The Red Tent (1971)/ Red Cockroaches (2005) Frank’s red pen deftly hunts across the page. Not that it mattered; the actors had already taken their last rewrites and for the moment spelling didn’t count. Frank could at least take pride that his little off off off off off Broadway (any farther off and the actor would be swiming in the East River!) piece of schlock was at least better than the last two additions to his DVD collection: Red Cockroaches (Coyula 2005). The Red Tent (aka Krasnaya Palatka; Kalatozishvili 1971). Red C. is available 27 September from Ryko Distribution. Red T. came out 23 August on Paramount. Frank was so bored to tears by last Saturday night’s selections he vowed to never buy movies alphabetically again—or possibly just avoid the word “red”—he’d already been burned by Red Dragon (Ratner 2002); Red Dawn (Milius 1984), Red Planet (Hoffman 2000), Red Sonia (Fleischer 1985), and Red Heat (Hill 1988), just to name a few… Yes, Frank’s Scrapmetal Jesus did have a few things to be proud of. Unlike Red Tent, the story of a failed blimp trip to the north pole in 1928, Frank’s play was not a drawn out morality tale. SJ got right into the muck and was morally ambiguous. Frank’s play also didn’t require long panoramic shots of the North Pole, a cute doggie or a throwaway love story as filler material. Unlike the Red Tent, Frank also didn’t need a top-billed start like Sean Connery to come in at the end, whose anticipated entrance keeps an audience from walking away. Franks play had no G-rating. And its lip-sync was perfect. Frank's characters are weakened by the world, while Kalatozishvili’s are robust, even after weeks in the artic. Of course, to be fair, considering Peter Finch’s kinda cool dirigible crash, both the Red Tent and Scrapmetal do contain people drinking when they ought be paying attention. Unlike Red Cockroaches, the story of brother-sister sex intrigue set in a near future NYC, the acting in Scrapmetal Jesus was excellent and the dialogue far from stilted. Frank didn’t need sexual taboos. To hell with the film considered the best low-budget film(---er, video) of the last few years. Frank certainly didn’t need childish film school tricks: he didn’t use worm’s eye POV in every other shot, smash-cut after smash cut, or dime store sexual symbolism such as a finger in a flower. He didn’t need special effect either, sticking flying CGI cars into every shot. Scrapmetal Jesus was more goofy than its due. That’s true. But at least, Frank muses, it was born of the streets. Not pieced together on an Apple G4 like Red Cockroaches. Having itemized these reasons for hoisting his own play, above his panned DVDs, Frank is more at ease. He orders a Wild Turkey as they begin his play: Scrap-Metal Jesus INT—EMPTY WAREHOUSE—NIGHT [Explosion. Police sirens rattle room. FRANK TRAUTMAN scrambles through a window and tumbles to the floor. TRACY HITLER hurries through the door, slams it, and then lays against it, panting.] TRACY Fucking cops! [He looks at Frank rising off floor and extends a hand.] Hey! Tracy Hitler. Nice ta meet ya. FRANK Frank Trautman—Jeezus! Tracy Hitler?! TRACY Yeah. I know. Tracy’s a girl’s name… FRANK No. I mean, uh—Hitler? You know— [He mimics Nazi salute and mustache.] Hitler? TRACY [Apologetic] Oh! I’m not related to that one. FRANK Well. I know that. Or hoped so, anyway. But, I mean…ya haven’t thought about changing it? TRACY [Becoming indignant] The Hitlers have proudly carried this moniker since the 15th century— FRANK Yeah. Yeah. But don’t you think that, you know—he—someone—kinda spoiled it—? TRACY What? Throw away a perfectly proud family tradition just because, unfortunately, one bad egg had the coincidence of sharing the same surname? FRANK [Waving him off in disgusted disbelief] Bad egg?… [Returning] Okay. So what, your ancestors just went about Austria writing bank checks and repaying student loans for the last sixty years constantly, if not smugly, reassuring everyone, [In faux high-class demure] “Oh no, no. Heavens forbid. We’re not those Hitlers.”

TRACY I should say not! We’re Belgian. FRANK Sorry. Sorry. My mistake. You’re of the Belgian Hitlers. TRACY Brussels. FRANK Brussels. TRACY Oh, yea. We’re dairi-ers— Diari-ists? Dairi-ites? Dairi— FRANKEh? TRACY Hitler’s Fine Cheeses since 1783. FRANK Uh-huh. I see. TRACY [Nods] Diari—ians FRANK [Waves hands] Okay. Fine. Cheese… No. Not fine…In any case, why then, do you have to burst into here and announce that you are in fact a Hitler?

TRACY I don’t get you. FRANK Okay. Okay. Now, watch. I’m you and you’re me. Let’s come in again. [They exit, Frank via the window, Tracy, the door. After a few seconds, they scramble through again as before, places switched.] Fucking cops! [Tracy gets off the floor and extends a hand.] TRACY Hi. I’m Frank Tra— FRANK [Interrupting] Hi. I’m Tracy. TRACY I don’t get it. FRANK Tracy. I’m Tracy. Just call me Tracy. Period. TRACY But now I sound like a have a girl’s name. FRANK So? Better to have a girl’s name than a genocidal maniac’s name. I can, after all, see that you are not a girl— TRACY Yeah, but— FRANK What I can’t tell, nor do I now wonder about is whether, oh I don’t know…. Whether maybe your dad killed five million Jews or something. TRACY Six million. Besides, we’re Belgian. FRANK Yeah, I know. Brussels. Cheese— TRACY Fine cheeses. FRANK Fine cheeses…But I’m talking about first impressions— TRACY Also. He wouldn’t be my father anyway. I’m not that old. More like my grandfather, great grandfather, more likely. FRANK And, of course, your grandfather was too busy making cheese— TRACY Fine cheeses. FRANK Fine cheeses…since 1783—? TRACY Yes. Well, not him personally— FRANK [Continuing] And was thus completely ignorant of the entire World War II slash Holocaust-thing? TRACY No, of course not. But it’s just a name after all. [Tracy sits and considers philosophically] Besides, suppose I that I am Hitler’s son. So what? I should atone for the sins of my father. As if I could help it? Come one, dude. Do you owe all the Negroes forty acres and a mule because of slavery? FRANK Either way. The Trautmans didn’t come to the US until— TRACY What’s that? What’s your name? FRANK Trautman. TRACY Like in Trautman & Trautman Attorneys? FRANK Yeah, so? My fath— TRACY Fascist. [Tracy growls and rolls over to sleep. Frank drops his arms, tired of debate, and looks around the room. The sirens return anew.] FRANK Fucking cops! [Frank pulls a fifth of whiskey out of his jacket and drinks.] Fucking cops… TRACY [Jumping up at the sirens, then noticing Frank, nods] Always time for the ole hammer-juice, eh? FRANK Fuck you, Hitler. [Frank drinks and turns. Meanwhile, Tracy pulls out a few capsules and sets about grinding and snorting them up. Frank turns back to see.] And what, pray tell, are you doing? TRACY [Almost proud] I’m fixin’ on crushin’ up these Ritalin and snortin’em. [He begins.] FRANK Ritalin? TRACY [Inspecting powder] Well, maybe they’re Percocets. [Snorts.] Or Loritabs. [Snorts again.] In any case, unlike you, I thought I should make myself more…eh, aware. Under the circumstances, that is. [Frank grunts, and swigs the bottle. A siren passes, lighting the room. Tracy jumps up.] See? Ready for anything. FRANK [Thumbs nose] Check the sink, Hitler. TRACY [Wiping powder from nose] That’s Mr. Hitler to— [Then, realizing how stupid the rebuttal is,] Jackass. [Sirens] Fucking cops. [Frank pats him on the back, then thrusts his hands in his pockets.] FRANK Well, we agree on that, anyway…. [Frank mills around then peeks out window looking for the cops.] Well. A-hem So as to play devil’s advocate, why, pray tell, are the blues after you, man? TRACY Bullshit, man. FRANK Yeah? What bullshit? TRACY I’ve just been killin’ babies is all. FRANK Killing babies!? TRACY No, no. It’s not all like that. They don’t go to hell, ya see? FRANK Oh? TRACY Babies are too young to sin… FRANK Sooooo…..? TRACY So I am sending them to heaven. FOR-ever! FRANK By killing’em? [TRACY nods] Babies? TRACY Yeah, well. I won’t kill a man. FRANK No? TRACY Jeezus! If I murdered some innocent, unsuspecting guy, what hell, would I be putting him through? Unprepared to die? No-way. St. Peter, Yahweh, Christ, Vishnu, Job, Jehovah, whatever! Those dudes know all about this victim’s soul. More than I could. Think of the afterlife. FRANK But…. by killing babies…Whoosh! Straight to the good hereafter. TRACY [Smiles] EX-act-ly FRANK I see: Only the young die good. OK, Brain-boy. Howabout you, I don’t know, just kill nobody? TRACY [Frowns and slumps] Do nothing? You just don’t get it, doya? Drunkie! FRANK [Sneers back] Guess not, Baby-killer! [Drinks] Guess not. [Frank walks off, then returns angrily] Ok, again, How-a-bout, Don’t kill NO-body!? TRACY You are so friggin’ naïve. [Tracy smiles and pulls out some more pills and a water bottle to slurp them down] FRANK [Stumped] Well, naïve backward is Evian! Hah! TRACY [Rising and dusting from of pants] Well, its simple 1. It’s good for the babies to never know anything but the glory of heaven, and B. [Quiet] I am trying to make my place. FRANK Your place? TRACY Yeah. My place in history. FRANK OK. TRACY You’ve already pointed out my handicap! FRANK Handicap? TRACY The OTHER Hitler? Come on! You think I don’t have that looming over me all the time? FRANK Didn’t think of it. I guess ALL Hitlers must strive for some sick notoriety, if they ever want to be THE Hitler… TRACY Like FDR. FRANK [Nods as if this tidbit will solve everything] Like FDR…? TRACY He had to take on the Depression AND the Nazis to be THE Roosevelt. FRANK [Under breath, walking away, not wanting to argue politics too] So who is THE Bush? Better to finish or start a war? [Then aloud, returning] And so to be The Hitler, you will kill, oh, over 5 million TRACY 6 million FRANK 6 million babies to be THE Hitler. TRACY [Matter-of-factly] With babies, public outcry oughtta be bigger. I figger it won’t take quite that many. Maybe…. [Thinks] A sixth. Yea. About 1/6 the Holocaust should do’er up nicely. FRANK Sounds about right, I guess. Well, let’s hope so, anyway. For the babies sake. TRACY NO. FRANK No? [Thinks] Ohhhh, right. They’re going to heaven…. TRACY But lets hope not for the parent’s sake. FRANK Oh? TRACY I am sending their babies away. [Tranquil] To heaven. FRANK Yes, right. Lucky dead babies. [Frank makes himself comfortable on the ground away from Tracy, backstage. Than rolls over anew:] But, I’ve just gotta ask, how many have you—? TRACY How many have I— [Draws finger across throat; Frank nods.] 9,999 FRANK [Blasé] Oh. Great. So, one more? TRACY [Smiles] One more. [Tracy pulls out a hunting knife, darts over and stabs Frank in the stomach, then runs off.]