PicoBlog

Ever since I was twenty-five, property development has been my calling. But thanks to an irresistible opportunity, and despite knowing nothing about film, I also became a proud producer on the upcoming sequel, Shawshank Redemption II. 

Production on the film had finished. To celebrate, there was a private screening of Shawshank Redemption II at the director’s house on the Sydney Harbour. When I arrived, I scanned the golden foyer and spotted Richie Klein: world famous director, two Academy Awards. I had been in Darwin all day on business so I arrived minutes before the screening and moved toward him with pace. Richie and I shook hands, and he introduced me to the women in his company, one on each arm, combined age less than my own.  

“Thomas Hartman, The Money Man,“ he said. “Ladies, this gentleman knows everyone in government worth knowing, and now he’s a producer on what will be the largest grossing film of the decade. I’d say he’s a catch.”   

I handled the praise well. I stared at my shoes to avoid the bronze beauties, and analysed my laces until the woman on Richie’s left caressed my forearm. 

“What did you do before film?” she asked. 

“Alexa, Thomas here is still a hot-shot property developer,” said Richie. “He claims Shawshank Redemption II will be his only film. He hasn’t even read the script because he wants to be surprised. Isn’t that just the magic of cinema, unlike say, property? Thomas, how is that big hole in Darwin going? Still a big hole?” 

All week I had been imprisoned by negotiations with the Northern Territory Government over this greenfield development. That was until today when, like the great Andy Dufresne himself, I escaped, negotiations pending. 

“Still a three-storey deep hole,” I replied. “And today the government announced they also want to discuss conservation.” 

Richie slapped my shoulder so hard I nearly fell. “Conservation of what,” he said, “the hole?” 

Soon we were ushered into Richie’s private cinema. In attendance were the other producers and their partners, and a few attractive celebrities. I found a seat on my own at the back-right, and sat down just as the velvet curtains retreated. I had somehow made it on time, what a day. A minute later the lights dimmed and the screen came alive. Then the film began; my film began. 

I’m old enough that I also saw the original The Shawshank Redemption in the cinemas. I saw it with my brother, John, in 1994 on a Friday night. I was thirty-four years old then, which means John was fifty-four.  

John was my father’s son from a previous marriage. We were brothers, but because of the twenty-year age gap we were not similar in upbringing, interests, in anything, really. We were raised in different worlds. All we shared was a name, for even our father was different; because a man changes a great deal from eighteen to thirty-eight, so much in fact that he can be said to be a different person. 

Take this example: Before my brother was conscripted to serve in Vietnam, my father openly supported the war. He attended pro-War rallies, wrote to the papers daily. But then John was called, and he fought, and he returned with his problems, and my father became the father of a son who had been scarred by war; that is a very different man. By the time I came of age, my father was more reserved, cautious. There were no rallies, no passionate letters. We spoke plainly, practically. He suggested I invest in property. Australian property is safe, he’d always say, so I started digging big holes in which to hide.  

When John returned from Vietnam we drifted further apart. As a child, I thought he was everything I wanted to be but wasn’t: physically strong, an expert with women, courageous; he was a fighter, while I had never thrown a punch. But in those post-war years, my picture of him developed. He wasn’t only tough, but distant, not only charismatic, but constructed. Though I tried to reach him, he was guarded, unknowable, not a brother at all. 

But then one fateful night in 1994 we saw The Shawshank Redemption. 

We were seated back-right. Andy Dufresne was atop his beaten-up boat, his old friend, Red, was approaching in a suit and tie. I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams. I hope... Then the credits fell like rain, and I turned to ask John what he thought. 

There, with his giant frame spilling over the armrests, my hulking brother was crying. He had been reduced to tears by The Shawshank Redemption. At first I didn’t know what to do; men rarely do in those situations. But something told me to reach out, so I placed my hand on his shoulder, and he turned to me and this closed-lip, broad smile engulfed his face. It seemed like his soul, which had been hiding in some way his entire life, had finally broken free. 

Shawshank Redemption II opened where the original finished, on the same sand and pale blue waters of Zihuatanejo, Mexico. In terms of filming, however, it was done right here on Sydney’s northern beaches. The opening shot: the camera pans from the ocean to Andy’s beat-up boat. The boat is now painted white, and standing on the deck is Andy Dufresne (played by Ryan Reynolds). He’s buttoning up a linen shirt over his six pack abs as his Mexican lover (played by Isabela Merced) appears from below deck. The two embrace under the warmth and love of the sun. The shot widens and there's Red, Andy’s loyal friend, approaching with a stack of firewood. Beautiful. 

After John and I saw the original film, my brother changed quite a bit. He sold his bottle shop in the South East and became a yoga instructor. His apartment, which I had never visited before seeing the film, was where we spent most Friday nights and it smelled of incense. He slimmed right down, started believing in crystals. He cooked vegan food and for hours would rant about star signs, relationships, jazz music... Sitting there watching the sequel, John appeared to me from that happy period: his still-muscular face betrayed by a cheeky smile, my vegan brother, John. 

I could see him so clearly that when I turned to the seat beside me he was there, enjoying Shawshank Redemption II. Together, we watched as the plot was established: a once in a century storm was approaching. Together, we watched Andy rush to town for more supplies right before the storm hit. And together, we watched Rosa and Red gather around the fire in his absence, the last clear night for a while, stars dotting the Mexican sky, his best friend and his lover, together. 

Red, who was originally played by Morgan Freeman, was lying shirtless on the sand. His Samoan tribal tattoos and vascular quads were on full display. This time around we went with Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson to portray Red, and as the flames cast patterns over his God-like physique, I finally saw the star quality that Richie Klein had long claimed. 

Red’s gaze was soft, reflective, as if he was contemplating friendship, perhaps brotherhood. Soon Rosa appeared and she knelt beside him. A saxophone accompanied their joint contemplation of friendship until, after a long moment of staring into each other's eyes, the two passionately kissed. 

I let out a high-pitched, asthmatic shriek. While I hadn’t read the script so I could capture the magic of The Shawshank Redemption, I did not expect such a twist, nor was I prepared for what followed. 

Through the gaps in my fingers, I watched Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson carry Rosa to Andy’s boat. Inside, he flipped over the twenty year old Isabela Merced and started ramming her from behind. I held my breath and prayed for the scene to end but it wouldn’t. So for at least fifteen minutes The Rock ploughed away, his hips thrusting back and forth, the camera zooming closer and closer on his clenching Samoan butt cheeks until I could glean what he ate for breakfast with the accuracy of a gastronome. 

I would call the cumshot gratuitous but at least it was final; the scene was over. I let out a desperate sigh. Instead of the heart-wrenching mid-point of the original, where Brooks Hatlen, institutionalised to the core, decides to hang himself, the sequel had this: The Rock’s exposed anus as he railed a woman thirty years his junior. 

Then, soon, like so many things in life and indeed life itself, the film ended. Just like that, the moment I had fantasised about throughout the entire development was over. And more: it had been ruined, soiled.  

While the other guests made for the exit, I remained in my seat. The laughter of the twenty-odd guests stretched from the front row and echoed from those already in the foyer. I realised then what they knew all along: Shawshank Redemption II, the sequel to my favourite film, to my brother’s favourite film, was a comedy.

I thought then of John, but he didn’t come to me from those happy years. No, his skin was grey and wrinkled. He was grabbing at my shirt and screaming at an aged care worker. He was kicking in doors, being sedated. He was sitting beside me as the head nurse talked to me like he was a disobedient child, and I’m telling her he never used to be like this, and she’s looking at me as if to say, are you really sure? And then, like the film, he ended - he died. I’m standing over another hole in the ground, and inside is my brother, but I’m not exactly sure who that is. 

I joined the other guests on the rooftop for canapes and champagne. One of the spouses remarked that it was a pity a half-constructed high-rise was blocking Richie’s view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. He made a joke at my expense, and I managed a pained smile. 

“Thomas, what did you think of the end?” asked Horst Schmidt, another producer.   

“The end,” I repeated. “Do you mean when Andy Dufresne found Red and Rosa together and shot them both, and the camera followed the empty shells to the floor just like in the original? Or do you mean the next morning: Andy is caught by what seemed to be the entire Mexican police force, stares directly at the camera, shrugs and says, ‘Not again?’” 

Neither. They were referring to the post credits scene: Ryan Reynolds, shirtless, in a dusty Mexican jail cell. Shadowy figure enters. At first we see the figure's black boots and Reynolds looks up. The camera chops to the visitor: Samuel L. Jackson, leather coat, eye-patch. He introduces himself as Nick Fury from S.H.I.E.L.D. Andy Dufresne flicks a cigarette at the wall. “Why the hell should I join The Avengers?” Iron Man appears. “Well, the dental’s pretty good.” Another cumshot, a laugh track.

I chose not to answer the question. Instead, I drifted away from the group and toward the hors d'oeuvres table. I loaded a pyramid of shrimp on my plate and retreated to the building’s ledge. There, I ate the shrimp under the glow of fairy lights wrapped around wooden posts and I threw the shrimp tails at the construction site. It wasn’t long before all the shrimp, as well as the guests, were on the street. 

“Thomas,” said Richie. Now it was just the two of us on the roof. “It’s a good film, Thomas. People will love it,” he added.  

I shook my head. “We’ve ruined a beloved classic, Klein.” 

I turned to face him. Richie nodded and wedged his hands in his armpits. Then he tilted his head at me like I was a child, an idiot.

“Let me tell you a little something about cinema,” he said. “No one wants the earnest, sentimental trash of the ‘90s anymore. Do you know why? Because it was all a lie. Heroes, villains, good and evil, change, hope, it’s all bullshit. C’mon, you have to know that. Because people my age can see it for sure. That’s why we don’t want soppy stories about freedom and redemption. We want self-referential jokes, irony, fourth-wall breaks, something that is at least aware of its own fakeness. Like, if you think about it, it’s the original Shawshank film that is the real comedy-” 

Before I realised it, I was pressing Richie Klein over the ledge. Below were cars, shrimp tails and the street, a long fall, a three-storey death fall. I wanted to tell him about John and the original film and his change, a secret I had kept to myself, but as I tried to speak, Klein shrieked and clutched at my collar. I struck him in the face several times to shut him up. Blood spread from his nose. He clutched at the fairy lights in desperation. I tore his hand from the lights and nearly dropped him, before the thick cords gave me an idea. 

When I exited his palace, I looked back up at the rooftop.

There was Richie Klein, world famous director, dangling off the edge. I had wrapped the cords around his arms and torso and fixed him to the railing in such a way that he was stuck half off the ledge. The image was familiar, and as I wiped the blood from my knuckles, I understood why: he was Andy Dufresne from the original film, in the scene where Captain Byron Hadley is dangling him over the edge. He is offering to do Bradley’s taxes in return for beer for the prisoners. 

The image caused me to laugh, and my laughter crew until I became hysterical. I slapped my knee and beside me was the film crew. I held my stomach and there was a guy with a boom mic. All around me were elements: Morgan Freeman’s trailer, on-site generators… It occurred to me that there was only one difference between The Shawshank Redemption and my accidental remake: my remake was real.

Richie Klein really was dangling off a building, whereas the original was all staged. And as the laughter gripped me so hard that I fell to my knees, I finally understood: Richie Klein was right. I was a damn fool for thinking anything else. And I was a damn fool for thinking my brother was anything other than a man I never really knew, a man who believed in crystals and other things that don’t work.

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