If anyone knew that I obsess about Casino Royale (the movie) in the way I do, they'd say I was bananas. I've seen it three times so far (which is nothing, really); I read about it in film magazines, look through Greg Williams' book Bond on Set: Filming Casino Royale, read cast and crew interviews on the internet, and listen to the soundtrack CD. And I keep thinking about it, not like a fan or a stalker, but like a writer, a colleague in the creative business--only an amateur, but somebody who wants to think about the inside of the movie's story, the elliptical transitions, the nuances, the technicalities in conveying an effect, the work on-set, the missing scenes and dialogue. Because there are missing scenes and dialogue, anyone knows that. And there's what goes on outside the frame. It's not everyday life, it's another life. Okay, maybe I'm not explaining it clearly. And even if I did, you might say I was bananas anyway.
I've never met anybody who wants to think about a film or TV show or book the way I do, and who wants to examine its aspects in minute, exhausting detail. It's been a fucking major frustration my entire life.
Of course, there are internet forums for this sort of thing, but (no doubt unreasonably) I tend to presume that forums are populated by nutters. Besides, what I want is an immediate exchange of ideas any time I want with the same person(s), without them worrying I'm perhaps a tad, peculiarly, over-absorbed in those topics and not enough in real life.
This is one of the reasons I miss Kyle [not his real name]. We talked about almost anything and got each other's jokes, references, short-cuts, opinions. We didn't meet much though we lived in the same city, but we talked by e-mail all the time. He wasn't a writer or artist as far as I know; he was an intelligent, irreverent bloke who knew the things I knew. In 2005 he began to suffer from depression. Then just before Christmas 2005 his wife left him (she said he wasn't communicating enough). Then he had to deal with selling their house so she could get her money out. Then in January 2006 his brother died in an accident. Kyle went away to contemplate life and things. I've not heard from him since.
It's hard to lose a pal whose brain worked the same way as yours. I'm selfish, yeah, but wait till you lose somebody like that, and you'll see.
Even Kyle, though, couldn't quite share my overpowering need to mine the inner depths of Hard-Boiled, say, or Alias, or Len Deighton, or Sophie Marceau in The World is Not Enough. Last night I lay on the living-room carpet in the dark, the only light was from the stereo which was playing the Casino Royale soundtrack; and I thought about all this, and what I want to write next. I'm beginning to suspect that maybe only Quentin Tarantino could discuss stuff the way I want to. Not that I know him.