⸸ཀ( music thrums through quietened heartbeat, poisoned by its rushing adrenaline. The crescendo is coming, teasing with heightened notes of wailing violin and thoughtful baritone. The symphony celebrates its soloist, a singer from Lebanon who notably captures attention with his origins first before his talents are recognized. Americans are like that. Lestat looks over the gilded railings of the house of music. This symphony hall barely holds the cacophony of screaming instruments. The acoustics bouncing from the dome-like ceiling create a whirlwind of sound. A gasp from the audience becomes a part of the performance. Lestat beams as he observes expressions of the nameless audience. They are captivated, seated next to each other, but barely present with their companions. With each dramatic pause comes lethal silence. Lestat nearly wishes to applaud the etiquette lest he steals the entire show. He wouldn't mind it, actually. His hands lift just a bit off his lap, and the singer, seemingly aware of the scheme, resumes his song. Lestat flashes a grin, and before he is discovered, he vanishes from the box.
The year is 1939, and Hollywood is covered head-to-toe with glittering scandals and revolutionary dramas. Lestat walks out of the cinema, pleased that the Americans are finally doing something right with their booming inspiration. Although Lestat misses the gaudy freedom of art deco in the roaring twenties, the classics of noir bring a kind of romance that lavish champagne parties could not quite capture. The boulevard is full of spotlights that show off the biggest names in the industry. His eyes are set on MGM following the recent release of Gone with the Wind. Aside from its two halves, the movie captivated Lestat. The colorful depiction of tragedy, the unfairness of life, and its cruelty. The female lead is so bright that her male counterpart wears the face of a pawn for the rest of the movie. Lestat had seen the four-hour endeavor thrice. He writes about it in his column, a gazette that he started to get into the industry. New issues are released only at night and make it to the front porch of all the notable, branded giants by morning. Some even pay extra to get it at dusk.
Midnight Gazette is a gathering of Lestat's honest thoughts. He is an actor first and a critic second, alas, he had to make it as a latter before he defended his opinions by being the former. Dreams of the big stage are attainable with his likeness and talent. He decides why not take up a profession in giving advice for a change. He is cruel and honest; some actors call him a phony, and others praise his efforts as he lowers their competition. Gradually, he accepted a gifted office from Paramount. It is a bribe to get their movies over to his good side. That same night, Lestat ripped French Without Tears to shreds. He kept his office, and Paramount apologized for the terrible depiction of the Southern French countryside. Lestat, in his usual manner, forgave them by praising Typhoon, even though he thought that the male lead was a virgin.
It is upon one of those shivering nights that Lestat found himself in a theatre, sitting in a cushioned seat of an earlier screening. Around them, suited critics poked their noses into their notebooks, writing down the formatting of credits. Lestat's notebook is nowhere in sight as he looks up to the screen to see the film's introduction: Niagara. Lestat has been to the falls, and he laughs against his wrist as the roaring water fills up the theatre with heavy drumming and static. It does not take long to meet the awaited star of the entire movie. An angel's face carries a subtlety of an uncanny presence that only one man in that cinema can recognize. Within seconds, Lestat is grinning. Around him, critics miss the lingering gaze of a profound woman. In a passing moment, the vampire holds her gaze as she averts her gaze from a husband she does not love. Cunning girl hides beneath the sheets, pretending to be asleep. Lestat muffles his laughter by holding his mouth with his cold hand. Oh, he knows a monster when he sees one.
That night, he writes in a fresh column of the Midnight Gazette:
"If not for the undeniable miracle of the lead's stage presence, the movie would have been better off in the underground dog fights. Inconspicuously, the grinning fool tries to steal the show but leaves it to the demonized to save the screen from rotting fruit. If only I had a papaya to toss at the lethargic use of the scenery. I had to bother a colleague who sat a row away from me for the next part of the rest of the cast. And it is really not your fault that your director lost the meaning of the plot. You have a broken marriage, and you only think of fixing it through death. Divorce is worse than death, and yet you miss out on the drama, substituting it for a cheap distraction of a couple who cannot enjoy the view of the Niagara Falls until one of them is chased by a ghost in a raincoat, nearly to death. Leave the man to skeddadle elsewhere with another man, oh, did you think I'd miss that innuendo? Getting wet together? I was prepared to leave the theatre with my imagination finishing the movie, but here comes my savior: Mary, the lead I have been missing for nearly an hour. And the director takes her from me by murder beneath the tolling bells. I sat in silence, mesmerized by the sudden rush of symbolism as she collapsed, lifeless, onto the powerful strip of light. Between her and that wretched man is a shadow cutting sharply a wedge between them, and yet in this brief moment, it feels like the Grand Canyon, a Babylonian Abyss. In awe, I stared at her, her saddened eyes. In them, I read betrayal. Oh, how familiar I am with that feeling. She captivates me, she gives the movie its soul before she rips it away. And what does the director do? He kills her moment by showing me that wretched man again. What a boring end. Mary, if you are reading this, dear, I beg of you to go off script next time and stab that bastard in the face! A knife is always present on set. You know what I mean."
Lestat finishes his review with his signature as he adds his address as if to provoke the myriad of cinema cultists that disagree with him. This risk is aimed at a single pair of eyes, and as Lestat spends a bit more money on the gazette's export, he watches the sun rise before climbing into his coffin. The main tableau announcing his proximity announces that the Midnight Gazette is only open from eight in the evening until the late sunrise. In a cushioned abode hidden from the curious eye of his resenters, Lestat lounges with coffee that has long lost its effect on him. He cradles a book in his hands, thumbing through the pages as he reignites his longing for medieval horror. He drinks, flips the page, and waits.
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