The Devil's Cinema Page 11

  As he spoke, Twitchell projected enthusiasm. In a way, it was no different than selling electronics or office supplies, as he had done thousands of times before. He flicked on a PowerPoint presentation explaining Xpress Entertainment and his new movie, Day Players. He smiled once more.

  The proposed comedy followed two movie extras and their often silly and outrageous lives. It was a lot like the British sitcom Extras, starring Ricky Gervais, but in Twitchell’s script an undertone of sex and violence filtered through the narrative. There were subtle references to slit throats, duct tape, and being restrained to a chair. In an early scene, a woman complains about a man who had deceived her with a fake online dating profile. But most jokes in the film were corny and clichéd. One scene featured “screaming crazy athletic sex” waking up the neighbours. And a key gag involved an actor who fools someone into thinking he’s a criminal by using props from a movie set.

  The Hollywood filmmaker portrayed in Twitchell’s script was also adept at magic, able to correctly guess a playing card chosen from the deck. The secret to the trick required him to influence people’s choices through the art of suggestion. And Twitchell compared this ability to telling a story; both magicians and filmmakers rely on persuasion, slight of hand, and misdirection. “A convincing storyteller takes you on a journey and makes you feel like you’re the one willing it along when, in reality, you’re not,” he wrote in the script.

  Twitchell’s investment pitch centred on securing plenty of cameos from Hollywood stars to guarantee a big box office draw. All he needed was some financing, he said, to get the exciting project rolling.

  Twitchell paused. A big photograph of actor Alec Baldwin flashed up on the screen.

  Investors rubbed their chins. Eyebrows were raised.

  Each potential investor had been handed a two-page document:

  We produce independent feature films on low budgets with high production value and generate profit from their distribution. With an investment of $1,500,000 in the first round, we will start a production schedule of two projects per year for a five year run that will result in an overall return on investment of approximately ten times the original investment amount.

  Twitchell was reassuring, explaining how his company used completion bonds, or an insurance policy, to protect investments if the movie project failed to be signed by a distributor. Getting investors signed, he said, also opened up access to six-figure government grants.

  Attached to the fact sheet were revenue forecasts. Based on his research, he envisioned Xpress Entertainment would generate $26 million in revenue within twelve months. The following two years would see the figure balloon to $33.9 million annually.

  Joss listened closely as Twitchell weaved his way through the difficult parts of the pitch. He came across like a seasoned performer. Articulate. Engaging. Charismatic. By the end of Twitchell’s presentation, Joss saw a few investors pick up their pens and scribble their names down on the “gold sheet” for the company, showing they wanted to know more.

  The pair walked out of the investor meeting feeling like they had won an award. Twitchell would repeat his performance two more times as he headed south to the cities of Red Deer and Calgary to make the same sales pitch. The experience invigorated him. He began pushing everyone he knew to invest in his film project. With such a positive response from professional investors, he believed he could get a deal locked up quickly.

  And it couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Twitchell had just been fired from his latest job, where he was supposed to be selling outsourced IT systems to corporate clients. Instead, he spent most of his workday talking about Dexter and filmmaking. His work email account showed no messages sent to clients in nearly three months on the job. Twitchell resorted to taking on another sales job, selling home security systems, as he waited for his chance to transform himself from a wannabe big-shot filmmaker to the real deal.

  Joss was the first to respond to his urgent financing requests. He saw Twitchell as a “glorious leader” who was guiding him and the rest of the film crew toward dream jobs and untold fortunes. Joss had been designing websites with his own company, Mandroid Inc., but now his friend was promising him a huge slice of the production services pie if the Day Players deal went through. Seeing Twitchell work a room simply confirmed what he already knew: his friend could be a star. Joss’s parents handed over $30,000 in three installments. The next to fall into line was Twitchell’s brother-in-law. He had money saved up from working in the oilfields. On May 23, 2008, he signed over $30,000, but only under the strict condition that his investment “be held in trust” for the film project.

  With so much potential brewing, Twitchell began to believe that if he quit his job to focus on securing funding full-time, he could be producing a major film within weeks. The very thought of it was tantalizing.

  Twitchell talked it over with his wife. While Jess was happy his film career appeared to be taking off, she didn’t want him leaving his day job just yet. She urged him to keep a steady paycheque coming in until he had all the money for Day Players in the bank. They had a daughter to raise, after all.

  But her pragmatism made him angry. Twitchell took her concerns as an ultimatum, an attack of his life’s work by pitting his passions against their relationship. With more money in the bank than ever before, Twitchell simply couldn’t wait any longer after dreaming of this chance for years. Twitchell decided it was finally time to take the plunge, to shed his old life and embrace the new. But he wanted it both ways too, so he found a way around the dilemma: he quit the job and kept it a secret. Having an open schedule would enable him to sign up the remaining investors he needed more quickly. Jess would never know.

  The day he quit, his brother-in-law handed over his money and signed a film investment contract. Twitchell sat down in front of his computer and logged into the message boards on theforce.net. Under his Achilles of Edmonton account, he began typing a post with the subject line, “How to parlay fan films into a career.” It was a chance to brag – and to say goodbye – to the Star Wars community that had embraced him for years. “Sweet zombie Jesus. I did it!” he wrote in elation. “I did my homework, made sure that all my ducks were in a row before hitting up the big boys and now we’re there.” He explained how this meant he was likely weeks away from being fully funded. “It’s my first multi-million-dollar feature and we’re looking very realistically at getting Alec Baldwin and Jeff Goldblum on board.… Without my fan project to prove my crew had what it takes to get the job done and do it right, this would not be happening right now.”

  It would be the last words he ever wrote on the Star Wars boards. A lifetime of fascination and three years of writing more than sixteen hundred messages on the fan forums came to an abrupt end.

  He had a new life, a new career. A new Mark Twitchell had emerged.

  “No one’s going to stop me but me,” he later mused.

  FANTASIES AND DESIRES

  AFTER WORK AND DURING his weekends, Johnny was often filled with anticipation. He had been going on dates again, looking for someone to spend his life with. He preferred the convenience of online dating and was relying on several sites. He gave his co-worker Willy, who was also single, updates on his lovelife. While Johnny didn’t go on too many dates, the people he did meet were often impressive and lovely girls. Things were looking up.

  Johnny had noticed a good-looking brunette on plentyoffish.com one day and sent her a message. Debra Teichroeb read his message and replied. The registered nurse found she had a few things in common with Johnny and agreed to meet him for a coffee. He introduced himself as “John,” preferring to shorten his birth name these days, as the two talked in a restaurant. Debra thought they could be friends. Soon they were phoning each other regularly. She would sign into MSN Messenger and type him messages on the chat service as the weeks flew by.

  But Johnny found very few women shared his deep interests in New Age philosophy. He believed in reincarnation and had beco
me fascinated with out-of-body experiences. He was practising methods of separating the mind from the body through meditation. He once tried placing a metal pyramid above his bed, a practice meant to focus and heighten his energy. This behaviour appeared bizarre to those not accustomed to discussing such grand theories as the meaning of life and spiritual consciousness. He discovered a group listed on meetup.com, however, that understood his interest in the unknown.

  On couches in the Students’ Union Building, a tower near the western edge of the University of Alberta’s main campus, Johnny met a half-dozen likeminded people taking the same spiritual path. Discussions revolved around concepts like chakras, intuition, and dream travelling. Across from him sat a man with long brown hair and glasses. Darcy Gehl had studied such ideas for most of his adult life and Johnny found him to be an inspiration. The two became fast friends and Johnny regarded him as his teacher.

  Darcy found Johnny had already been studying many spiritual theories. He had a very open mind about the world around him. While he didn’t adopt any particular religion as his own, Johnny did believe in a higher power. He just didn’t know what to call it. Darcy thought his new friend was a bit reserved at times but confident in who he was. He appeared relaxed and easygoing. He loved music, especially the singer Elton John. When they went to a rock concert together, Darcy was impressed to see how Johnny could focus on just the lyrics or the ability of the guitar player. He knew how to appreciate life by just looking at it from a different perspective. The pair stopped going to the group meetings after a few months but continued talking to each other online and through their Facebook profiles.

  Johnny invited Darcy over to his condo to show his friend his amassed collection on everything from secret societies to meditation. While he had been archiving what he had found online on his computer, he also wanted to share it. The student was becoming the teacher.

  One of Johnny’s most treasured possessions was a copy of the movie What The Bleep Do We Know!? The film examined connections between physics, neuroscience, and spirituality to explain the origins of the universe. A major concept was the waking reality, the lucid dream. It was something Johnny desperately wanted to achieve. The film relied upon an analogy from the work of author Lewis Carroll to explain this deep desire. Just like Alice in Wonderland, Johnny wanted to take a tumble down the rabbit hole and see what lay on the other side.

  KEEPING PACE

  DRESSED IN BUSINESS ATTIRE, Twitchell jumped in his Pontiac Grand Am and cruised the streets of the city. He had nowhere to go, but he had to leave the house each day to convince Jess that he still had a job. On most days he’d end up at a coffee shop, fiddling on his laptop, working the numbers on his cell phone like a real film producer. Other days he’d stop in at his parents’ house while they were at work. He had his own set of keys. Lunches tended to revolve around fast food and greasy spoons. He’d break up the routine by turning to Dexter, either reading the books or watching more episodes. He was soaking up the series like a sponge. At the usual time, he’d then drive home, creaking open his townhouse door to greet Jess, pretending to be recovering from another hard day of appointments and meetings. He’d give Chloe a cuddle.

  Getting more investors signed on the dotted line wasn’t going as quickly as anticipated. By July, with little new business coming his way, he was getting impatient. After lunch one day, he stuck his WiFi card into his laptop and logged into his Facebook account, entering a new status update: “Mark is getting pretty tired of depending on unreliable people to get back to him.” Over the following days, around the same time, he continued to post updates or crack odd jokes: “Mark is set to evil.” It was a reference to one of The Simpsons Halloween specials. “Mark is always on.” With no job, money was running out fast. He was forced to use around $1,800 from his business account to pay off debts. And now there was another financial worry on his plate.

  Jess hated the townhouse. She wanted to move.

  Their rental lay beside rail tracks. The freight trains would start up early, loud engines rumbling, sending clouds of dust and toxic fumes into the sky as it chugged across the city. With a new baby, it was time to buy a house, get a mortgage, and stop paying rent for a home Jess despised.

  Twitchell feared their living situation would continue to deteriorate if they didn’t move, placing greater strains on their marriage. Their fights were already escalating. Talk of leaving the marriage became regular ammunition as bickering rose above calm reasoning. Yet, he knew it would be impossible to get a mortgage without a job and Jess, who was on maternity leave, would be unable to secure a mortgage on her own. He couldn’t exactly tell his wife the real reason why he couldn’t be approved for financing either.

  His lie would need more lies.

  Twitchell drove to the mall and picked up a second cell phone, registering it under a fake name. When the mortgage broker called, he’d answer the phone, disguise his voice, and pretend to be Jim McDougal, HR manager, an imaginary boss who would confirm Twitchell’s fake employment details.

  Twitchell’s chequing account became flooded with $15,000 from his Xpress Entertainment account – money meant for funding Day Players. Another $5,000 was transferred a few weeks later. Bank statements were then forged to hide where the down payment funds had originated. “It fooled everyone,” Twitchell would later explain. “Presto, mortgage approval.”

  In her ignorance, Jess was pleased that her husband had delivered. It wasn’t much, but it was a start: a little blue and brick bungalow, their first real home. It sat on a corner lot on the north end of St. Albert. They moved in August 1, 2008.

  For Twitchell, finding and buying the house was a relief. He could now focus on securing a movie deal. The whole ordeal had been a huge unwanted distraction for him and he let the world know about it on Facebook: “Mark is finally free to move shit forward.”

  RANDY LENNON HAD DIPPED his hands into plenty of business deals, but seeing Mark Twitchell tell his story in front of a room of hardened investors had perked his ears. He was skeptical that the filmmaker apparently had a major star attached to his project, but the kid had moxie, at least. The sheer confidence of the man encouraged Randy to meet him for lunch. He wanted to explore what Twitchell really had lined up for his big movie project, and he wanted to put him in touch with a friend in the film industry, who could advise the entire group of investors as to whether this deal was worth pursuing.

  Meanwhile, another investor, John Pinsent, who had sat a few seats away from Randy during Twitchell’s pitch, thought it could be an interesting opportunity too. Over the course of the summer, he maintained contact with Twitchell, but the financial details of the film project never seemed to be completely clear. He was waiting on a formal pitch from the filmmaker before he would make a decision.

  JESS HAD KNOWN NOTHING about it for months, but then there he was: Dexter Morgan, the likable serial killer. Darkly and deviously, the character had captured her husband’s attention, something she only became aware of as they unpacked and settled into their new home. Seeing the books and DVDS, she assumed Dexter was a new interest of her husband’s. Dexter novels were placed on their bookshelf in the front room. Written in the first-person, each page revealed that Dexter’s day-to-day interactions existed as elaborate lies:

  Being careful meant building a careful life, too. Compartmentalize. Socialize. Imitate life.

  All of which I had done, so very carefully. I was a near perfect hologram. Above suspicion, beyond reproach, and beneath contempt. A neat and polite monster, the boy next door.

  Their marriage was still on shaky ground. Twitchell seemed distant. There was some kind of wall forming between them. He had set up an office in the basement. A spare mattress had been thrown on the carpet nearby. Jess was sleeping upstairs, near the baby.

  Twitchell’s fake employment routine continued on in the new house. Every weekday morning, he’d put on his work clothes, pretend to drive to the office, and then reappear at home eight or nine hours later. Jess
had no idea what he was really doing.

  As time opened up between investor meetings, Twitchell found himself drawn deeper into Dexter’s world. He got his hands on the second season and, just like the first, watched every episode in under four days. By mid-August, he was sharing his love of the series with virtually everyone he knew. An old acquaintance in America had been in contact with him about raising funds for Day Players. But he received an odd email that veered off into subjects totally unrelated to those efforts:

  I’ve been catching up on the Showtime series Dexter. That is far and away, leaps and bounds the single best TV series I have ever seen. The writing, the pacing, the casting, the performances, all of it absolute solid gold.… It just sucks you in so well. It’s one of the most inspiring pieces I’ve seen as an artist too. Engaging does not begin to describe it.

  Twitchell told the man that he had spent the weekend directing a local movie:

  It’s this intense action thriller short about a guy who’s sleeping with his best-friend’s wife and then brings him out to the woods to kill him during a hunting trip. It was fun as hell and I really felt that I contributed greatly to maximizing the strength of the dialogue and creating one hell of a tense situation.

  His acquaintance had no idea if the story was fact or fiction. He had never heard of the project before and never received more details. In truth, Twitchell was thinking a lot about broadening his range. Secrets of the Rebellion had stalled with non-existent post-production work; Day Players needed serious financing. He wanted to try his hand at writing and directing his own short film, something small to pass the time with his film crew while he waited on these two big projects. He had already tried his hand at science fiction and comedy. And he was curious about a genre he had been exploring lately: the psychological thriller.