The writer wants to make a movie. Perhaps because he knows he is an irrelevant writer, he dreams of becoming relevant by writing and producing a film. The dream that haunts him is not recent. When he wrote his first novel more than thirty years ago, he imagined it would be a film. He wasn’t wrong. Because that book was a success, he sold the film rights to a renowned Spanish producer who arrived at his apartment on the island driving a white, convertible car, wearing a loose flowered shirt, because he was plump, and smoking a cigar. The producer opened a briefcase, took out a few wads of dollars, handed them to the writer and bought the story. Years later, the novel was transformed into a film. It was successful at the box office and with critics. But the writer didn’t like it. They didn’t allow him to write the script. They changed the ending of the plot. He felt betrayed. He thought: I should have produced and directed it myself. He thought: maybe I should have acted in it. Ten years later, a young and talented filmmaker of Venezuelan origin contacted the writer and bought the film rights to one of his most popular novels. The young filmmaker borrowed money from his parents and his parents’ friends. He then spent millions producing the film. It was neither a box office nor critical success. The writer told him, before starting filming: don’t hire those soap opera actors because then the movie will look like a soap opera. The young filmmaker ignored him. However, the writer was satisfied. He thought it was a technically well-made film. He did not like, however, that they changed certain passages of the script, without consulting him. He also did not like that he was not allowed to act even briefly. In recent times, the writer has received offers from other film producers, but he is reluctant to sell his novels to them because it attacks him and restrains the suspicion that the result will be poor, disappointing. That is why he is thinking of producing the film himself, to have absolute creative freedom, reserve the right to the last editing cut, choose the actors and, if anything, act briefly. He doesn’t want to sell a story. He already did it twice and was not happy. Now he wants to bring the story to the big screen himself. The writer is a film lover. In his good times, when he was on vacation, he was able to watch three or even four movies in a single day, walking from one cinema to another, jumping from one theater to another, eating something on the go at the cinema door. He did not know a purer and more dazzling happiness than that of dissolving his identity in a dark room and allowing himself to be abducted by the hypnotic force of a great film that would make him fly to the skies of art that will not be corrupted. That is why he dreams of making a film based on one of his novels, or none of them. However, doubts, as usual, paralyze the writer. When he talks about these things with his wife, she tells him: don’t make a movie, you’re going to lose money. When they go to the movies together, the theaters are empty, even on a Saturday night, watching the hottest movie, nominated for major awards. Then the writer asks himself: will it make sense to produce a film when going to the cinema is a custom in disuse, a habit in decline? Wouldn’t it be better to produce a series of several chapters? He immediately sends an email to the head of the most powerful series and movie channel for monthly subscription. You don’t receive a response. Write to a major production company. You don’t receive a response. Then back to square one: I’m an irrelevant writer, which is why no one answers my emails. Worse still, remember that, to remain at least an irrelevant writer, you must sleep until one in the afternoon. He usually falls asleep around three in the morning, sleeps for ten hours and wakes up at one. He considers it a luxury to sleep until the late hour that his exhausted body asks for. He is not willing to get up early to make a movie. Mornings are pieces of fiction for him. These fictions are non-negotiable. Then the writer asks himself: if I’m only able to work at night, and I don’t like talking on the phone, and I’m no longer tempted to leave the house, and I’m overwhelmed by the thought of traveling, how the hell could I make a film? Because the writer remembers that, when he attended the filming of those films based on his novels, he was impressed by the number of people moving around the cameras. Making a movie is like putting on a circus, he thinks, and I’m too old for those trots. The writer then resigns himself to not making a film, but to watching many films from the comfort of his home or in cinemas that offer reclining seats. Better not waste money and go to the movies, his wife suggests. Perhaps because he knows he is irrelevant, because he is aware that his work is expendable, the writer is excited because some television producers are visiting the city to attend a fair. of audiovisual content, they ask you for a meeting to make you an offer. If they want to see me, if they want to propose something to me, it’s because I’m still alive, he thinks. Because, to earn a living, the writer has hosted television programs for more than forty years. That is to say, first he was a television journalist and then a writer. If he lived only on literary royalties, his life would be austere, Spartan. He has made a lot of money on television here and there. So after the show, drive to a hotel in the city center. He meets with two Argentine producers. They are friendly. They propose to make a television program. The writer is flattered. I’m not dead yet, they still love me, he consoles himself. The problem is that they offer little money, because the channel is not on-air, but pay-per-view, and survives thanks to the monthly payments of its subscribers, who tend to decline. It is a prestigious channel that is seen in almost all of America. Therefore, the offer is tempting for the writer. However, he would have to travel to Buenos Aires to record the programs in that city. It’s a nine-hour flight from Miami, where he lives. In other times, I traveled every weekend. Now the very idea seems brutally physical to him. When he tells his wife, she tells him: don’t be crazy, how are you going to travel to Buenos Aires every weekend, you don’t need the money, you’re going to die in an airport. The writer tells the Argentine producers that his wife does not give him permission to do the program. He then remains a fainthearted and lazy person. Some producers from a Peruvian channel have also arrived at that fair. They contact the writer, asking for a meeting. Excited, because it is a television station that brings back good memories, the writer invites them to a cafe on the island, close to his house. They exchange ideas. They seem interested in doing a show with the writer. Apparently they still trust him, even though he’s about to turn sixty, even though he’s slower and plumper than in his heyday. The writer tells them: if we want to be successful, we have to do the program there, on Sunday nights, live, with a studio audience, like before. They ask you: are you willing to travel to Lima every weekend? The writer answers: yes, but only if it is a short season, say January to April of next year. The writer then remembers that for many years he traveled between Miami and Lima every weekend, because he hosted a program in Miami from Monday to Friday and another in Lima on Sundays. He wonders if he’s still up to the beating of weekly commutes. When he gets home, he discusses it with his wife and she tells him: it’s crazy, you can’t go to Lima every Friday and return to Miami every Monday, you’re going to die wanting to conquer America. And then the writer bundles up because it is a freezing day on the island, he lies in bed and remains thinking, attacked by melancholy and laziness, similar fevers: I am like those retired soccer players who want to continue playing ball, scoring goals, recklessly ignoring that they will never play as well as they played in the good old days, those times that will never come back.
#retired #footballer
