Title: Boho Days

Author: BohoJules

Rating: T

Genre: General/Angst

Summary: Post-RENT. At the Sundance Film Festival, critically acclaimed filmmaker Mark Cohen previews his Oscar-nominated documentary

Notes: Anything in italics is part of the film, but could also be viewed as a flashback

Boho Days

Familiar white letters splashed across the screen, those stenciled cut-outs that were his trademark, looking as though someone had graffiti tagged the theatre: Boho Days – A Mark Cohen Film. Even after all these years, after all the starts and stops and minutes of drabble that were to be found strewn about in his closet, he could never get used to seeing his name, his film, on the big screen like that, nor would he ever get used to the anticipatory applause that erupted when the audience recognized his work. How many times before had they groaned when they saw the skinny young man with the camera, just another face in a crowd of those begging to stand out? How had it come to be that this name – so plain, really, Mark Cohen, a boy from Scarsdale – had a place among such renowned directors? He would never, could never get used to this. Deep down, beneath the shiny tuxedo and the smart, wire-rimmed glasses and the clean haircut, he was still that twenty-five year old Bohemian from Alphabet City.

Mark's face replaced the black screen, with Times Square behind him. "December 31, 1999, 11:59 pm, Eastern Standard Time. This film marks the end of a phase of my life; the phase of the twentieth century, the phase of my life where I could never finish a film, and the phase of the good old Boho days." The ball began to drop and Mark turned around, quickly, to watch. "Hello New Millennium, Goodbye Boho Days." The ball dropped to a thunder of cheers and horns, and Mark's face disappeared to blackness.

Images appeared on the screen, each lasting perhaps thirty seconds at most.

Roger and Collins were seated together on the sidewalk, smoking. Something from the corner of the rock star's eye caught his attention and he looked, that roguish smile suddenly appearing, and he elbowed Collins. Whatever was there, hidden off-screen and gone from memory, caused both men to laugh, throwing their heads back as they had done in those good old Boho days.

Joanne clutched a rose in her teeth, raising her eyebrow at the camera. Then, imitating the moves of their first meeting, she struck a mock-tango pose, going into a dance all her own. A few steps in her hand came forward and the camera shook slightly, as though jostled. Another hand, male and reluctant, slid into the shot and Joanne laughed, the rose falling to the ground. The camera caught the tango from the man's point of view, until suddenly they both stopped, laughing to hard to continue. A banner in the background congratulated Joanne and Maureen Jefferson on their first anniversary.

Amateur hands held the camera now, which shook slightly with each movement, but the friends on the tabletops were in focus. The Life Café was truly alive, the artists rejoicing in simply being there and together and, for the time, healthy and alive. Benny was in the background, shaking his head as the two suits on either side of him watched in horror. Benny simply looked amused, and, when the camera zoomed in on his face, caught the flicker of longing for those good old Boho Days.

Shots of a number of Maureen's performances blended together into a montage of her, protesting everything from high-rent to low-employment, nothing the gathering crowd cared about. They were caught up by her passion, her spark, the life she spread through her bizarre interpretive dances. Mimi was pointing to a certain movement, laughing so hard tears streaked her cheeks, then clapped and cheered along for her friend.

Angel appeared in the Spartan loft, her lover and the rock star seated on the derelict sofa in the background, with those boots that defied the laws of physics and gravity. She ran up to a wall, back flipped, then fell with a giggle between Collins and Roger, so full of the vivacious life they loved about her. The camera caught as she flicked Roger's chin-length hair, which she was always trying to get him to cut, and his fond smile as he tickled her ribs. That same scene could have been on any day, back in those good old Boho Days.

The shots slowed, became more deliberate. There was an old shot, one of Mark and Roger when they first moved into the loft. They were just kids, barely nineteen, and they both looked so idealistic and proud of their run-down, falling apart loft. They were truly going to live the Bohemian life, to suffer for their art. The next shot was just Roger, cursing a blue streak as rain poured in through the hole in the roof, before finally giving up and flipping the sky the middle finger, glaring as though he could change the weather.

Next was the loft again, this time at Christmas, with Collins and Benny in the scene. They sat next to Roger on the couch, a pathetic plastic tree on the coffee table, feebly decorated with bits of tinsel out of the trash and a bauble or two. Benny said something, Roger laughed, and, with a flourish, Collins presented the camera with a menorah, slightly the worse for wear, which he placed next to the tree. They raised their paper cups, filled with hope and a sip or two of Stoli, and toasted those good old Boho Days.

Again the loft, now with curtains and such other "feminine luxuries." Maureen was sitting next to Roger on the sofa, singing along to his guitar. Then his fingers shifted, and Benny threw a pillow at the rock star. Collins groaned as if he were dying. Mark's voice, younger, less jaded, was heard. "Rog, if you play that damned Musetta's Waltz one more time, I'm going to cut off my ears."

Maureen shook her head. "I'm going to cut off your fingers."

The audience laughed, basking in the joy and love and hope and life that radiated from this film. Here was Bohemia, the real Bohemian life, caught on film and captured as only one who has lived it can. The shots came on, tracking the progression of the years.

Benny's wedding, a film that almost was never taken, came up next. He looked less-than-pleased in his sharp tuxedo and expensive church, with a porcelain trophy wife on his arm. Then he smiled, all warmth and happiness, and kissed the bride. Collins was the best man.

The loft again, nearly empty, with just Roger and his guitar in the shot. A hash riff broke the silence, then nothing. Roger shivered in the cold, rubbing his arms up the sleeves of his thin sweater, and sneezed. He was pale, obviously freezing, and from the shake of the shot, the cameraman was faring no better. He looked up, noticing the camera for the first time, and smiled wanly. "Let's hear it for those good old Boho Days."

Life Support. The camera caught snippets of each moment, each story, each breath. It wasn't enough. The shots time-lapsed into another, and each meeting had less than the first. There was Gordon, the first to go. Then Pam. The group was smaller each time, but the hope was still there. And, with each shot, they sang that prayer of theirs, until there was no one left to sing it and the song faded away, leaving the theatre silent.

A hospital room, white and sterile. A heart monitor beeped ominously, and the camera panned left to Angel and Mimi sitting on the bed. Angel was hooked up to so many machines; it was amazing that she could still be smiling like that. Mimi was painting her nails. Then Collins entered, kissing Angel and whispering that it was alright, that she would be ok. The next shot was of the funeral. The coffin lowered into the ground, along with the death of those good old Boho Days.

The montage sped up, each shot coming in rapid succession.

Roger driving away, leaving his friends and his home with his problems chasing him all the way to Santa Fe.

Joanne, alone and sad as she sat on Mark's couch, trying to comfort him before dissolving into tears.

Maureen, not even bothering to prance and pose before the camera as she usually did, sitting on the fire escape and staring.

Mimi, thin and weak, looking as though her heart were about to break, watching the spot where Roger's car had turned the corner.

Collins, thinner, trying to smile and cheer them up, his hand reaching for the necklace he always wore; an angel.

Angel's grave, with a solemn bouquet of flowers to mark the day she had come into their lives.

Benny, drowning his worry for Mimi in the cheap beer of the Life Café, checking his watch to mark the time since he had last seen her.

Mark, sitting alone in the loft, staring at the emptiness around him.

Roger's return.

Mimi's sickness.

The reunion.

Happiness, love, tears, embraces. A family restored, all caught on film by the one who never participated, the impartial witness.

A hospital room, maybe the same one as earlier, this time with Mimi hooked up to the machines. Roger sat beside her, clutching her hand and wiping the sweat off her brow. Maureen fed her ice chips, soothing the chapped skin of her lips as she had once done for Angel, earlier in the film. This time it was Collins painting her toenails, a lime green. Joanne and Benny stood back, watching in sorrow.

The graveyard again, a new coffin in a new grave, directly next to Angel. The gravestone read 'Mimi Marquez.' A tearful crowd of six bid her farewell.

Another hospital room, this one different only for the person in the bed, as Collins shivered and coughed. Benny was asleep, laying his head on the bed near his friend, and Mark was seated on the other side, placing a damp rag against the philosopher's fevered forehead and speaking in soothing words. Roger entered, nudging Benny awake and out of his spot, and Joanne followed with the ice chips.

A new grave, to the other side of Angel's, but on the same tombstone they added 'Thomas Collins.' Now there were only five to say their goodbyes and cry and hug each other and wonder what had happened to those good old Boho Days.

A news report of a car accident. Two more graves, as Maureen and Joanne Jefferson are added beside their friends. Roger and Benny stare in disbelief as the first spadeful of dirt is poured into the hole in the ground.

There was a moment of blackness, a moment of pause as though the film was afraid to recall what came next.

The hospital again, Roger's thin body hooked up to the machines this time, his fingers too weak to pluck guitar strings, his soul to weak to even smile. His lips were bleeding, cracked and raw, but this time only Mark is there to offer him ice, to paint his toes, to tell him that everything will be alright. It started with them, sixteen years ago when they decided to move to this city, and it ends with them as the coffin is lowered into the ground. The hand of the cameraman tosses a guitar pick into the grave, and hums a few measures of Musetta's Waltz. The tombstone, beside Mimi, reads: 'Roger Davis – Beloved friend – To those good old Boho Days.'

Then there is nothing but the clicking noise of an old projector, left in for good measure.

The audience is silent, awestruck, caught up in this decade of love and loss and life. The woman behind Mark is weeping, thick, loud tears for the death of a dream. Her husband whispers something, trying to calm her, but sniffles himself. Then the applause starts. A small noise at first, not more than the breaking of a pencil, then spreads like wildfire, erupting into thunder. They all stand, weeping or shocked or moved or some painful combination of the three, hailing the film with a standing ovation – the only of the night. Critics take rapid notes, calling "Boho Days" a 'rare, once in a lifetime film.' Newspapers are already writing headlines about this young Mark Cohen and his talent.

In the back row, Mark hears the roar of the applause he will never be able to get used to, uncomfortable in the tuxedo he despises. He remembers his friends, family really, and those idealistic days of art and suffrage they lived. Then, silent and alone, he slips out the door and onto the street, heading to a bar to drink away his memories of those good old Boho Days.

Fin