Starring: Carolina Cerisola & Willie Mcneil feat. Willie Mcneil’s Burlesque
Director: Brian Pope
Executive Producers: Martin Roe & Brian Pope
Producer: Muji Muhammad
Editor: Martin Roe
Director of Photography: Ernesto Lomeli
Production Designers: Brian Pope & Bronwyn Hancock

The sound of an excited audience, charged with anticipation. The rip and tear of trumpets and drums warming for performance. (fading up from black) The gods eye camera swoops down over the lonely bar as the patronʼs rush to get their seats, the three-times dimming of the chandelier, final warning and the announcers voice:

The godʼs eye camera has become a (steadicam) first-person POV, an excited member of the audience, jostling through the audience to a mostly unobstructed view of the tiny stage, already almost filled to capacity with the four members of the Willie McNeil quartet… The audience stills itself, we hear the sound of people Shhhh!-ing one another, the silhouetted shoulders of audience members blocking our view slowly move out of our way as we (the camera) looks around the stage and the club, momentarily blinded as the spotlight sparks to life…we follow its beam back to the stage where the incomparable Carolina is impatiently kicking aside a drapery on the too-tiny stage, immediately regaining her poise as the band starts up an infectious, bawdy rhythm.

Carolina is instantly in control, the goddess in her realm…a vision in a bejeweled dress, long satin opera gloves and a bowler. She flirts with Willie — theyʼre comrades in arms, old friends, two talented artists who, despite being way too good for such a cramped little space, love putting on their show, love working together — and it shows. She prances, flirts and plays with the audience — she owns them — but itʼs not enough! She scans the audience, likes what she sees, seems to be almost trying to find someone through the crowd that she canʼt quite yet see. Could it be us?

Suddenly her energy cannot be contained–the hat is removed to reveal her rich brown hair flowing over shoulders, she kicks over an old amp, using it as a step down from the makeshift stage and begins wreaking havoc and beauty on the shocked bar. She wanders like a beautiful tornado through the crowd, the spotlight scrambling to keep her in its beam as she goes WAY off plan, stealing men from their dates, their cocktails and their inhibitions all at once, trading some play and tease with the more secure women in the crowd, mercilessly overshadowing the jealous ones who are infuriated by the attention their gentlemen show the temptress…we, the camera eye, begin following her a bit…almost distracted by a woman passing our view, our eyes follow as she crosses our vision…but Carolinaʼs satin glove falls into frame, wiggles like the lure it is, and pulls our eyes back to Carolina…and the chase is on — No, not quite yet…perhaps weʼre almost distracted again by a hunky, good looking bartender — but Carolina again has us as she reaches into camera frame as if pulling our face to hers, tilts her head as if to say “really? him over me?” then blowing us a kiss…we are hers but we have to catch her to have her….

She ascends the bar, kicking over drinks when she chooses with surgical precision, our camera eye can never quite catch up with her — we dodge and weave through the crowd but can never quite catch up…she begins to work her way back up the stairs, we try to follow but it was a feint — she turns at the top of the stairs, weʼre in the cross-hairs as she sites her prey…and our eye now backs down the stairs, our eye getting lower and lower as if to peak up her dress as she descends the stairs, but instead her lovely face fills our vision as she shakes her finger at us as if to say ‘naughty boy’…the number ends as she does a final signature move/shake that would crack a lesser athleteʼs spine…and sheʼs gone through the curtains.

Our camera eye recovers — and must have her…starts to follow with the intent of breaking through the two burly-looking bouncers who’ve taken up position on either side of the passage behind the curtain — we begin to charge, but pass a mirror — we back up for a split second to straighten our tie, smooth our hair, in the mirror which is mostly covered with writing describing the nightly specials — damn, weʼre a handsome man! And a couple of bouncers wonʼt stop our infatuation. We back up as if to gain momentum for the charge and speed forward past them, through the curtain — into black.