Regression to the Meaningless

1

The room started shaking. Red warning lights began flashing accompanied by the blaring of a siren. Furniture was thrown to the floor. On the timer, the letters were replaced by strange symbols: A hieroglyphic bird, A black cloud, the Medusa Corporation logo, A lottery ticket, and a Chinese Tattoo.

2

Calvin Caleb "C.C." Abrams, renowned film director, stands completely still in the centre of his immaculate, newly renovated Upper East Side apartment and has been for several minutes now.

He is well-groomed, in a grey cardigan and shoes, and looks as determined and self-possessed as a young Nixon, as he stares out of the window, at the fresh New York morning, eyes tracking a growing black dot heading straight for him. The buzzing object is a drone, that sluggishly traverses the skyline of Fifth Avenue, above the hazy green square of Central Park—that, from here, looks like a scrap of AstroTurf lying in a parking lot. Abrams' Personal Assistant, Jeffery, calls from the doorway, "Your 8:30am has arrived, I'm just setting them up in the reception room, Mr Abrams."

C.C.'s attention is broken for a moment, and he replies before turning back. There is a furious buzzing sound as the black carapace of the drone hovers just above the balcony beyond the kitchen's French doors.

The Machine glides unnaturally down a few feet until a small payload, a box wrapped in brown paper touches down softly on the balcony.

C.C. opens the sliding doors and runs outside. With a subtle change in frequency, the rotor blades shift in angle propelling the drone back up and disappearing over the side of the building leaving only the box behind.

The box was the size of a wine case, and yet more square and stocky. It was lightweight and wrapped in brown paper. On every side of the box, there was the menacingly thin print of a question mark. He tapped it a few times, spun it around and then placed his ear against the box before noting a small tag, also in the same brown wrapping, on one corner.

It read: FOR WHOM IS THE FUNHOUSE FUN?

"Mr Abrams, we're ready for you now" Jeffery called from the doorway.

C.C. shook his head and tucked the box under his arm as he head off.

The meeting was the Grand Prix for the C.C. Abrams Film Competition. A local Manhattan film school had reached out to C.C.'s people, they wanted to do a competition for a short thriller film and wondered if he would sponsor the prize: a 30-minute tête-à-tête with the esteemed director himself.

"What's this place called again?"

"The Cinema Reimagined School, or CRS."

"There is also a girl with a camera, who said she is from the School's own magazine, and will just record a small amount of your meeting. They film everything these guys, it's a real school of film zealots."

"Do you know what this is J?"

The PA looked for a moment and shook his head.

"It just arrived by delivery drone, pretty cool actually," C.C. said.

"I Thought maybe you'd arranged it".

Inside the meeting room, a thin, serious man sat in a loose-fitting white shirt. He had a remarkably oval face with soft bunches of wrinkles pooling at its corners. Standing, there was a young girl whose face was obscured by a large camera, which was attached by cable to a stabiliser mount—a metal pole that curved over her head before attaching to her back through a harness strapped around her waist— which made her look like a kind of steampunk Angler Fish.

The man rose, as C.C. entered, "Malcolm Blarney, sir. Pleased to meet you."

"It's so dreadful when all these beautiful, young, talented students win everything, nice to meet someone my speed." C.C joked.

Malcolm chortled reverentially.

"I am, in fact, a year and a half your senior, Jan 65'."

"Well, I should be calling you sir. So, tell me about your script?"

Malcolm fingered at some documents that lay in front of him nervously.

"I thought I might read you this script that I'm working on, and maybe you could give me some advice on how to end it. I'm hopeless at those." He said with a supplicating laugh.

After the meeting was over, C.C. and Jeffery both said goodbye to Malcolm, while the camerawoman diligently continued to film their every move, in the foyer.

"Just take the elevator down to the foyer." Jeffery offered.

The two of them got in and said goodbye. Pressed the button. No response. Jeffery got into the lift and tried still nothing.

Abrams was holding the box, deep in thought puzzling over its meaning.

"for whom is the funhouse fun!" Jeffery shouted.

"What?"

"I said, the lift isn't working!"

"Oh," Abrams said, carrying the box over to the lift from the far side of the foyer.

All four of them squeezed inside, with Malcolm and the camerawoman both offering shy sympathetic expressions.

C.C. crouched assessing the panel of buttons.

"We've completed had an extensive renovation," the Personal Assistant said out loud, filling the silence.

C.C. pressed the button with a large embossed 'G' a few more times, before pushing the bell icon. Then squinting, he noticed a small button at the bottom of the panel with the '?' symbol. He pushed it.

The lift door closed with an abrupt unsheathing of metal.

The lift began moving with a jerk and then stopped. The lights dimmed.

Jeffery began panicking, that the others might panic, he felt as Mr Abram's employee he had some sort of duty of care in such situations.

The lift jerked back into life. The lights brightened.

"Oh, thank god," Jeffery said, smiling at everyone, with a few nervous twists of his head from side to side.

"Somethings not right," Abrams said after another big jerky movement.

"It feels as if we are going sideways, look!" said the camera woman, whose camera was still dangling from the stabiliser cord above her head. She gestured to the camera with her hands, it was hanging at an angle.

The sensation grew stranger still, and, all of the staring at the dangling camera as some sort of compass, began to realise they were now moving diagonally down and to their left.

3

The group found themselves in a huge, dark room full of old film memorabilia. The elevator had finally stopped—after moving indisputably diagonally the four almost strangers felt it begin to revolve very slowly, like a washing machine, forcing them into a game of corporate twister, the camera swinging from the nylon cable of the stabiliser and routinely hitting someone over the head every half-turn—and the door opened to reveal a lone corridor leading into the distance.

They explored the only room, filled with vintage super 8 cameras and old reels of film, as well as props and esoterica.

"This is probably some old service shaft," Malcolm had said calmly. "Let's all have a look and find our way out."

It was clear no one wanted to try and make any further attempts with the elevator, which had been deeply distressing.

"Here!" Jeffery called, and they made their way over to him. He was standing in a small room where a projector was already running.

WELCOME TO THE FUNHOUSE. COMPLETE THE PUZZLES TO PROGRESS.

The words were projected onto the far wall. More appeared.

MARY SUE.

MACGUFFIN.

MYSTERY BOX.

In front on the projector stood a table with three items spaced out on top. Behind which stand three marble pedestals, with flat surfaces around hip-height.

"So," Abrams said, sometime later. He had rolled his sleeves up and was pacing back and forwards while the other three sat on a row of old theatre chairs they had found in the main room.

"We have three props, and three terms of film criticism, we've discerned that to get out of here we need to match them up with each other."

"What are the objects again?"

"The briefcase from Pulp Fiction, the One Ring from the Lord of the Rings and Rey's yellow lightsaber from the sequel trilogy."

"There is also that strange box."

Abrams had by then explained to them the arrival of the strange box by drone and its cryptic label.

"This is some crystal maze shit" Muttered Jeffery, before continuing, "surely the freaky box covered in question marks is the Mystery Box?".

"No, too literal" Corrected Malcolm.

"Exactly, All the terms have cinematic connotations, a mystery box in this context is not an actual box, but the notion of a storytelling technique by which you withhold information to draw in the audience's interest. It was invented by Mr Abrams himself."

All eyes switched to Abrams, before he could say anything Malcolm continued,

"A MacGuffin, meanwhile, is a term coined by Alfred Hitchcock and it means a wholly unimportant item, person or concept that nevertheless is one of the main drivers behind the plot."

"So, the briefcase is the Mystery Box, and the ring of power is the MacGuffin." Answers Jeffery.

"Not exactly." Malcolm replies, becoming visibly excited.

"While the briefcase remains a mystery, it is important to the meaning of the film. The film is clearly about Jules' journey to redemption, during which the briefcase acts as a mere catalyst, as recovering the briefcase is the psychological motivation for Jules in the film, therefore the Briefcase is the MacGuffin. The One Ring meanwhile isn't strictly the driver of the plot but destroying it is. Furthermore, the MacGuffin should be ultimately inconsequential, it's explain not given because the audience simply doesn't demand it, whereas the Ring's origin and purpose, the vessel for much of Sauron's spirit—and with it the power to dominate Middle Earth, is spelt out. This is because the Ring is the true mystery box. After all, it does not drive external change to the overall structure of the story, but drivers the internal change, that is the relationships between the characters themselves and their overall character arcs. Much of the drama is drawn from how people have different responses to the ring itself, providing the audience a small payoff and understanding of that character's essence and core values within the narrative."

He ends this speech with a cautious glance towards Abrams, who gets up and picks up the lightsaber. Abrams nods in agreement, before saying,

"That's exactly right, and the lightsaber is the odd one out. Which means it goes here." Abrams places the lightsaber on the pedestal, and the instant his hand leaves him the pedestals all descend into the floor. While on the wall behind them, with a click a nondescript section of the black wall gives way to reveal a doorway.

"What does it mean?" Jeffery asks, turning to his boss.

Abrams mutters to himself and walks through the door.

4

They had, after a series of trying puzzles and challenges arrived in a room that was instantly recognisable.

"The Swan Station!" Malcolm exclaimed.

The third room was a domed bunker of concrete and iron girders that were latticed across the semi-circular surface. Against one side were old analogue machines, covered in buttons which theatrically blinked on and off in a mesmerising pattern, and in the centre of the room, inconspicuously placed, was a desk and a vintage desktop computer. Above which was a timer, that was slowly counting down.

"It's a replica of the Swan Station" Malcolm exclaims almost excited.

Abrams nodded.

"So, What happens next? I must admit I didn't make it past the first season of this show."

"Look at the timer" Abrams points out.

"It's counting down"

"It's at 60 seconds"

"59"

"58"

"Yes, yes we get it" Malcolm snaps at Jeffery.

Malcolm goes up to the computer, inputs a string of numbers and looks up at the timer. Nothing happens. He tries again. Again, the timer continues counting down.

"It's not working!" He turns and looks to C.C. for guidance.

"So, what happens when the timer hits zero," Jeffrey asks, looking between the two of them.

Abrams is thinking now, his brow furrowed, large sweat patches curve around his armpits and a small line of darker grey horizontally traces the contour of his chest. An unsteady hand ruffles his unruly hair.

"Well, we never actually decided on what happens. I mean, in the show the timer runs out and then Desmond triggers the failsafe."

"Failsafe?" Matty says concerned, "And if there is no failsafe".

"Well, this is all some kind of meta joke at my expense, so I guess nothing."

The three others are surrounding Abrams and share a concerned look, except for the camera woman, who, walking softly as a crab, pans the shot over the three of them.

The room started shaking. The camerawoman struggles to get a steady shot. They are now rolling from side to side, like a drunk on a bouncy castle, unable to gain purchase on anything. The desk and computer topple over, and the large machines start to wobble, walking across the room, edge to edge. And then there is white light, a piercing flash of delirious brightness, and a loud voice repeating itself over and over again.

5

C.C. Abrams wakes up to the soft light of the sunshine and the tactile richness of grass against his skin. He looks up, and finds himself in the park, with three other bodies scattered around him. He groggily wipes his eyes. In doing so he notices a note on his palm, written in the obvious typeface of an IBM typewriter, perfectly spaced and visually appealing. It read:

"There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

Douglas Adams

At that moment, Abrams eyes look up. There is at first a snuffling, prowling noise. Then a roar, then a scream.

"Bear."

"Quick, up a tree!" Abrams groggily yelled.

15 feet away, Jeffrey, who is himself just returning to consciousness, doesn't react fast enough and is mauled in the centre of the glade by the polar bear that has just emerged, inexplicably, from the tree-line.

They ran to a nearby tree helping each other up and into the thick branches as Jeffery screamed in the background.

"Are we high enough, can bears climb trees?" Malcolm said breathlessly.

"We're about to find out," says the camera woman gravely.

The Bear, red flecks adorning its thick white coat like paint on old bedsheets, growled and knocked the lifeless butchered body from side to side with its snout before heading towards the others. The beast ripping with muscle raised onto its haunches and stuck its front paw into the nearest branches, the wood bending and cracking like the soft, cooked bones of a fish. It roared and Malcolm and Abrams attempted to climb higher, pulling themselves through the tree.

Enumerable shots fire. The bear dropped back onto all four legs and let out a roar of protest. Another round of bullets and beast collapses.

A synthetic cry goes up around the park,

"We have you surrounded. Don't made any sudden movements."

Abrams, exasperated, is no longer in the tree, but is standing on the ground. The bear is gone, the blood is gone.

He turns to see the camerawoman, no longer holding a camera, but instead a small detonator, her vest is covered in wires two of which lead away from her body and towards a box on the ground. The box is brown, and covered in questions marks, 6, one on every side. The wire simply disappear into the box.

There is a man in the distance. A police negotiator. He raises a megaphone to his face.

"Just tell us what's in the box, Son."

"I don't know". Abrams replies inaudibly.

"If you don't tell us, we'll have to shoot you." The negotiator says.

"There's nothing in the box" Abrams mutters, again softly.

"What's that Son? Are you saying something?"

"There is NOTHING in the box. I mean, first of all, it's not even a real box, it's a concept I devised to explain how I write stories. That is, we should compartmentalise stories into little mystery boxes, because ultimately not-knowing is what drives the audience's interest, and while there may be some small grain of truth in that I have clearly stretched the concept far too thin. In my works, I create a mystery box and then when I'm about to cash it out, I create another larger mystery box, a mystery that begets mystery, a strange storyline that is then replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable, an infinite regression to totally meaninglessness. I was always working under the assumption that mystery is often greater than knowledge because it taps into the infinity of human imagination. But in fact, this is kind of the central faux pas, that to create you have to take what is so beautiful to you in your mind and make it into some real and sordid, and therefore the whole conceptual scheme of mystery boxes is really just intellectually moribund."

The Police Negotiator was in front of Abrams now. He takes off his hat. It's Malcolm. He's smiling.

He lifts his pistol and shoots Abrams directly in the chest.