LUCID FORGE

Since 1992, eccentric archivist Reg Hartt has opened his doors to lovers of rare film. With a screening room in his front parlour, he welcomes any and all curious visitors. You will know his house when you see it. There is a red neon sign in his window that blinks “Cineforum”, a Greek inscription above his door that reads “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here”, and a cast of mysterious characters that lurk in the shadowy background. Two weeks after granting us an interview, a pile of crumpled notes were found on our office doorstep, and we have dutifully transcribed them for you, on fear of mystic retribution. Enjoy.

He lives at 463 Bathurst Street. He lets strangers into his house to watch movies. There are no formal invitations. If you want to come you just need to notice the photocopies he has taped to the lamp posts all across the city. You may have seen them too. Black and white images. Salvador Dali. Adolph Hitler. Bugs Bunny. Always rustling in the wind.

For some reason he is expecting me this Friday evening. When I get there he’s left the front door open, even though it is terribly cold outside. As I step inside he appears from nowhere and shakes my hand. He offers me tea. He’s put water on. As he pours from the kettle water slops all over the table. In the corner of the kitchen stands a young dark skinned man who is watching us silently. He nods when he sees I’ve noticed him, but doesn’t introduce himself.

“Let’s go into the other room,” says the host. “Where the others won’t hear us.”

I’m led into a small cramped room at the front of the house. It is dark in here. The only light comes from the hallway outside. There are many chairs scattered about, and we choose two that are enclosed by a barricade of metal filing cabinets. We sit and I fumble with a piece of crumpled paper that I’ve pulled from my pocket. The host eyes the paper suspiciously.

“You’ve brought some questions with you, I see.”

On my lap is a handheld machine to record our conversation. This he also eyes in his peculiar way, peering out from under his eyebrows, which stand on end like a mad hypnotists. As I press the record button the house begins to creak.

Somehow our conversation has begun. I can’t recall if it was he or I who started it.

“The special thing about this place, and what we are doing here, is that we aren’t a part of the community. If you want to know how we’re a part of it, that’s how. By not being a part. At least not consciously. As soon as we become a part of the community, we don’t exist.”

For more about the haunted world of the Cineforum, and its mysterious host Reg Hartt, check out the printed version of Lucid Media, found on the racks and shelves of your local bookstores.