| A woman
in love, frustrated by every circumstance, stops
at nothing to achieve her desire.
A restaurant. The patrons are
in evening clothes, the waiters formal.
There is no music, only the soft sound of voices
in conversation. Michaela, forty, elegant,
in a black dress, participates in one such conversation.
We can't hear what's being said but the atmosphere
is happy, polite. The man of fifty beside
her can only be her husband. He presides
with an easy charm. Over her shoulder
we see the couple they are dining with, Philip
and his wife, in their early thirties.
Michaela's shoulders are bare, we cannot but
notice, but Philip's eyes are toward the other
two, perhaps carefully so. Michaela is
absorbed in the general conversation, self-forgetful,
but after watching her for a moment we feel
that she too is restraining her gaze.
When it does rest on him it is with a gaiety
that seems a touch contrived. She gets
up and walks away, pausing to greet friends
at another table. As her husband and the
younger woman continue chatting Philip permits
himself a discreet but lingering glance at Michaela.
She is several yards away in profile, smiling,
nodding.
Suddenly, absurdly, she is naked.
She stands there talking with someone, in heels
and necklace, tiny purse in hand, oblivious
to her nudity, as are those around her.
This is Philip's fantasy. But now, even
more absurdly, she does notice! She looks
down at herself, shocked. The others don't see.
She does not convulse and cover herself but
stands her ground, purse lifted in her hand,
and glances at Philip--too briefly to be eloquent,
but sharply: he looks away mortified.
Instantly she is dressed again and, taking leave
of her friends, she proceeds to, one supposes,
the bathroom.
Outside the restaurant they bid each
other good night and Philip opens the door of
his low two-seater for her. She moves
past him and, despite her short dress and the
cramped space, handles easily the taking of
her seat. They drive without looking at
each other. The engine coughs, dies.
He struggles with the controls. They stand
by the extinguished car on a deserted road as
her husband drives past with Philip's wife.
They wave and halloo, but are not heard.
Silence. They look at each other.
This has not happened at all. They are
still in front of the restaurant, and, as Philip
opens the door to the two-seater, it is his
wife who steps to the car and, with an almost
equal grace, gets in. But whose fantasy
was this? As if in answer the sound of
the door closing on Philip's car becomes a double
slam as Michaela and her husband get out of
theirs. They have come home to their apartment
on a hill in central Athens. There are
no shots of the Parthenon, no close-ups on signs
lettered in Greek, no bouzouki music--no music
at all. The cars, the palm trees--we're
satisfied that it's a Mediterranean city.
Only their footsteps are audible. They
are quiet together, a couple at the end of their
day.
In bed she watches him undress, and
he becomes Philip. Her husband does not
suffer by the comparison, he may even be the
handsomer, but it is Philip who gets into bed
with her. On the other hand it is her
husband who makes love to her. We have
a discreet, shoulder-high shot of this.
There is nothing dissonant, nothing clashes
with the silence--this is an easy reality to
like--but she stares off at something else.
Day. A study; a large desk.
A maid is cleaning. Michaela enters and
looks something up in a Rolodex. Night.
She walks along a dark sidewalk, turns a corner
and climbs a street made of steps between rich
apartment buildings. Luxurious falls of
flowers pour from the broad balconies.
Silence: only her footsteps. This actress
has been chosen not so much for her beauty as
for her poise, especially the way she walks
in heels. There is nothing affected about
her femininity, indeed her walk is business-like,
determined, but it has its own grace, and the
steady sound of her steps is the musical theme
that haunts the film. As she climbs she
comes level with some of the balconies she passes.
Philip, in shirtsleeves, one hand in his pocket,
strolls out onto one brushing his teeth.
He leans casually over the side to contemplate
the night and his boredom, and sees her.
She stops and looks at him. He is not
embarrassed by his now motionless toothbrush
but surprised; eager; furtive. He glances
around to see if his wife is there and stares
urgently at Michaela. They are lovers
joined in silence. A sudden deafening
roar of machinery, then an outraged siren freeze
them under a relentlessly-flashing blue light.
In the street below, a garbage truck has been
halted by an illegally-parked car and is signaling
the culprit to come and remove it. With
jump-cut immediacy Philip emerges from the door
below with his alibi, a plastic shopping bag
of garbage which he ties by the handles as he
takes it down to the truck. He guides
her by the arm into the shadows as they descend,
looking up to be sure he has eluded his wife.
The truck pauses at the steps making a compressive
din that is protectively public. He tosses
the bag in and pushes her into a tiny garden
in the corner between the steps and the sidewalk,
the kind of recess that isn't found in northern
or American cities, and stands her against the
wall. The noise of the truck trails off
and leaves them in silence, darkness, under
cover of a tree. He kisses her.
She holds him by the face and drinks the kiss.
He presses her to the wall, ravishes her, holds
her by the hips, which suffices to raise her
dress. But she hesitates, contracts, prevents
him. Why? his face says. "Philip?"
calls his wife. It must be his wife.
American voice. "Philip?" "Be right
there," he shouts, though still within intimate
range of Michaela. It is his statement
to her, his accusation. They have lost
their chance. She is winded by the moment's
passion but unapologetic. She has not
wanted it to happen this way, and as he turns
away she touches his chest with both hands,
not holding him exactly, but not letting him
go either. What's she saying? He
seems to gather that she means there'll be a
next time. His own look says he may not
be that interested, but he lingers that split
second that shows he wants to linger, and then
goes.
She is in bed by her sleeping husband.
Her eyes are vacant but tightly fixed, worried.
She rises, walks out to the balcony, the darkened
city spread below. She is in a slip and
seems entranced. As she climbs up onto
the balustrade we fear for her: there is the
height of the building, and of the steep hill.
She spreads her arms, throws them forward and
dives. She is flying through darkness,
not flat-out like Superman but upright, leaning
forward, trailing her feet like a spirit in
a painting. To the height and sensation
of flight she pays no attention: she wants to
get where she's going. She is on Philip's
balcony. Noiseless, ethereal, she moves
inside where the younger couple are sleeping,
and kneels by the bed. Philip stirs and
embraces his wife in his sleep. She whimpers
and snuggles against him. Anxiously, almost
fearfully Michaela watches as he begins to make
love to his wife--again a discreet image, a
head shot, she bending close to them, tense.
"I love you," his wife whispers, and when he
murmurs "I love you too" Michaela's expression
melts into sweet relief: she hasn't come between
these two after all.
Their
union is intact. Scowling, Michaela sits
up from this dream so abruptly that she wakes
her husband. She isn't in the least relieved,
but furious that Philip should love someone
else. Her husband gives her an inquiring
look. She ignores him, thrusts the covers
aside, gets up and paces; goes out to the balcony;
stares at the city, at the drop below.
Day. A sidewalk cafe. People
are having lunch. Philip and two male
friends laugh together. Sitting alone,
her legs tightly crossed, Michaela puts money
by her cup, stands and sidles out through the
crowd. As she passes Philip's table he
looks up, embarrassed at being embarrassed.
After all, these are men he's with. Who
would they tell? But he feels restrained.
She says a "Hello" with the ring of good-bye--she
must have an accent but as yet we can't hear
it--and walks away before he can speak.
Across the street from the cafe she pretends
to window-shop and, in the reflection, watches
him leave with his friends. In bright
sunshine she climbs the steps that lead up past
his apartment. From a high balcony on
a neighboring building a woman leans out and
calls, in a surprised tone, "Michaela!"
Michaela stops, surprised too, and looks at
her; then smiles a little in recognition;
then smiles warmly, relieved, acting.
On the woman's balcony they sit sipping tea.
Below them Philip's wife in shorts waters plants
and hoses down her terrace. Michaela watches
her surreptitiously as she talks with her friend.
Night. The two eat supper on the
balcony by candlelight. Below, Philip's window
is lit. Michaela takes out her mobile
phone, dials, speaks into it. We can't
hear what she's saying. She passes it
to her friend: animation and laughter.
If it's Michaela's husband they're talking to
she has the perfect alibi. The couch is
made up as a bed. She lies on it in her
slip, not sleeping; rises, goes out to the balcony,
looks down at Philip's place in darkness.
On the street she climbs the stairs, pauses
by his balcony, looks around, tiptoes toward
it. It's not as easy as we thought: a
chasm separates the stone edge of the street
from the concrete parapet. She moves around
to the entrance walk, abandons her shoes, aims
a precarious giant step toward the fringe of
foliage and climbs aboard. She creeps
into the bedroom. As in her dream the
couple are sleeping. From their angle
on the pillow we watch her prowl toward them,
a predator growing taller in the frame.
Is she psychotic? A romantic? A
compulsive sneak? We have not known quite
how to understand her, but now, looking up at
her, a cold light on her face, we have no doubt
that she's psychotic, possibly murderous, and
are tensed for some desperate act--though as
in all such scenes our embarrassment for her,
lest they wake and see her, outweighs even our
fear. A plastic water bottle, dented at
the waist where he has held it to sip from stands
on a table by his head. Outside a passing
stranger sees her shoes and looks around for
the owner. He goes over to them, picks
them up, looks around again. She stands
over the bed staring at them like a space alien
consuming their life force. The stranger
looks up the street, down the street; sniffs
each of the shoes; puts them under his coat
and hurries away. The water bottle snaps
back into shape so loudly it stirs Philip and
wakes his wife. Michaela ducks and springs
for the balcony. She straddles the parapet,
snapping vines, leaps for the steps but can't
pull herself up onto them and hangs by her fingers
as Philip's wife comes out belting a robe to
look around. Michaela has no choice but
to hang there in the dark till the other woman
goes in. She's not a murderess, she's
a clown, a comic heroine.
(c)
MXMVIII Robert MacLean, all rights reserved.
Reg’d WGA.
My
Husband Suspects Part 1
My Husband Suspects Part
2
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