.” he shouted, overcome by the storm flaring up around him.

Yet poor Jenny was not able to answer this command as, upon opening her lips to voice the last line of the day, an almighty push demolished the frame to which she clung. And with the true tragedy of the motion picture, if not for the fault of acting, Jenny and Bobby were cast apart, forever. In Heather and Jonathan’s desolate screams did the ocean relive the events of 1912, as the stormy sea rose up from all angles, capturing them in her lifeless grasp and sending the Ship of Dreams deep below the surface. As quickly as that frenzy had arrived, forming a monster, had it passed, along with the dreams and lives of these four discordant friends, blurring the lines between cinema and reality.

It is often wondered what became of The Boston Film Club and their great escapade. The ones who doubted quietly utter "I told you so’s", the ones who loved hold out endless hope of return, and the Boston days refuse to reach the heights of that fateful, July day, when the adventure was but set in stone. All in all, the contradictory group of friends, born on a whim, loom over their hometown like ghosts, as present and remembered as the ghosts of the Titanic. And history repeats itself, over and over.