Jesus of Nazareth

(Genesis According to Hollywood)

The movie set had been ready for a long time. The sun beat down mercilessly. It seemed the equipment was about to melt, much like the local scorching stones.

Artificial palm trees at the edges of the location poisoned the area with the stench of cheap Chinese plastic. The staff stood silently between the trailers, glancing gloomily at their watches.

"Bill, are you sure we have to shoot by these exact rules? We’ll be cursed at the very least, and at most, we’ll lose our fees before the release is even out," director Michael Cohen sat in the corner of the room, clutching his head in his hands.

His assistant had just brought him the approved rules for casting and staff selection. They also concerned the content of the film. Having read the masterpiece of tolerance twice, Michael stared at his assistant with a pleading look.

"Yes, buddy, we have to rethink everything. And immediately. Otherwise, they’ll accuse us... of everything," the assistant replied, his voice full of despair.

"Let’s take it in order," the director didn't give up.

"Let’s. Maybe we can find a loophole?" Bill muttered in the same hopeless voice.

"According to the Academy's requirements, our Jesus is a former transgender person, supporting the LGBTQ+ community, fighting to save the Amazon rainforests, and is also African American?"

"Yeah, man, it would also be nice if he were physically challenged."

"Sorry, but isn't the fact that he's Jewish enough?"

"No, that's no longer a trend. He can be Hawaiian, Latino, or an Afro-Uzbek, but not Jewish."

"And the Apostles?"

"That’s simple!" Bill rejoiced. "Thirty percent ethnic minorities: Africans, Indians, Native Americans; thirty percent gay or lesbian; thirty percent people with mental or physical peculiarities; thirty percent women..."

"Bill!!!" the director couldn't take it anymore. "Have they read the Bible? What minorities, what mental peculiarities, what women?! These are the Apostles!"

"That’s not all, Michael. Since we have a movie about religion, there must be quotas for everyone, especially Muslims. It’s fashionable now, and we must respect their demands."

The director stared at his assistant with unblinking eyes.

"Billy, in the time of Christ, there were no Muslims."

"What do you mean 'there weren't'? Did they not get a visa to Israel back then?" the assistant asked in all seriousness.

"No, Billy, they didn't exist at all. They appeared six centuries later."

"Then who was there?!" the interlocutor asked with curiosity.

"Jews, Krishnas, Buddhists, Pagans," Cohen reached for the whiskey. His hands were beginning to tremble noticeably. And he hadn't had a drink since childhood.

"Well, let's seat everyone around according to quotas: the pagans by the hill, the Krishnas a bit closer," Bill persisted. "We have the Sermon on the Mount in the script, let them listen."

"Bill, one thing calms me down: we don't need to look for people with mental peculiarities; you will lead them. We’ll seat you in the center and give you US flags. You won't even need to learn the lines. Everyone will immediately understand who has the mental peculiarities here."

"Michael, I understand that you have a Russian grandmother and a Jewish dad from Odessa, so you know everything, but believe me: American and European audiences will swallow whatever we film for them without batting an eye. All fantasy movies have these quotas now! Afro-Knights together with Euro-Buddhist Shaolin monks fighting against Indo-Vikings. European royal dynasties with slanted eyes, in turbans, rallying diverse masses to fight against orcs, goblins, and Republicans. And this crap, damn it, makes millions at the box office. And you're fussing over some minor requirements. What's wrong with you, bro? Let's give the people this garbage and get our well-deserved Oscar!"

Cohen listened to his demented assistant with half an ear. Reading the text of the requirements for the third time, he once again could not believe his eyes.

"Have they lost their minds over there?!" the master of directing screamed at the wall. "How can we replace the fish with blueberries in the scene where Christ feeds five thousand people with five loaves and two fish? You see, the vegans are against it. The fish feels pain, pity the fish. Mother of God, why blueberries?!"

"Well, the sponsors said so. Since the vegetarians are against it and it needs to be replaced, let the replacement resemble a blueberry pie. I think that's very American."

"The events take place in Palestine, in the first century AD. What blueberries? What don't they like about the fish?" Cohen shouted in despair. Tears appeared in his eyes.

"Pull yourself together, man! Well, let's say it's a directorial vision..."

"Billy, I'm going to shoot you right now. I'm not joking."

"And also, in the sermon, Jesus shouldn't condemn same-sex marriage," the assistant began fearfully. "Or rather, how should I put it... they want him to approve of them."

An ominous silence hung in the room.

"Michael, they register them anyway and have been blessing them in their parishes for a long time..."

"Bill, you know, I've never been particularly religious, but right now I see clearly that we are going to hell. And the name of this hell is tolerance. I will not dress Christ in the suggested haute couture rags, he will not feed Muslims with blueberry pies, and he will not call on them to fuck in the a..."

Suddenly the door opened, and the head of administrator Sheila appeared in the opening. The girl couldn't stand the heat and tried to hide from the sun in every way possible.

"Boys, the extras have arrived, want to take a look?" Sheila squeaked with undisguised irony.

Stepping out onto the scorching set, all three squinted as they began to examine the "ancient" inhabitants of Galilee who had arrived to listen to the Teacher on the "Mount of Beatitudes."

Everyone was here: Afro-Chinese, Indo-Poles, Euro-Indians, Finno-Koreans, Latinos, Arabs, cripples, whistlers with bells, singers with whips, a group in latex with mohawks on their heads, feminists with bare breasts, vegetarian activists, marijuana legalization fighters, three in banana hammocks, seven dwarfs, and a dead-drunk hooker with "Snow White" written on her tank top.

In front stood a huge African American man in a red dress with a sash. The "graduate" of a middle school in Harlem was apparently a contender for the lead role.

"And these are our experts on the historical compliance of the picture with the requirements of the present time," Sheila pointed to two brill-creamed men from the Middle East.

"Hello, Michael, we have come to you to help reflect European values based on democracy and individual freedom as brightly as possible in your picture. We have looked carefully at the script. It completely ignores the aspirations of Europeans..."

"Excuse me, maybe you could first tell me who you are?" the director turned his head toward the speaker with irritation.

"I am the head of the European Institute of Democratic Values, my name is Nasser Abu Abdul Van Der Mahmoud, and this is my assistant, Muhammad von Something-or-other, I can never pronounce his new last name. We are native Belgians, I swear by Allah!"

"And what do you want from me, native Belgians?"

"We want Jesus to say in his sermon that eating pork is forbidden."

"Why?!"

"It does not meet the requirements of European democracy and violates the rights of believers."

"Which ones?"

"Belgians, at the very least," Van Der Mahmoud answered with importance. Von Something-or-other nodded affirmatively.

"We do not agree with this!" shouted a man in painted national clothes from the crowd. "I, of course, am not from Belgium, but I love salo (lard), and no Jesus is going to forbid us that."

"There, you see, the voice of the people," Bill stood up for the director.

The crowd began to argue heatedly, fists came into play... Michael turned sharply and went to his trailer.

After an hour of deep thought in his trailer and a bottle of whiskey consumed, director Michael Cohen came out to the people.

He wore nothing but a sackcloth rag from the wardrobe thrown over his naked body. In his hands, Cohen held a basket with five loaves of bread and two dried fish. On his feet were old worn sandals.

Casting a glance over the crowd of sinners maddened by their own greatness, he asked everyone in a half-whisper to sit on the stones and listen to him.

In his words, every letter, every sound was a revelation for those who had arrived and for himself.

As if he were hearing them for the first time himself.

Here is what the director said:

— Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. — Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted. — Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. — Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled. — Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy. — Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. — Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. — Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. — Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake.

Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.

And there was silence that day amidst the fake Chinese plastic palms and laurel branches.

2018. Collection "Revelations of the Nonexistent"

Chernyshev Vadim Pavlovich

#satire #darkhumor #socialfiction #shortstory #grotesque #literature #hollywood #woke #cancelculture #diversity #quotas #filmmaking #absurdism #society #modernworld #jesus #bible #faith #sermononthemount #truth