For the happy man! - Collected writings DEPRESSION: Ed Atkins

Somebody’s Baby Boy, half dead, stumbles beside the
ancient fountain, then slumps like a pioneer performer of risk,
under a suit of alcohol. Distorted jazz to remind us of this and
other pictures of Sixties Swing.
“Put me to sleep in concrete”, delivered in a warbled
voice. The weekend crowd laugh, each picking a target according
to department and elevation (the dude, for example, logs
his domestic command, crosses himself, and decides to close in
on a target whose feet are a jolly gift of a shot, protruding from
behind a pillar like a red logo that trumpets its audibility.)
(A paper bag, brimming with brown and green presents,
is passed from player to player, the objects offering welcome
interruptions. To savour before Lady Language dons her
jolly hat and green costume, and the opening shot is fired.)
Beside the fountain, Somebody’s Baby Boy, half dead,
signs a “Hey” to Walter Murch, who looks cross: his left eye
spinning at the interference, his moustache seemingly some
kind of device to dissolve signs. Somebody’s Baby Boy, half
dead, persists and tugs at Murch’s bell-bottoms and attempts
singing some amalgamation of Beatle and blues in a strange
acoustic to describe the supervising editor’s shine. A single
beat, then Terri Garr presents a production of Art Rochester’s
aerial piece, The Paper Tram – in 40% green Technicolour alternated
with blue screen and sponsored by Phillips. “Not anymore,”
says Michael Hissins, moving through the shot, “they
can’t make out words and everything is a decoy, apparently.”
“That’s horrible”, remarks Frederick Forrest from the
control bar, while David Shire retains a distance from the reflective
surface of Somebody’s Baby Boy, half dead, casting
about with his camera, soundtracked by Bill Shire’s sixties
number, “What’s the interest?”