Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(106)
As the opening credits began, Arthur, gobsmacked, realized Garibaldi Island had been hoodwinked with vast panache by Jason Silverson and his camera-toting crew of alleged New Age bohemians.
Then everybody else got it: “Enlightenment Studios presents a Jason Silverson production.” The former schlock movie auteur had found a new outlet for his talents. Margaret gasped: “Oh my God!” Similar exclamations from the audience: “No way!” “You gotta be kidding!”
The chorus quieted as more opening credits rolled. Mookie Schloss as co-producer and film editor. The narrator continued: “Nothing much happened on this sleepy island until we woke them up to a powerful new reality.”
The title came on in bright, bold letters: The Awakening.
All were stunned into silence. Arthur watched numbly as the blond bombshell himself came on screen (“Jason Silverson, director, playing himself”), charming the simple folk of Garibaldi, inspecting tulips, smelling roses, then turning to whatever camera was filming him and raising his own.
Cut to Arthur (“Retired criminal lawyer”) and Margaret watching him, conversing. To Arthur’s horror, he heard his own words: “Some folks think he’s the second coming of Christ.” Amplified by a microphone somewhere nearby. Someone in the hall brayed with laughter, then silence descended again.
Cut to Silverson greeting Margaret. Snatches of conversation about the Personal Transformation Mission and its goal to spread enlightenment with “our little experiment in healthy, cooperative living.” Morgan Baumgarten sidling up with his camera and his “Just Do It!” T-shirt and his thousand-mile stare. “They call me Morg.” (Subtitle: “Morgan Bromley, actor, narrator.”) Arthur turned to see Kurt Zoller with his mouth hanging open. Constable Dugald seemed befuddled too. Reverend Al just stared at Mookie, incredulous.
The opening scenes had adroitly set up the premise of the film, which seemed to involve a lighthearted poke at a community falling sway to a made-up, nonsense cult, but which Arthur took to be an experiment in gulling the innocent. Yet the audience was rapt, silent, no expressions of dismay or indignation. There was some chuckling when Zoller was shown by his Hummer near the store, looking reprovingly at the women dressed as retro-hippies and their flowered VW van. Several bursts of laughter as the beaded, bangled women approached Arthur in the store: “Hey, ask this old-timer.”
Arthur found his fellow moviegoers entirely too forgiving — the whole room seemed to relax. There were cheers for the Easy Pieces as they piled into the Transformers’ van. Here was Silverson staring at Taba. Cut to her bosom, then to Felicity importuning her mother to visit Starkers Cove: “It’s a really radical scene. Just do it, Mom.”
Then to Starkers Cove, a panorama of beach and lodge and guest houses; then the camera retreated to the entrance, with its gate, its “Nowhere to Go” sign, its smelly manure pile, a lively sequence of a pig escaping, the fumbling pursuit. All but Arthur laughed.
He bent to Margaret’s ear. “How can they get away with this? Did anyone sign a consent? Don’t these jokers know they can be sued for breach of privacy?”
“No one’s objecting, Arthur.”
“I am.”
“They were very generous.”
Yes, they’d gambled on that, the gratitude. Their donations of tools, equipment, utilities, livestock.
Lots of footage of the Transformers’ dishevelled farm, its livestock running amok, locals whistling while they worked, echoing the Transformers’ mantra: “Just do it.” Here again was Arthur, apparently the lead performer of this comedie bouffe, upbraiding Zoller: “You don’t have a search warrant. You’re trespassing.” Zoller carrying on about seeing “a lady taking off a brassiere.” Loud catcalls at his notions about orgies.
Silverson’s office with its security camera filming Martha (“Marian Gillespie, actor, script editor”) storming in, attacking Silverson. “I love you. You are my reason for being.” Morgan to the rescue. Arthur standing by foolishly with gupa spilled down his pants. More laughter from this easily seduced audience as that comical sequence was punctuated by the splintering sound of Forbish’s chair bottoming out. The well-cushioned newsman seemed unhurt, however, and content to remain sprawled on the floor.
Arthur heaved a sigh of relief as the Transformers’ cameras finally deserted him. In turn, each of the reserved-seat holders earned their moments of celluloid fame. Reverend Al’s scornful salvo from the pulpit about “followers of the fast-food road to enlightenment.” Stoney in the Mercedes Cabriolet sharing a joint with the Pasadena hipsters. Cud Brown making a fool of himself trying to hustle them in the bar. Henrietta Wilks: “Sometimes he calls from the forest.” Omnipresent Jason Silverson, the charismatic graduate of the Institute for Advanced Hypnosis.
There were scenes from Starkers Cove: therapy sessions on the grass or in tents, Silverson presiding. Yoga exercises, body work, polo in the pool, Frisbee-tossing, table tennis. And many lingering views of scrawny Baba Shree Rameesh in his dhoti (“Ben Bermahdi, actor”) teaching glazed-eyed followers how to soothe their troubled minds. “Let what comes come; let what goes go. Find out what remains.” His was a consummate performance greeted with applause even by the formerly beguiled. “We are all one!” they cried on screen, and the audience echoed the triumphant call.