Flux Gourmet (2022)

[bunniefuu]

Wider.

Wider, please.

Why?

Sorry, that's what

the director asked for.

And you obey her every command?

A suggestion more

than a command.

But feel free to try something

different if you so wish.

Jan Stevens.

Beginning as you mean

to go on, then?

I just like to be in control

of how I'm portrayed.

Don't we all?

But may I suggest

a more conciliatory tone

with our dossierge here.

He's just doing his job.

By God, you have strong breath.

Sorry.

DR.

And an acute case of reflux.

Which might explain

the extraordinary stench.

You're just

experiencing heartburn

or are there other problems?

Bloating, perhaps, and...

maybe wind?

You mean flatulence?

Yes.

How unfortunate.

Well, I can prescribe something,

and we can take a view on

how things are in a few weeks.

But I suspect

that one might do well to heed

the teachings of Hippocrates

in this instance.

What do you think?

You do know Hippocrates?

I know the name but...

You're a writer and

you haven't read Hippocrates?

I'm just a hack.

And hacks don't read?

Well, maybe I've read something,

but I can't remember right now

with this anxiety

and these problems.

"Let food be thy medicine."

Remarkable how such a simple

yet profound tenet

can last through the centuries.

But besides a sensible diet,

it might serve you well not to

eat too close to your bedtime.

And if you raise your pillow,

it might prevent any

excess acid from surging

and making you

whispered about unfavorably

by your boss.

Thank you.

DR.- And I trust that

this bill will go to her?

Yes.

The life of a hack.

I know several writers

who would claim

that such work is beneath them.

You must know some

wealthy writers, then.

DR.- I couldn't imagine

anything worse than your job.

Having to humor and indulge

a different set

of feckless faux provocateurs

each month.

Still, one might argue that

it can't be any worse

than peering into foul-smelling

orifices for a living.

Sorry.

And who's in residence

this month?

Silence from an audience

was always my fear.

And anything I could do to break

that silence

became more important

than anything else.

To hear a laugh, a gasp,

a cry, or even a protest

was validation.

To taste their shock is

to be controlled by it.

And, with that, the need to go

further and further

into oblivion.

Cooking and performing

is always a hazard.

I could tell you about

countless accidents

with other collectives here.

This was not an accident.

Why?

Because the applause

would be ecstatic.

The pain was an insignificance.

You don't see?

I'm not a performer.

Yes, but you write.

You're still looking

for validation.

If I hear the sound

of a page turning,

I'm content.

Maybe you'd feel differently

if it was your work.

Why don't you try?

Some might argue that even

an instruction manual

has some imprint

from the writer.

So, there is something of you

in what you write about me?

And how much of you is in this?

You mean the performance?

Everything.

And Billy and Lamina?

They're here to realize

what's in me.

And that's how they see it?

Not quite.

Sometimes they try to put

their stamp on things,

especially Lamina.

But you're a collective?

Every collective needs a leader.

And, besides, I could

replace them

and nothing would change.

And you want to replace them?

We'll see.

I love them...

but sometimes love can mean

more by walking away.

Wouldn't it be easier

to compromise?

No.

That's what they all say

when they come in here.

I thought you believed

in creative freedom.

To a degree.

But give anyone too much freedom

in anything

and it's often

counterproductive.

I wish you luck, Director.

I'm not going to steamroller

over her,

and I'm not going to

give her notes

for the sake of giving notes,

but if I feel something is going

in the wrong direction,

I need to voice it.

It's not as if I haven't

given free rein

to other Sonic Caterers.

Has she decided on a name?

Elle and The Fatty Acids,

but she wants to sleep on it.

She really has to decide

before we go to print.

She can't keep changing

her mind like this.

Jan Stevens.

We don't take kindly

to being ignored.

They're still not

leaving you alone?

Jan Stevens.

Nobody rejects us

and lives to tell the tale!

"Make sure the table is laid

in a tasteful manner

and the condiments are..."

What?

They're waiting for you.

Tell them I'm not ready.

It's just a speech.

It's not like it's a big deal.

Oh, really?

I'll remind you of that

when it's your turn.

Yeah. Whatever.

And, Billy...

applaud with enthusiasm

this time.

Okay?

"Always remember to put a beer

in the fridge."

For a journalist,

you don't talk much.

I'm not really a journalist.

I'm just hired

to document things here.

So, what would I call you then?

Jan Stevens calls me

"the dossierge."

And what would you

call yourself?

I don't know.

I write.

Write what?

Thoughts, feelings...

questions.

You mean stories?

I don't know if you can

call them stories.

And where can I read those

"thoughts, feelings,

and questions"?

You'd have to burgle me

to read them.

Why don't you

get them published?

I tried, but it's not easy.

Meanwhile, I need to make

some money, so...

Ladies and gentlemen,

may I have your attention?

It gives me great pleasure

to introduce

our first after-dinner speech

of the residency.

Whilst we mostly encourage

the artistic pursuit

of alimentary

and culinary salvation

to be done as

public performance,

the after-dinner speech

offers more relaxed,

convivial surroundings

in which to continue

our investigation

into an array

of interculinary disciplines

and experiment with anecdotes,

or just simple ideas

that maybe wouldn't work

on a less intimate canvas.

Elle di Elle's speech,

she tells me, will...

"Speech" is maybe

too reductive a term

for what I'm about to do.

For what I will read

is found text and it comes

from an old house-making manual

that belonged to my mother.

"Edna May's Supper School."

"Lively recipes and fun tips

to preserve your man's love."

As a child, I wanted to be

the model housewife

and this book was my bible

until I began to question

what I was reading.

I once saw my mother wipe away

a tear in the kitchen,

and she tried to pretend

it was the onions,

but I could see how tired

she was compared to my father,

who was often pretending

to work upstairs,

but just masturbating

to the Tennis Ladies' Annual.

Edna May was

what every woman knew

their spouses wanted them to be.

However, it wasn't clear

if that woman on the cover

was this mythical Edna May

or even if there ever

was an Edna May,

since the perspective

in the book

was very much in favor

of a man's comfort,

which made me question

who wrote it.

And what if this Edna May

genuinely enjoyed cooking?

Does that look like

a real smile to you?

Personally, I think you're

reading too much into it.

Maybe that's her subtle way of

subverting those patriarchal

commandments in the book.

A ch*nk in her smile.

That's not a ch*nk.

That's a genuine,

heartfelt smile.

You're merely projecting

your own resentful ideology

onto the poor woman's face.

Just as thousands

of men projected

their bone idle

and selfish ideology

onto that poor woman's face,

trying to turn their wives

into an Edna May.

Generations of us were led to

believe by these men, Dr. GL*CK,

that our role was only

in the kitchen.

My mum never cooked.

It shows.

See, just by that comment,

you imply that it's only

a woman's job to do such tasks.

I suppose you never read

about the Minoans?

So I should

put a sock in my mouth

just because they tried it

the matriarchal way

thousands of years ago?

Both of my parents cooked

and they never counted who...

This is an after-dinner speech,

not a debate!

If you all allow me to read you

"Edna May's Ten Commandments

of the Kitchen"

on page nine,

then you can decide

for yourselves

whether it was written

by a woman or a man,

and, if by a woman,

was that something

she really believed in?

Why are you smiling?

Me?

Smiling in appreciation.

Don't let me hold you back.

Be a good chap and pass me

the mint sauce would you?

"One."

Keep a small notepad

in your handbag

for grocery lists, chores,

and friendly reminders

from your husband.

Two.

Get to know your local grocer

so you can be primed

for the best quality food.

Three.

Remember to don a

figure-hugging dress for when

your husband returns

tired from work.

Four.

Make sure the table is laid

in a tasteful manner

and that condiments are within

easy reach for your husband.

Five.

Always remember to put a beer

in the fridge

for when your husband

gets thirsty

after his drive home from work.

Six. Get some fresh air

by walking round the block

or call on your neighbor to

indulge in some local gossip.

Seven.

Good posture makes you look more

attractive when serving food

and lowers the risk

of back pain.

Eight.

Time spent cooking is time

in which you can dream about

the things you want out of life,

even if they might

not be possible.

Nine.

Notice amusing and delightful

events during your day

and recount them to your husband

during suppertime.

He'll be appreciative.

Ten.

If, after following these

kitchen commandments,

you find yourself unable to

please your husband,

seek medical advice

from your doctor

"and take the pills

he gives you."

Thank you for listening

to my wonderful

after-dinner speech.

Whoo!

Sorry.

Whew.

I'm sorry.

I couldn't take it in there.

Why?

You try living with her for days

on end and you'll see.

Ah, there he is.

You missed the review.

All manner of meta

and contra-patriarchal

points made in your absence.

The previous dossierge Jan hired

would never have been

so disrespectful.

I'm sorry.

I just needed some air.

Pills not working?

Let's see.

So...

you're still flatulent,

old bean?

Flatulent?

Who's flatulent?

Nobody's flatulent.

Just some indigestion.

You haven't touched your food.

You'd know all about that.

Fasting, are we?

I've noticed three days now

and you're hardly eating.

"They say it is three days now

that her lips have fasted,

that she has kept her body

pure from Demeter's grain."

Could you please pass me

the bread?

I take it

that didn't ring a bell?

- Sorry?

- Phaedra's fasting.

"Hippolytus"... Euripides.

You haven't read Euripides?

What did he just say?

What happened?

The Mangrove Snacks.

Who are the Mangrove Snacks?

They applied for the residency.

They didn't get it.

And this is how they respond?

Happens all

the time, this kind of thing.

For every culinary collective

I offer a residency to,

a dozen others give me hell

for rejecting them.

I have a whole folder filled

with poison pen letters.

I'm sorry.

I'm used to it, sadly.

Why did you reject them?

I don't like what they do

to terrapins.

So, you only chose me

because I'm vegetarian?

I'm not going to get drawn

on my selection process.

All I will say is it involves

a huge amount of thought

and responsibility.

I'll ignore your facile comment

since we welcome carnivores

as much as herbivores.

Ultimately.

I'd consider the Mangrove Snacks

if they actually had any talent,

only, for your exclusive

information,

they can't even

do transgression very well.

If it was me,

I'd grab The Mangrove Snacks

by their shriveled

little testicles and...

Can we leave it, please?

I'd rather focus on our trip

to the shops tomorrow.

Yes, but we're dealing

with rascals here.

If it was me, I'd make a stew

out of their lousy...

I said!

You're in the shops.

You're looking around.

Items all around you.

Maybe you need some tomatoes

for that soup.

Squeeze them to make sure

they're ripe.

You're pushing

your trolley along,

looking around,

and there's Mrs. Chieveley.

You don't really like her,

but a quick nod of the head

will suffice,

and that will allow you to

proceed to the dairy counter.

Maybe you could ask the cheese

laddie can slice you

a few hundred grams of Taleggio

and he can wrap it up for you.

He licks his fingers before

taking the wrapping

and you don't really like that,

but you're too polite

to say anything.

Put the cheese back

in your trolley

and head to the spice cabinet.

Some herbes de Provence

to sprinkle on the soup.

But wait, there's nothing

like that here.

Look surprised, look bereft.

A little more bereft.

That's it.

But it's time to move on.

There's a promotion stall

and some samples.

Avocado paste

on a crispy rye base

sprinkled with

piment d'espelette.

You can try one.

Hmm, tastes good.

And you try your luck

and take another sample,

hoping the vendor

won't make any comments.

But the guilt makes you choke.

Oh, no...

time for the Heimlich Maneuver.

That's it. Harder.

Harder.

Harder.

Congratulations.

Now pay for your items.

At what age did you decide

you wanted to be in

a culinary collective?

My whole life.

It seemed ungraspable

for an underdog like me,

but I had to find a way.

I remember, as a child,

when I'd sit with my parents

watching sonic caterers

on the television,

and I was transfixed

by the intensity

and the deliberation of sound.

But it felt ridiculous

to dream of something

that everyone wanted to do.

It was indoctrinated in us from

an early age that certain

callings in life

were beyond our reach,

especially if, like me, you went

to a run-down school.

And what gave you

the conviction?

Only one thing.

The memory of Miss Lindenson

dying at my birthday party.

She was my kindergarten teacher

and she was allergic to nuts,

and the kitchen staff didn't pay

attention when making the cake.

A big, chocolate wonder cake.

She went into anaphylactic shock

as soon as she ate her slice.

Her face started to swell up

and the other children

started to laugh,

thinking how comical it looked.

I screamed for help and

she started to gasp for breath.

The other teacher

called an ambulance,

but nothing could

save her in time.

How something so tasty for me

that could be so deadly for her

completely changed the way

I thought about food.

I'm sorry.

All this is in her honor.

Yes.

I've never been so embarrassed

in my whole life.

They'll think

we are amateurs now.

I wouldn't be so hard

on yourself.

It's your first performance.

But he had it right

in rehearsals.

So, it's all my fault, is it?

It's not my thing

that went wrong.

Yeah, pretending to be

a dead pig...

Even a toddler can do that

You try going naked on stage

with all those people.

You think it's easy?

Congratulations, all of you.

Jan Stevens.

Sorry, we're just trying

to work out what went wrong.

Why "sorry"?

I thought it was

very involving...

A promising first concert.

Wonderful, in fact.

Could've been much better

if he knew how to press buttons.

You're on a residency.

Remember that.

The whole point of a residency

is to allow space

for trial and error.

It's the last concert

that counts.

Everything leading up to that

is just practice.

The audience understand.

They liked it?

They loved it.

Isn't that right, Stones?

They had a good time, yes.

And now they're waiting

to pay tribute.

Really?

Really.

They're outside.

What shall I do?

Send them in.

It only occurred to me

when I was caught up

in the blender,

but Elle and the Artificial

Additives could be a name.

It gets worse

with each suggestion.

Well, what about Elle,

Lamina, and Billy?

So, only you're allowed

to be named?

I found the group and, besides,

I take the...

No.

That was your fault.

How can it be my fault when...

Guys!

A calamity.

It'll dry by the morning.

What are you talking about?

It's oil!

It's a death trap.

Nobody will be using

the stairs tonight.

We can't leave it like this

unless you want to find

cracked skulls

and broken necks in the morning.

Maybe Technical Assistant Wim

can deal with it?

No, it's late.

Let's not disturb him.

Nonsense, that's his job.

- Youngster!

- No.

- You deal with it.

- Why don't we all deal with it?

Let's find something

and clean this up.

I'll get a mop.

Are you okay?

I don't feel good.

It'll take all night

to clear this.

Maybe we could find

some other mops

and then it won't take so long.

It's oil. Oil on stairs.

A mop alone is not enough.

We need hot water and soap.

A mop is just going to spread...

Okay, okay. I don't need to

hear this any more.

What's wrong?

I feel faint.

Don't listen to her, Stones.

Anything to get out

of a bit of work.

- Look at her, she's...

- Stones!

It's okay. It's okay.

It's okay.

One of us can take you back.

And what about Billy and me?

If I let go, she will fall.

Welcome to our world.

With all the

collectives that come here,

my duty is first

and foremost to support

and nurture their vision.

The practicalities of realizing

an idea in front

of an audience can be a shock

to the system.

The gulf between the head

and the reality of the stage

can be forbidding

and often requires

shepherding by someone

who can lead the way...

We are our own harshest critics,

and we have these discussions

by ourselves.

I appreciate that,

but as someone

who is supporting you,

I would very much like to be

involved in those conversations.

How?

- By guiding you.

- Hm.

I can see you're independent

and strong-willed,

and I can adjust my notes

accordingly.

We don't need notes.

I understand

you don't need notes,

but the Institute's money

is funding this,

and I expect something

in return.

What you get in return is this.

Everything we are doing.

I'm just asking for you

to engage.

Form your own

culinary collective, then.

You go out and do this and see

how you feel when someone else

comes along

and tells you what to do.

And how about

you don't accept my support

if you don't like the terms?

This is still your vision.

I'm just asking you

to change a few things.

So, it's your idea of my vision?

You don't even

know what the notes are yet.

Maybe they won't be

so unpalatable.

That's not the point.

It's the principle.

So, even if you agree

with a note, you won't do it?

Correct.

I'm not a big note person

compared to my forebears

who have held this role.

I respect the artist,

but if I strongly disagree

with something,

I will expect you

to at least engage.

But you said it was

wonderful last night.

Yes, it was wonderful,

but that doesn't mean

we can't discuss.

I found out what was wrong

with the ring modulator.

It wasn't the ring modulator.

I'm talking about the first half

when everything was working.

It's your use of a flanger

I want to discuss.

What's a flanger?

It's an electronic device

that mixes two signals

resulting in a phase shift.

You didn't like it?

I think it should

be on a lower setting.

Just fractionally.

Why?

When you alter the sound

that much,

you lose all connection

to the activity.

But that's the whole point

of what we do.

Why do it if it remains

in the culinary context?

And why do it if it's completely

divorced from it?

Then it's just sonic

without the catering.

So, you want catering

without the sonic?

The best collectives here

stretched the elastic

of their culinary sounds

as far as they could,

but there was always

a connection

to the source material.

A semblance of what the sound

once was.

We can take it out, man.

It only lasted a few seconds,

anyway.

No.

Then mix it down?

No.

Are you going to

give in that easily?

You hardly notice it either way.

That's not the point.

You didn't even know

what a flanger was a minute ago.

I thought she said badger.

I'm just trying to

protect your vision.

Can we discuss this

another time?

You're ruining my graphic score

with all this flanger nonsense.

If that's the case,

stop what you're doing

and engage with us.

Come on, Elle.

I'm the boss!

How much say do you

have in the band?

I don't know.

I mean, Elle's the boss.

But she can't do

anything technical.

So, that's down to us.

She says what she likes,

what she doesn't like.

But sometimes she doesn't

explain herself very well,

which leads to things

sounding the way they do

because of a misunderstanding.

In fact, I'd say

misunderstanding between us

is probably

the key to our sound.

And what made you want to be

a Sonic Caterer?

I don't know.

Something you just fell into?

I only really knew

what I didn't want to do.

My parents sent me

to this expensive school

to help with my table manners,

and it wasn't really a world

that I understood.

I wanted something else.

Like what?

I don't know, like...

I liked making things.

I liked soldering things.

I like making noises.

It didn't really have much

purpose until Elle came along.

And what was the purpose?

She had ambition.

She had ideas.

It's like she could

channel something

that was aimless in me.

And she just...

She would make things happen.

She had the confidence to do

things one hundred percent-ly.

And she was... she was fun

to be around, you know.

In what way?

She would pinch my n*pples.

And what happened

when she did that?

I don't know, it felt good.

She would say some exciting

things and I'd, you know, I'd...

I'd fiddle with myself a bit.

We had... We had this game

called The Finger Game

where she'd fiddle

with herself too

and then I'd sniff her fingers.

But it was never anything

more than that,

in case it compromised

her artistic integrity.

And what about

your artistic integrity?

I don't know, I mean...

we got lots made

during that time.

I suppose we didn't think about

what our behavior

meant until afterwards.

So, it didn't last with Elle?

I mean, we got bored.

I mean, we would, sort of,

frisk out when we were bored,

then we got bored of frisking

when we were bored.

So...

Was it just the two of you

in the band then?

No. There was this other guy

who was doing electronics,

but they fell out because

of dietary differences.

- Meat?

- Yeah.

I mean, anyone caught eating

meat in our band is dead.

DR.- And deep breath.

And hold.

Good.

And again.

And hold.

I can't even see the tail

of your pancreas,

what with all the globules

of gas obscuring it.

Who would've thought that

flatulence could look so dainty?

So, what now?

Throw away the pills and come in

for some more examinations.

Don't look so alarmed.

You just need a few tubes

to go down you

and up you if we're going to get

to the bottom of this.

If the inflammation carries

on like this,

you aren't going to have

any bowels left to fart out of.

Am I going to die?

DR.-

Of course you're going to die.

Name me a living thing

that isn't going to die.

I mean...

prematurely.

I'll be okay, won't I?

You're in the shops.

Billy and Lamina,

you're a happy couple

pushing your weekend trolley

down the aisle.

You bought some nice ingredients

for your bourgeois frittata.

But to save time, Billy,

you should head to the check-out

soon to reserve your place,

and then Lamina

can continue the shopping,

pretending she forgot something

and then bring items

back to the trolley.

It's a good idea.

You see Elle heading

towards you,

and even though she only has

a jar of saffron dust

for her amuse-bouche,

you make sure you beat her

to the till

with your half-full trolley.

Lamina, you can

continue shopping

as long as you remember

to look like

you forgot something each time.

Elle, you will

roll your eyes now

but maybe give her the benefit

of the doubt

when she returns

with the Gruyre cheese.

Lamina, pretend to look

annoyed with yourself

as you remember there is

just one more thing to buy.

Go off and find it.

Elle, glare at her

when she returns with

the quatre pices spice mix.

She's gone again to grab

a packet of party sticks

and a ready-made Tarte Tatin.

Elle,

you've reached boiling point,

but you're still

holding it together.

Billy and Lamina,

you've paid for your items

and bagged them up.

You may now exit the shop

and leave your trolley

by the till

for someone else to deal with.

Elle,

the trolley left in your way

is the last straw.

Push it towards them

and unleash your rage.

So...

This was on

my school field trip.

And I had just turned 14,

and the way I saw things

was starting to change.

Because I went to

an all-boys' school.

And at home it was just

my brother and my dad.

My mum was always away

directing and stuff.

So, the whole female idea

was a bit of a mystery to me

until I went on this trip,

and at the hotel we were at,

there was this egg station

in the breakfast parlor.

And if you wanted an omelet,

you would go and you'd queue up.

And you would...

You'd ask this lady to cook

one up for you.

And...

she was...

she was blonde and curvaceous,

you know.

And she had this uniform

which kind of accentuated

her curvaceous figure.

I mean, she was probably

about as old as my mum.

And I knew she'd never

really be interested in me,

but I thought if I ordered

an omelet,

maybe it'll start

some conversation.

I never... I never actually got

to know her name.

I only...

I only knew her as the egg lady.

And I remember, I remember

dreaming about her.

Squatting over my face

and laying an egg into my mouth.

You know, I fell in love.

And I know everyone says

that it can't be love

if you've only ordered

an omelet, but it was love.

And I've never felt feelings

that powerful

since for anyone.

And...

Be a good chap and pass me

the mint sauce, would you?

And, yeah, and then,

after, it was on the third day,

I realized that if you asked her

to sprinkle onions

on your omelet,

it would involve her

bending forward

to scoop them

out of the onion tub.

And that was when

Tom Pithers saw me

looking down her blouse

and told Mr. Rollinson.

There was already

some discussion at the table

as to why I was always queuing

at the egg station,

but I think

this new evidence damned me.

Mr. Rollinson fell out of temper

and he hit me at the table

in front of everyone.

I remember he, sort of,

got me by the head

and rammed me down...

five or six times, quite hard.

And I remember seeing

Matt Hornsley and Glen Rogers

sniggering at the whole thing.

And then, on the last hit,

it knocked over the glass

of milk that was on the table.

And it made my ear,

this ear, pop

and I lost my balance.

And I've always heard things

a bit differently

out of that ear.

And Elle taught me to see it

as an advantage.

DR.- Never mind your ears.

What we all want to know

is do you still eat omelet?

No.

A terrible shame, young lad.

All because of a formative

psycho-sexual trauma,

you're missing out on

a vital source of vitamin D.

- I get it from the sun.

- DR.- The sun?

What about winter?

Unless you're an Oracle retiring

from the Temple of Apollo

during the coldest months,

you need your vitamin D

if you don't want your bones

to get all rickety.

You do know about the Oracles?

You're an Oracle of stupid.

Now, everyone.

Oracle of stupidity.

You didn't tell me that

was going to be your speech.

So what?

It'd just be nice to be

across these things

in order for us to have

a consistency of vision.

What do you mean by consistency?

What do I mean by consistency?

By consistency, I mean

not undermining my speech

which was all about

male domestic oppression.

Everything you said dismantled

the polemics, the irony, the...

At least mine was personal.

So sexually objectifying women

cooking for men is fine

as long as it's personal?

Can we go to sleep?

So, you don't believe there is

such a thing

as male domestic oppression?

Of course, I believe

there is such a thing

as male domestic oppression,

but what also needs

to be spoken about

is Elle-creative oppression.

"What about,"

"what about," "what about."

- Not "what about."

- You're straying from the topic.

Okay, back on topic.

I have another household tip

you could've incorporated

into your next

after-dinner speech.

Staying up all night mopping up

extra virgin olive oil

from the staircase

while the person who spilled it

can walk away from it all

without even uttering

a thank you.

Thank you, Lamina.

And Billy.

Thank you, Billy.

And don't forget

to thank Stones.

What is he doing in there?

He practically lives

in that toilet.

He keeps denying

there's anything wrong.

Well, there is something wrong.

I hear him fart at night.

Whenever he thinks we're asleep,

he lets them slide out,

one after the other.

And you never fart?

Not as much as that.

Can you stop?

I'm trying to sleep.

How many times do you fart?

Never. I don't fart.

Of course you fart.

Have you ever heard me fart?

No.

But it's biologically impossible

not to fart.

There's a lot of things

biologically impossible

when it comes to Elle.

They say the average person

farts around 14.5...

He's coming!

Are you okay?

You know, I was reading

about cloves.

They dispel the air

from the intestine

in a nice, gentle,

and noiseless way.

I've been talking

to Dr. GL*CK.

And what does he say?

He wants to do some tests.

How did you meet her?

She was balling my dad.

And my mum came back from

a film sh**t in the jungle

and caught her

pinching his n*pples.

She tried to pretend she was

scratching a mosquito bite,

but my mum saw right through it.

I mean, she knew a thing or two

about mosquitoes

after sh**ting in the jungle.

So, my mum moved out,

Elle moved in.

It kind of didn't

really matter to me

'cause I never saw my mum anyway

and kind of hated her for it.

And in a way...

In a way, I was happy,

'cause I finally

landed myself a mum

who'd be around a bit more.

So, she became your mother?

Kind of.

I mean, she left the cooking

for my dad like my mum did.

But the fact we kind of

fiddled around sometimes

maybe unmothered things

between us.

In a way, I think Elle needed

a father figure

after years of being away

at boarding school.

She told me she went

to a run-down school.

Maybe she meant

the hockey changing rooms.

I remember her saying

those needed doing up.

And Lamina?

She just went to

a regular school, I think.

No, I mean,

how did you meet her?

Oh.

She worked at a restaurant,

and then Elle got into

a fight there,

and they ended up getting

involved with each other.

Lamina's really secretive

about food,

and Elle found that fascinating,

but then she got

too secretive and Elle...

Elle got bored.

But, you know, by that point,

all sorts of things had

already happened between them,

and they ended up

hating each other.

But that's not really

anything new between us.

We all kind of hate

each other anyway.

Even though we do

need each other.

Mind if I join you?

How are you finding

your time here?

Has Elle decided on a name yet?

And the flanger?

You don't look happy.

It's hard to eat and talk.

Why?

Most people manage.

Maybe I have a small mouth.

Really?

Let me see.

Not now.

Show me.

That doesn't look small to me.

Here...

let's compare sizes.

You see?

Almost the same.

A perfect match, even.

Haven't you read that thing

enough times?

Mind if I borrow it?

Oh, you look a little lost

without it.

It's just something to hold.

And what if I gave you

something else to hold?

I think Elle's waiting

for me out there.

Oh, really?

And you do everything Elle says?

She's the boss.

And how does that make you feel?

I just make my noises.

I was reading about you

and your noises.

Yeah?

You gave an interview, remember?

Oh, yeah.

I read it with great interest,

and at times

I thought to myself,

"This can't be true."

Do you know something?

I always wanted to be

an egg lady.

You could queue up

for an omelet...

and I'd serve you first.

Cheers.

- Jan Stevens...

- It's okay.

It's okay.

I need you, Billy.

Ever since I first met you,

I've been thinking about you.

I know I need to be

professional,

but I can't stop thinking

about you,

and I know you feel

the same about me.

Jan Stevens.

Why are you doing this?

I do wonder sometimes if you're

perpetuating an archetype

of epicurean toxicity

with all this culinary hysteria.

I don't want to give the public

the impression

we're espousing any kind

of dysfunctional

alimentary ideology.

So, what do you want?

The happy chefs?

You know, what I would

appreciate is for you

to take some of

my ideas on board.

Just because I'm not involved in

the making of your sacred art

doesn't mean my ideas

lack validity.

You don't have to agree

with everything,

but to dismiss every opinion

of mine out of hand

when I've chosen to fund you

and promote you

above dozens of others

reeks of entitlement

rather than your perceived

notion of integrity.

Okay, we are all ears.

That's all I wanted to say.

There are critical forces

beyond me out there,

believe it or not,

and to make you aware of them

is part of my job,

even if you choose

not to subscribe to them.

- And that flanger...

- The flanger is staying.

I'm just asking you

to turn it down a notch.

You can keep

the epicurean toxicity,

but indulge me on

the flanger, please.

Stones.

Stones.

What?

Are you okay?

No.

Just go back to bed.

There's nothing you can do.

Any news about the tests?

No.

Maybe tomorrow.

He's got another test planned.

I'm sorry.

Is it okay to say I'm scared?

It's okay.

I know.

Stones?

It will be okay.

I know it.

You heard me?

That flanger.

What about it?

Did you talk to her about it?

She's not going to

change anything.

Once she decides something,

there's nothing you can do.

And if I try and say anything,

she just shouts

and accuses me of something.

Maybe you should think

about slapping her, then.

Well, don't say I told you,

but a quick slap

always does the trick.

It might shock her out of

her entrenched arrogance.

And what if you muted

the flanger?

Chances are

she won't notice anyway

what with all

the other noise going on.

You don't know

how angry she gets.

And she'll notice now she knows

what a flanger is.

Just try it.

I don't know.

I don't want to start

a fight and...

You will turn the flanger off.

I will turn the flanger off.

And you will convince Elle

to do everything I say from now.

And I will convince Elle to do

everything you say from now.

Good.

Jan Stevens.

Her ability to provoke

for the sake of provocation

began to wane.

Once she got a taste of scandal,

she became addicted.

And it soon became a distraction

from the work Billy

and I were doing,

yet she knew that

the shock value

and polemics would make a bigger

noise than anything we could do.

Could you survive without her?

Yes.

But Billy and I were always

intuitive in our approach.

Elle always did the applications

for funding

and always knew

how to word things,

which I always envied.

I was always led to believe

that the visceral urge I had

about making culinary sounds

wasn't valid

unless backed up by theory

or at least the kind of

conceptual package

that Elle could pull together.

Sound always excited me

and... and transformed me,

but I could never explain why.

What made you want to be

a Sonic Caterer?

Maybe my mother.

My father only ever went

to the kitchen to eat,

and I saw what it did

to my mother.

She silently cooked

and washed the dishes,

pretending it couldn't be

any other way,

and he took her for granted,

never once considering himself

it could be another way.

And, besides,

he earned the money,

even though she had to

brush her own dreams

and ambitions under the carpet

to facilitate his earnings.

She later claimed that no woman

should live like this,

but...

but when my... my brother's

girlfriend moved in with him

and didn't do her share

of the cooking,

she resented her.

Jealousy usurped ideology,

and it was clear that my mother

expected other women

to work as hard as she did

in the kitchen,

even though she knew it wasn't

the way it should be.

That struggle in her head

between demanding freedom

from the kitchen

and being confined to it

contaminated my...

My brother's relationship

and resulted in him

leaving his girlfriend.

And then my... my mother

picked on my girlfriend,

who turned out to be Elle

and even lazier than my father.

Yeah, I was the one doing

the cooking in the relationship.

How did you meet her?

She got into a fight in

the restaurant where I worked.

Some creep kept groping

one of my colleagues,

and she came to her defense.

I felt awful for not helping,

but... that was Elle.

Unlike me, she was...

She was fearless

and she would stand up

for vulnerable people,

even if she'd lose.

So, she told him to leave

my colleague alone,

and he punched her hard

in the womb,

but she fought back,

even if it resulted in her

being kicked to the ground

by this thug and his friends.

And after that we became friends

and then bandmates then lovers,

only I-I left her for someone

I was balling and...

since then, it's been nothing

but mini-punishments from her.

She told me you were

secretive about food.

Sorry?

Just that, she was curious.

How do you mean?

Nothing.

Just...

Doesn't matter.

What?

The Mangrove Snacks.

Looks like

one of your installations.

You would say that.

But, seriously,

we could use this.

But it's a terrapin.

Since when did we do anything

with meat?

We've always been about fruits,

vegetables, nuts, and seeds.

Don't forget eggs, Billy.

You'll never let me

live that down, will you?

You're the one who announced

that you're struggling

with an egg fetish.

It is not a fetish!

So, having white dreams

about hotel staff laying eggs

is not a fetish?

Not to mention

sexually objectifying

the uniforms of the poorly paid.

What was that for?

Stop it, all of you!

Jan Stevens.

The Mangrove Snacks

have paid us another visit.

I've called the police force

and they'll come

and take fingerprints.

Nobody is to touch anything.

And whatever equipment was left

here will have to be examined.

Why didn't the youngster

pack everything?

That was his job.

Technical Assistant Wim

is not your servant.

He does what he can.

But whatever was left here will

have to go for fingerprinting...

including...

this.

You set this up.

Don't be ridiculous.

How convenient for you.

We can live without the flanger.

You're in cahoots.

This is a conspiracy.

Until the authorities

say otherwise,

we'll have to put

a pause on proceedings.

Get some rest.

It'll do you good.

You might also consider the fact

that we're still waiting for you

to decide on a band name.

Elle and the Gastric Ulcers.

See, they always undermine me.

Is that your final name?

Yes.

I don't know. Maybe.

Okay. Sleep on it, then.

But hurry up...

unless you want me to come up

with a name for you.

You know,

when this residency's over...

you'll still have that catalog.

Yeah.

Wouldn't it make more sense

to appreciate the things

that might not be

around much longer?

What?

You've had your fun and now it's

back to the stupid catalog!

I didn't know we were serious.

We're not,

but there's something

between serious

and being completely ignored.

I'd just like some affection,

or is that too much to ask?

Why did you...

you know...

Why did I what?

Why did you chase me?

Why do you think?

Because I liked you.

Was it because of this

flanger business?

There's no flanger business.

So, you'd still

allow me in your bed

even if we kept the flanger?

Of course.

Even two flangers.

Would you allow me in your bed

after the residency's over?

Yes!

What's wrong?

We can make this work

if you want to.

I don't know.

It's just starting to feel...

heavy... you know?

Look, if this is about

the flanger,

we can put all of that

to one side.

It's not about the flanger.

Well, I don't know, maybe

the flanger's got me thinking.

Thinking what?

We have a tour coming up and...

I can do international love.

Look, I like you, Jan...

but...

So, that's it, then?

We could ball each other

at one of the orgies.

That's really constructive

of you, Billy.

Well, I should probably go.

They're already

asking questions.

Do you know something, Billy?

In all the years I've done this,

I've always

maintained a distance.

It didn't matter

how attracted I was

or how lonely it got

in this bedroom.

I've always remained

professional.

You were the first person

to ignite something in me

to such a degree

that I couldn't stop myself.

I really didn't want to be

one of those people

using my position

to seduce someone,

and I'm sorry.

I'm really sorry.

Can't we try somehow

to make it work?

Sometimes love can mean more...

by walking away.

Not the catalog!

No! Don't go, Billy! No!

Billy, I need you! Stay!

No, don't go, Billy!

Please, stay!

I need you!

Please, Billy!

It wasn't the flanger, I swear!

It wasn't the flanger.

Stones...

Stones...

Are you okay?

Leave me alone.

Any news about the flanger?

I don't know.

These things take time.

She did it on purpose.

Come on, you really think she

orchestrated the whole thing?

She did it for her advantage.

She didn't take the hob away

for fingerprints,

but she took the flanger.

So, what do you suggest?

Stop that. Shh.

Yeah, alright.

Shh.

Jan Stevens.

So, she holds police parties

as well as Billy parties.

I could've told you

that one erection

would never be enough

for someone like her.

- Sad you weren't invited?

- No.

You always have to

spill your night juice

wherever you go.

But to do it to a patron

is your number-one disgrace.

You're incorrigible,

you know that, Billy Rubin?

You've jeopardized our residency

with that silly willy of yours.

You've jeopardized it

with your silly...

Silly what?

See? You can't even touch.

Wait till I write my memoirs.

Threatening me again.

You write those memoirs.

I will.

Okay. Fine.

Just don't forget to write about

that stupid salami

you hide in your bed.

Stop it!

For all our arguments

as a group,

the one thing that united us

was a quest for catharsis.

Maybe we disagreed on... on what

we defined as catharsis,

but we were all harboring

something that needed purging.

And could I ask

what you were harboring?

Just things.

Could you elaborate?

Does knowing about our demons

make any difference

to what you hear?

Only that Elle was very open

about hers.

Not as open as

you'd like to think.

I know about Miss Lindenson.

I know what really happened.

The only person laughing at her

going into anaphylactic shock

was Elle herself.

A comical looking, puffed-up

face, just like in the movies.

But surely she didn't know

she was going to die?

But she still laughed

until it was too late.

But she was a tiny girl.

But she's an adult now,

and she still can't

face herself.

For Elle,

it's easier to reinvent the past

to... to gain people's sympathy

than to confront the guilt

and... and risk people's anger.

Elle's father was at the party,

and he slapped her hard

in the face for laughing.

So, yes, that tragedy

did affect her,

but not in the way

she'd like you to believe.

You're in the shops.

You're lost in the aisles.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

A thought is troubling you.

Could it be the absence

of a gteau de mnage

that is playing tricks

on the mind?

Or the sight of Dan,

the twilight

replenishment operative,

coming back from his shift

to search for

a mystery

Chartreuse Elixir Vegetal?

Or is it something else?

A cake from the past that

never leaves you alone

and follows you into the shops.

I certainly hope not.

You're feeling tired

but you can't leave

until you've shopped.

Your fellow customers

are collapsing all around you.

One... by one.

They call it the retail malady.

And, one by one,

you will all succumb to it.

DR.- So...

your results are in.

And...

How do I say this?

You have...

Wait.

I think I left something

at home.

I could have sworn...

I know I had it

by the front door when...

What do I have?

I was going to tell you.

Tell me, what do I have?

Celiac disease.

- What?

- Celiac disease.

It's okay.

Your villi are a mess,

but you'll live.

What is it?

It's an autoimmune...

Let me go!

Keep talking.

What do I need to take?

You don't need to take anything!

Avoid gluten.

Avoid gluten and you'll be fine.

Tell me more!

It's in wheat.

Avoid bread, pasta,

beer, pastries,

and Christmas pudding.

What?

Christmas pudding.

Blast this thing!

Too tired to say my name?

What do you want?

A peace offering.

So, your policeman friends

didn't find fingerprints?

Clearly not.

And I thought you'd like it back

for your final performance.

So, you're allowing us

to use our flanger?

I'll just leave it here.

You decide whether to use it

or not.

This is what I think

about your peace offering.

What are you laughing at?

The prospect of giving

an after-dinner speech

is somewhat daunting.

Some people relish the idea of

having an audience in thrall

to even the most meager

of their thought processes,

but the rest of us

have no great urge

to communicate with the world

and struggle to do so.

I acknowledge the fact

that this is compulsory,

but I can't pretend

to find it easy.

In fact,

I resent it.

Sorry.

Lamina, if you're

that uncomfortable,

we can forgo the whole thing.

- Any excuse for her to shirk.

- No, no.

I can do it.

And I'm going to continue.

I consulted various guides

on after-dinner speaking,

and I'm now ready to

bring life to this room

with the news that after

this residency is over,

I'm going to leave the group.

What?

You don't believe me?

What would you do?

When Hephaestus

was thrown off Olympus, he...

Not you! Not you.

I don't need your metatextual,

pseudo-Hellenic,

alpha intellectual one-upmanship

on top of everything else.

There are plenty of things

I could do, Elle dearest,

as long as they don't involve

being anywhere near you.

In fact, I'm going solo.

Without me,

it's not going to work.

You know that.

No voice, no ideas. No vision.

Technique without visions? No.

Because you think it's going

to work without me?

Mm-hmm.

You didn't even know

what a flanger was

until a few days ago.

Just stay. We can...

We can talk this out, man.

You're welcome to join

if you want.

Billy, no!

Well, I'm not staying

if Lamina leaves.

- You set this up!

- I did no such...

So, now it's my fault?

I didn't say that.

You don't have to say.

You orchestrated all of this

with loving precision.

Have a stupid day.

- Elle!

- No, no, no!

No!

Elle, stop it!

Elle!

Elle.

Hang in there, Elle.

I'm sorry.

We'll get you some help!

Where's Dr. GL*CK?

He's gone!

Can't you see?

What did you expect?

I finally have the name

for our band.

Tell us, Elle.

Please tell us.

Elle and the...

What was that?

What did she say?

Tell us again, Elle.

Elle!

Elle.

A thousand hands

applaud tonight

I sing my songs,

my star shines bright

I stop and smile,

I take my bow

I leave the stage

and then somehow

Backstage I'm lonely

Backstage I cry

You've gone away

and each night

I seem to die a little

Out on that stage

I play the star

I'm famous now

I've come so far

A famous fool, I let love go

I didn't know

I'd miss you so

Backstage I'm lonely

Backstage I cry

Hating myself since I let you

say goodbye

Every night a different girl

Every night a different club

And yet I'm lonely

all the time

When I sign my autograph

When I hold an interview

Can't get you out of my mind

Come back my love

Come back to me

I need you now

so desperately

What good is fame,

it's just a game

I'd give it all

to be the same

Backstage I wait

now hoping I'll see

Your smiling face waiting

there backstage for me

Your smiling face waiting

there backstage for me

Backstage

Backstage