Eva Soulu             

Which is not to say there won't be sequels and new cultists who hold mirrors to every plot point. Alice is not exactly happy or unhappy. She skims off the average wave, never had sex with her boss in a locker room smelling of mint aftershave, a clique of dirty feet, the aftermath of body steam. She'd like to live with a Latin American dictator with a tragic sense of containment, a drug runner who can recite Rimbaud, verbatim. Instead, she meets a disheveled young man in a park. Something about him makes her follow him, perhaps the camera angle of her eyes, some underfed impulse causes her to want tattoos and foreplay on fire escapes. He tells her he has an incurable disease. It's a selling plot point. He tells her that on most days, his voice is too flammable to escape his lips without self-injury and his skin is scaly, will someday fall off. How easily he could catch on fire. He is doomed to be encapsulated within the memory-bubbles of others. Alice shelters him, hydrates him with her painted flower-girl love, digests whatever he is willing to give away. She saves the leftovers as if she is a cross between a squirrel and a tinderbox for cold days. In the director's cut, the man leaves to burn somewhere else and Alice discovers that her belly is swelling. She gives birth to what he would have been in a different movie.

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