SCREEN PROJECTION: A junkyard—landscape of junked cars and machines, industrial garbage and broken parts.
(to himself )
Never seen somebody so silly, yearning for but completely terrified of. Sworn to be but fundamental problems with. Scared of death, battling himself. Terrified of his inability to. . . go through with. (pause) Visions of God?
Jack
Yes, God.
Fuck God.
Who’s out there?
(Jennifer S. Harder)
Kurnst!
He turns around, terrified.
Who’s there?
It’s me.
Who?
It’s me, Kurnst.
How you find me?
I’ve searched everywhere. Where have you been?
How the hell you find us? Jack let you know?
I haven’t seen him, Kurnst. We’re all looking for you, I am, searching everywhere.
This is more like. . . ghosts, Jack, following me around! I’ve seen you too, that’s why I wanted to find—see if you were still real, other than these things I been seeing. All kinds of shit, Jack.
Lost in the city.
Found you, been everywhere Jack, figuring, you know, figuring.
With this dilemma.
Show me some way, Jack.
What old broken-down gon’ teach you kid?
How go light.
It ain’t nothing, been there before.
Can’t think, talk to myself.
Nothing wrong with it.
Death stalks.
No.
And me her.
Nothing you say!
But I do. She whispers me.
She whispers all.
I like her warmth, so cold.
Who is it?
SCREEN PROJECTION: Images from a Dandridge film fade into those of Antonioni’s bored and fashionable bourgeoisie, walking, kissing, pouting.
Jack goes to the door.
Yes?
Let me in.
The lights come back up with Jack and Kurnst standing in the same positions. Jack walks to the door and opens it. He stares at someone standing outside the door (who the audience cannot see) and turns to Kurnst.
It’s a Negro woman.
(to audience)
My name’s Dorothy. I am a performer—these films I’ve never seen. I used to whisper if I just stay true to craft and hope and wish and be good that my time would come. That’s what I hoped. I’m sure it never did, though I can’t complain. It’s not entirely true—I have seen much of this, many times, and complain but try not to.
There was this man I’ve since come to know. In a perfect world Mr. Micheaux and I surely would have worked together, done many things. As it were we never met, I hardly even heard of him. Truth be told I could not have cared less about these little Negro films he made filled with black folk. . . with black life. And he probably thought me a prima donna, yellow prima donna turning her back on her race, her own people. All of which, more or less, is probably true. It did not feel that way at the time—I was simply too big for these tiny things, made real movies. This is what I desired—real, gorgeous films. What do we get to make? It is enough to be seen at all. I am a woman, negro, do not experiment, would like nothing more than to deconstruct myself—do as much every morning and night, but there is no framework. Why in heaven’s name would I? I am an actress, perform, what else am I to do? My very existence is skewered enough—blowing rhythms, singing blues. I don’t have such luxuries, am not allowed them.
SCREEN PROJECTION: “End First Act”