The Science of Sleep (2006) [Editor’s note: From the Graveyard Frank archives, ca. 2007. Spotted on the back of a brochure for a CDL program in the parking lot of JoJo’s Motor-tel, West Memphis, AK; Keep it coming, folks~ d.f.] Scattered today. Thoughts and footsteps. Sun Records, founded in 1950 to compete with the Chicago labels, was grown out of sheer necessity, following near- bankruptcy over a plagiarism suit. In 1953, Sam Phillips, the founder, was sued for his minor first hit, Rufus Thomas’s “Bear Cat,”—the hollerback song to Big Mama Thorton's “Hound Dog.” As luck would have it, the original tune was later covered by Elvis Presley (King Creole 1958), who was trotted out the next year. Today “Bear Cat” would be protected under Campbell v. Acuff-Rose Music, Inc., which protects parody as fair use; if you remember the 2 Live Crew slaughter of “Pretty Woman.” Roy Orbison was discovered by Johnny Cash and signed at Sun Records in 1956, FYI. But no one protected Frank (now hoofing down Beale Street in a breezy November to catch the Dempseys in a local bar) from being ripped off. Last night he had been. Ripped off that is. Maybe. The jury is still out in his mind. On the surface its seems, Michael Gondry’s The Science of Sleep (2006) sure seemed a rip off of Frank’s 2004 screenplay “2 Inches Taller in Sleep,” which he had sent to numerous producers in Europe, knowing no one in the US would do it. Actually, he’d hoped to get it in the hands of Jodorowsky (El Topo 1970), who seemed to be lingering for a comeback. He might be the only director dangerous enough to bite on “2 Inches.”

Anyway, at least Gondry was trying something a little new but, Frank was a little disappointed in the film; He fell asleep watching it on his laptop in a West Memphis Arkansas motel. [Free the West Memphis 3!]. It is a love story basically, but is still something of a guy film in the same way you would have a chick flick. Watch anything by Sam Peckinpah (The Wild Bunch 1969) for a more macho display of the genre. OK. Perhaps he is overselling what is ultimately an artsy and pretentious flick.

And therefore, forget it. It’s not a rip-off of Frank’s script. Gondry has just mucked up the dream frontier before Frank got to it. In any case, Peckinpah at heart, Frank shrugs and shivers in his stiff carhart, as he enters the dark bar; a new jacket with a new, re-found maleness. Still as a vestige of his former longing self, he pulls it shut over his burgeoning belly as a bevy of girls walk in behind him. The girls here are all typical, some too young, with an awkward, naïve view of sexuality. They think that mere bare flesh will cut it as a form of seduction. It didn’t. They were just a bunch of pasty little girls without daddies. The older ones had it right, with their alluring southern charms and dusky hues slinking around the pool tables. Trouble was that they usually came with two or three kids in toe. Frank didn’t need that either. It was unseasonably cold for a campus hangout in Tennessee and Frank had no other intention then to sit with his new found self, sip his whiskey and watch the boxing match on the TV above the bar. If the right girl for him walked in, they’d both know it. Til then there was no use sitting around all antsy and ogling the local train wreck-gals. So there our hero sits stewing on Peckinpah and Jodorowsky and Gondry and Sam Phillips. Alone. In a corner listening to Jerry Lee Lewis on the juke. He smokes. He hates it. It makes him sick. But nausea is something. Some feeling against the void of non-existence. He will be this way—forever probably. Our hero has been in his “fortress of solitude” for too long. No matter. Where’s he to go? He has no friends. No concrete reason to get up and smile. It is late nite. No one dreams about our hero, but he dreams about them. All of them. Death only sits near—but not that near. Seemingly out of reach, in fact. He busies him self with some job applications. Blackwater, Halliburton, KBR, you name it. He was headed to Houston and beyond in search of the next insane high. He scrawls a NB to a potential employer: who sez not offering full-time positions helps out by giving you freedom? Yes, having an expendable crew is also useful in times of budget crises and when doling out employee benefits. Being a competent professional without job security ain’t no benefit to me, brother. Vive le roi!” But it matters not. He’ll take the job if the pay is right or at least comparable to the danger-level. Freedom, oh freedom. That’s just some people talkin’. Or perhaps, freedom is just a word that means nothing left to loose. And [spoiler] if you hated Stephane (Gael Garcia Bernal) at the end of the Gondry film, as Frank heard some chick—errr female reviewers say, then you didn’t get it from the man’s POV. Besides, Frank thinks he was having a stroke. Later that night, Frank finds his room is infested with ants. He kinda likes it. He kills these innocent leggy creatures constantly because he cannot kill himself or the loss of his Sugarloaf: "I hate myself. Squish! She cheated on me. Squish! Squish! It is over. There is no trying. Squish! Squish! Squish....!" He passes out and dreams he is driving through a junkyard with no brakes, he cries out for help but no one comes...