Killspeak

I had an opportunity to look through David Cronenberg’s Red Cars a few days ago. Donato Santeramo, a professor of mine, worked with Cronenberg on the book and was kind enough to let me browse through his copy. I spent the good part of an afternoon in his office marvelling at it, turning its pages carefully, and taking a few photographs.

Red Cars could be said to be the published screenplay for an unrealized film, an art project, or just a fancy coffee-table book. In the introduction, Cronenberg calls the book “a fusion of script and image… its own mutation,” and it’s as concise a description as possible, vague as it may be. The book is a gestalt of photographs, text, paint, metal—all tangled in semiotic support; and however well it may sit on a coffee-table, it deserves (and rewards) much more active reading than would, say, an Ansel Adams collection.

Set in the early 1960’s, the story centres on American driver Phil Hill. He hopes to become the first American World Champion, but is convinced that his sponsor, Enzo Ferrari, is undermining him and truly favours another driver, the German von Trips. His struggles with Ferrari and competition with von Trips are complicated by Ferrari’s wife, Laura, worried by her sickly bastard son Dino, and Hill’s own self-hatred and frustration. The racing season is arduous for Hill, who wins a place in the Grand Prix in the penultimate race—after von Trips is killed in an accident. Ferrari, ostensibly in respect to von Trips’ death, decides not to participate, taking the opportunity from Hill to race in the Grand Prix.

Such a summary fails to convey the colour and richness of this setting (including the famed Ferrari 156 “Shark-nose” of the title, a miniature of which is included with the book) and psychological depth of Red Cars. These come to light when reading the script and the graphic elements of the book.

The book’s rich colour photographs are striking. (I’ve not read many screenplays, but am certain that it’s rare to see one so beautiful.) The subjects of these photographs vary from the descriptive (drivers, cars, and courses) to the more abstract and metaphorical (a beaten paperback copy of Being and Nothingness makes almost as many appearances as Phil Hill). These are presented artfully. The technical perfection of the “Shark-nose” is shown through clean engineering schematics, light grey on white; its sexual influence evidenced by a series of red, close-up Polaroids. Other elements are decayed and chaotic. Photographs are blurred and torn. Some pages are splashed with paint, blood, motor oil, and even baby food; others appear to have been chewed or rubbed over hot machinery (particularly those following von Trips’ death).

Not only the images are emotive: select portions of text are set in larger, stronger type, and arranged and coloured to attract attention. These are key moments of fear or understanding, as well as smaller details expressive of the emotional texture of the story. For example: when Dino describes the changes he’s made to the engine, the text swells and reddens with his excitement. Hill is impressed, but asks why it leaks oil. Dino sees that his bed is sticky with something, and as he realizes that his bed is filling with blood, the type turns grey with dread and leaps out of the column in fear.

We see that Hill’s foot is absolutely to the floor but his car can’t keep up with its sisters.

Hill pulls into the pits, jumps out of the car and starts screaming at the mechanics. Tavoni is there. He watches in horror but doesn’t interfere.

Hill (screaming): I told you to change the engine! And you didn’t, did you. You know how I can tell? Because this engine is going to break any minute now, this engine’s valve springs have been overstressed because of the gearing change we made and they won’t last the race, and that’s why I can’t keep up with von Trips and Ginther.

At this moment Enzo Ferrari himself looms up from behind the pit wall. He wears a hat but his jacket is off revealing thick suspenders and rolled-up sleeves. Hill still does not see him.

Ferrari (angrily, to Hill): Are you certain that the problem is the valve springs?

Hill turns to face Ferrari. Despite his own very real anger and his certainty that he is right, he is immediately intimidated by this equally angry father-figure.

Ferrari: Are you certain that the problem is not really with your right foot?

Ferrari makes an exaggerated foot-pushing-on-the-gas gesture which is also a bit like a man stepping on a disgusting bug.

The script was written nearly a decade ago, but faced a variety of difficulties in being produced, not least of which were the objections of the Ferrari family and Phil Hill. Cronenberg claims that his screenplay doesn’t deal with anything not already known publicly (such as Ferrari’s bastard son, or Hill’s nervous habit of vomiting before big races), but it seems to be little comfort to the prideful family and retired race star.

The book, interesting in itself, is more so because it’s the only official piece of Red Cars, the film. To imagine the visceral experiences afforded by the text and still images brought to life with motion and sound is exciting, but at the same time disappointing. How much more thrilling would it have been to to feel the sound of the cars, of the crowd; to see beds fill with blood, engine parts churn, and faces flush with anger and success? It deserves to be made as a film.

There is a website for Red Cars that seems hastily made (“Thi site requires Flash Player 7” [sic]). There’s mention of it in the introduction, but I think it of small value and unfair to the book it’s attached to. Regardless, it’s the only easily accessible preview of the book. As much as I could recommend the book (if only to flip through for a glimpse of the photos and design), it can be difficult to find a copy: they’re in limited print, only one thousand.

Update: Santeramo was sent this entry by an acquaintance of his sometime in December. He recognized it as mine and, kind-heart that he is, gave me a copy of the book (#217).