This blog post will appear in English only. The reason is straightforward: my blog statistics indicate a growing number of views from the United States, so I have resolved to publish digital editions of selected short stories and novellas in English for the time being.
The first novella is excerpted from the book "Noć Slomljenih Strela" (Night of Broken Arrows) and was originally titled "Zapali se!" (Catch Fire!).
For this separate release, I have chosen the title She's a Movie Star (Catch Fire!).
I kindly ask readers from Serbia to switch to the Serbian version of this post on the blog. Thank you.
Sebastian Sava Gor
***
SHE IS A MOVIE STAR
Sebastian
Sava Gor – A Novel
Martina watched from her balcony as all those myriad colors and shapes that had been there just moments ago disappeared. How, in the twilight, everything resembled a stage after the performance is over, the curtain slowly descending.
When darkness had fully settled, she withdrew into her apartment, and all sorts of unpleasant thoughts began to swarm in her head. Lately, there had been many things in her life that did not suit her at all, yet she had to deal with them responsibly and professionally. She, one of the most famous and sought-after actresses, had never dreamed of everything that would be asked of her. What people think, what they take for granted that she must do to practice her craft — simply put, she had often felt blackmailed and deceived. Lost in thought, she nearly forgot to head to the scheduled dinner.
She had been invited by a prominent Italian director, who would be arriving with his wife to discuss his new project, in which she held a significant role. The offer was more than tempting. The lead female role, which she would play, was to be discussed. Besides the director, the screenwriter would also be at the table, with his wife — he Italian, she of Germanic origin, a German.
Truly elegant company, with manners and, most importantly, very respectable.
The director and producer had found that Martina possessed everything necessary to bring this character to life.
The screenwriter had complete faith in his director, but he still wanted to attend the conversation himself; he wanted to see the girl who would breathe life into a character he had worked on for a long time.
Also invited to the dinner was a young actor, of Serbian origin, who was getting a significant supporting role.
The director’s wife was an elegant lady in her forties, who had maintained her vitality and youthful beauty through exercise and diet. She had once been a famous model. Of Serbian origin.
The screenwriter’s wife did not care as much for her appearance, nor, it seemed, for her behavior. By the time Martina arrived, she was already quite drunk.
“How wonderful you look. I can tell you, even more beautiful than in that film of yours. Oh, what was the name of that other film… come on, darling, help me out… never mind… little Winona, what was it called, the one with Sigourney Weaver… you know, the one with those animals… animals in space…”
The lady’s tongue was already quite tangled, although one could tell she spoke Italian well.
The screenwriter measured his wife with a stern look, but, probably accustomed to her outbursts, he did not deign to answer her. Instead, he welcomed young Martina.
“Sit down, Martina. Your place is prepared, waiting for you.”
Everyone stood. Martina took her seat, and then they all sat down again.
“Come on, please tell me… that film haunts me, and Winona is so wonderful… Martina reminds me so much of her…” the lady would not give up.
“Alien 4… that one, right?” the screenwriter tried to shut her up with a smirk.
“Yes, yes… Alien… my dear… but the second one…” He averted his gaze from her.
Images from that film flashed before Martina’s eyes, but she decided only to offer everyone a gentle smile.
“Uroš hasn’t arrived?” The director tried to change the subject, concluding that the young actor was late. He glanced at his wife, the former model. She, understanding him, asked Martina what she would like to drink, blushing as she did so, ashamed of something.
“Black Night.” Martina was confident enough, but the atmosphere of the evening carried a kind of stupor and indifference she could not help but feel…
“We’ll start without Uroš,” the director said once Martina had received her drink and taken the first sip.
“You’ve read the script?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. I don’t know if you agree that Katarina is a complex character, requiring deep analysis. We’re working on a personality that is torn apart. We see that, with the severe hallucinations crucifying her, she increasingly fails to recognize what is truth, what is a lie, what is good for her, and what is bad. I’m interested in what you think about that, and how you would try to step into Katarina’s place.”
Martina looked at him seriously and, after thinking briefly, said:
“I think that if I want to play Katarina successfully, I must also successfully play her two different personalities. That means I should play Violeta, Nina, and Damjan. Even though, for example, Uroš plays Vitalij, I think his role is just as much mine, since he actually represents Katarina — that is, Katarina’s hallucination.”
“Excellent. I must admit this is a good start. Here’s another question: what do you think about the conversation on the train to Naples?”
Martina was ready for the question.
“Violeta represents that primordial thing in a person that leads them toward self-destruction. In my opinion, that something exists in all people, but here we have a case of a woman with a disturbed mental state, attacked by hallucinations, an unbearable urge for suicide, or, as we have seen in some instances, even murder. This urge in people like her is secretive, pathologically hidden, like some kind of beast. Some decide on such actions consciously. This ‘consciously’ means even planned or cold-blooded, with a ‘clear head’ — if a head can even be ‘clear’ at such a moment. When observing such people, we see they wanted to commit a crime or a failed suicide without any prompting from outside, while others do it purely instinctively, in illness. With Katarina, as we notice, we are dealing with spiritual disturbance, schizophrenia, paranoid type, with strong hallucinations. And since this is a severe and poorly understood illness, I think some things need to be emphasized…”
Martina continued to speak confidently. She knew Italian well, and she enjoyed conversing in that language. The screenwriter was simply melting as he listened to her begin to interpret his work, and he sipped his fourth glass of wine with pleasure. His wife was growing more and more bored, and to break that feeling, she drank more and more, beginning to make strange grimaces. The German woman, the director’s wife, behaved very politely. She drank moderately and smiled faintly. Yet it seemed the drunken lady could hear and understand everything better than her, even though she was completely sober and apparently very present in the conversation.
“Please, continue,” the screenwriter said impatiently. The director, too.
“I think I must constantly keep in mind that Violeta, for example, is in a way Katarina’s main torment — if not entirely the reflection of her soul’s state. When she says on the train: ‘…jump, use this moment, if you don’t use it you know you’ll suffer terribly…’ it must remain clear that Katarina is talking to herself, or to her demon if you will. But in any case, she gives up. Nina gives her solid evidence for her own views. Nina tells her what is deeply hidden within herself. And when she complains of ‘voices in her head,’ I think it’s clear that the urge for suicide can surface in the most various ways. In such cases — and I’ve heard that even children can become so ill — what remains is for us to analyze this struggle within her and portray it as realistically as possible.”
“I think, Mr. Moretti,” the director addressed the screenwriter, “that not even you have delved this far.”
“I didn’t expect it, truly…” The screenwriter was still smiling; it was clear he was more than satisfied.
Martina smiled, finishing her cocktail. The director noticed and offered her another. She did not refuse; she needed something to relax her completely.
“Yes… I would now like to ask you to comment on the scene, ‘Katarina and the bloody child,’ of course, in the context we just discussed.”
Martina thought for a moment, and a smile briefly played across her face.
“We can notice one important thing: Katarina is a complete enigma without her characters. She comes into contact with the world only through self-relation — that is, through her characters. Katarina sat completely indifferent, watching as the helpless boy bled and cried. Then Nina appears, and only after Nina’s advice does she get up, run, and, with unexpected strength, carry the boy to the clinic. It’s all clear: she sits and watches, the harrowing scene does not move her. I think this shows the full complexity of her illness. And that subsequent energy after Nina’s line: ‘Do it, save the child, do it now, you will regret it…’ shows how people like Katarina function on a basis of authority, fear, and self-love. Violeta says: ‘…you will suffer terribly…’ Nina says: ‘…you will regret it…’ Later, there’s also that line when Damjan advises: ‘…show who you are, take pictures, don’t think about what you’ll eat or drink, just take pictures, show who you are…’ The fear of death cunningly transforms into a morbid relationship with death, where boundaries are lost, and death can at any moment look like deliverance. The sense of sin in a sick imagination acquires a pathological dimension: doing good deeds so you won’t have regrets — that is, fleeing from repentance as far as possible — doing good deeds not because we want to, but out of fear of punishment, not changing, not truly repenting, but constantly running and lying — that means to deteriorate gravely…”
Martina stopped and thought.
“What did you mean?” The director looked intently at his interlocutor.
“What if Damjan is a completely positive character? Violeta pushes her toward death, Nina demands from her forced, violent repentance, but Damjan says: don’t eat, don’t drink, take pictures, show yourself. Don’t we all strive to show ourselves to others, to realize ourselves through something, to stand out and be ourselves, original? I don’t understand why Damjan is the character chosen to destroy Katarina.”
The director and the screenwriter stared at Martina inquisitively. Everyone fell silent.
“Mr. Moretti, please, the floor is yours.” The director showed what it meant to be a man of the world, cultured, at a high level.
“Dear young lady, I must repeat myself and say that I never hoped for such a delicate interpretation of my work. You have asked a very good question. You see, we strive to show ourselves to others, if possible with as much makeup as possible. We strive to realize ourselves through ‘something.’ We strive to find the best possible place under the sun for ourselves, the best piece of meat. You see, it is hard to renounce oneself; I consider that the hardest of all…”
“And why would one renounce oneself?” Martina was direct.
“If we are talking about self-love, as you mentioned earlier, we must bear in mind that the opposite of self-love is renunciation, sometimes even heavy sacrifice.”
“That’s extreme.”
“No, it’s the truth. The path Katarina walked was a path of complete mental disintegration, where in the end she — a recognized, genius artist — ended up beside her canvas, exhausted by hunger and thirst. For me, completely unoriginal, apathetic, and, of course, utterly schizophrenic. It is unnecessary to mention selfishness any further; her end transcends all that and paints a picture of complete emptiness. I am creating such a character precisely to show that even great works left behind by a person can never replace the person themselves.”
Mr. Moretti sounded truly convincing, and although a little tipsy, he managed to fully defend his work.
Dicht, the screenwriter’s wife, unexpectedly chimed in.
“Oh, please. You’re all doctors, now. In my opinion, there’s nothing special about it. A dark shed… yes, a shed. Some hallucinations, madness… Why didn’t you set it in an asylum? For example, that film with crazy Jack… why did they shock him with electricity? Because he endangered others, that’s why… and that Indian, how he walks out, and where is he going, please? He has nowhere to go… didn’t he head to the sea? Ha, ha… to freedom, no way… He should have stayed next to Jack, right there beside him, to be free… how nicely they played basketball…”
“Dicht, you are exaggerating.” The director was the only one completely sober; even his model wife had warmed up a little and grown bolder.
“I think that’s a wonderful film. The Indian should have escaped. Everyone should be free.”
At this, Mrs. Dicht laughed heartily. Then everyone laughed, but the conversation was interrupted by an unpleasant sight. Uroš, the young actor, arrived with a great delay. He arrived badly beaten, bloodied, with bruises on his face, his eyes almost swollen shut. Everyone in the restaurant stared at him.
“Everything’s fine, people,” he addressed his acquaintances and all those present.
“My man, you must go to the hospital immediately. You look so bloody.” Mrs. Dicht Moretti grinned inappropriately.
“Terrible… I went to buy cigarettes, downstairs, where I live, terrible…” The young man was visibly disturbed, speaking in a tearful, broken voice. “…and from behind, three of them approach me… ‘Little actor,’ one shouts, ‘you mess with our girl, huh?’ and boom… and there I lie on the street like this… it took me a long time to come to… I really don’t know… not that girl, not those guys…”
“Waiter,” the director reacted quickly. “Call a taxi immediately, bring ice, a napkin!”
“Double brandy…” Uroš was trembling.
“Double brandy…” repeated the German woman.
“Do you remember what those people looked like?” The screenwriter looked at the beaten young man, interested but not overly agitated.
“They’re kids… I don’t know, I don’t remember anymore… terrible… a girl, what girl…”
The waiter immediately brought the order, frightened, unable to take his eyes off the bloody young man.
“Perhaps we could cancel the dinner, but still…” Dicht clearly did not like having her evening spoiled.
“Out of the question! The taxi has surely arrived already,” the director was decisive.
“I only came to apologize for being late, and now I’m going to the ER,” said the young actor, and looked sadly at his interlocutors. He downed his brandy in one gulp and stood up.
“Enjoy your evening, and forgive me,” he said.
“Young man, take care of yourself, and try to find out who did this to you. We’ll see what…” The director did not finish his sentence. He stood up, and all the others followed suit, and everyone shook hands warmly with the young actor.
After a few mostly indifferent comments, the company seemed to forget about Uroš and his case. Hungry as they were, they awaited dinner. Only Martina seemed a little absent, frowning imperceptibly.
Dinner was a true ordeal. Crabs, fish, shellfish, bamboo salad, rice salad, potato salad, sweet sauces, hot sauces, pink sauces, sea chips, wine, wine, wine…
“This Italian restaurant is a real discovery, isn’t it, my dear?” The German woman was growing more and more relaxed and redder in the face.
“Dicht, believe me, there is no better, not in Romania, not in Hungary, not in Austria… of course, wherever I have sat,” the director was sincere.
“Excuse me, Mr. Narc.” Martina looked significantly at the director and, as if stiffening slightly, asked him: “I’m interested in whether you could perhaps explain something about Uroš. I got the impression that you wanted to tell him something, that you…” With this unfinished question, Martina somehow surprised everyone present.
The director stopped eating and stared, obviously confused, at the young interlocutor.
“I thought… of course… if he needs help in any way.”
“Yes… regarding help…?” Martina suddenly seemed to latch onto something important to her.
“I don’t quite understand what exactly you’re asking, but I assure you, my thought… was not malicious, and its aim was only to direct Uroš… besides, I didn’t say anything specific to him…”
“Yes, I understand that.” Martina smiled. Trying not to insist on that topic, she continued nibbling on crab chips and sipping wine.
It seemed, however, that Martina had achieved the effect she was after. The director became thoughtful and drank a little faster than before. Mrs. Dicht Moretti and Sara Narc, the director’s wife, were recounting some anecdote about Belgrade and their previous meeting there. If anyone had been listening, they would have noticed the anecdote was full of various morbidities, but the recollection seemed to amuse both women. Antonio Moretti, the screenwriter, was also somewhat pensive. At one point, his gaze met Martina’s, and something quite new sparked there. He swallowed a small shellfish and, inspired by something, asked Martina:
“If I may be a little more free — we do know each other somewhat, and I would, of course, like us to become friends — do you have any opinion on supernatural phenomena… not to be too general, but simply, what do you think about the existence of God?”
“Mr. Moretti, the girl is certainly an Orthodox Christian. I don’t think such questions are asked just like that…” The director quickly interrupted the screenwriter.
“I do not identify as an Orthodox Christian, and I am not religious, but I don’t understand… besides, the gentleman didn’t even finish his question.”
The screenwriter looked at the director. He understood that the director would not be pleased for the conversation to continue in that direction, and he clumsily concluded:
“I am always in some philosophy, but you, as a person who is not religious, naturally have no need to discuss what I wanted to talk about, or even to talk at all.” Now the screenwriter was transparently provocative.
“Do you think that because I am not religious I cannot speak about, say, God or anything at all…?”
“No, I didn’t say you cannot, but you have no need. I assume you’re simply not interested,” the screenwriter was already a little tangled.
“I have a proposal,” the director wanted, at any cost, to change the subject and return to the earlier lethargic cheerfulness. “Why don’t we go to Sara’s and my place? We’re nearby, and I promise we will manage to come to an understanding regarding all the serious questions we have raised.”
A few short sentences, and everyone agreed. Martina somehow particularly brightened up, and the dinner ended, to everyone’s satisfaction, with the same dignity with which it had begun.
The evening was replaced by an unusually dense night. Mr. Julian Narc, the director, was behind the wheel, driving slowly. The city breathed heavily. In such a sticky, melancholic night, few held out hope that the world would look better tomorrow. Those few people on the streets moved slowly and somehow artificially showed that they were truly alive.
The director turned on the radio and searched for a station. For a second, Martina heard: “…the beast is still at large…” The sounds of electronic music accompanied them to the villa the director had rented indefinitely.
The villa was not fully lit, just enough to notice it was in quite good condition. The garden was also neatly arranged and not overly “tarted up.” The pleasant atmosphere in the courtyard changed completely the moment the director opened the front door and invited the guests inside. They were met by a dreadful chill and a strange smell — roughly something like the smell of old wardrobes and clothes that had been stored in them for a long time.
The director led the guests through a rather long hallway, full of paintings and various antiques. In that hallway, Martina noticed a particular curiosity: on a small table under glass lay a dried, very small human hand. She was horrified but said nothing.
When they arrived in front of the large doors leading to the salon, the director stopped and addressed Martina:
“My friends are already acquainted with the situation, but I want to draw your attention to the fact that the scene that follows may not be cheerful. I don’t know whether to tell you immediately what it is about and thus spoil…”
“Don’t worry about me,” Martina was more than curious.
The doors were opened, and she truly had something to see. In the middle of the large salon, on a special wooden table, stood a wooden coffin. It was open.
Martina could not move from shock.
“Come closer… don’t be afraid, Martina, in the coffin is an ordinary dead man.” A small smile played on the director’s face.
“But what are you…?” Approaching slowly, Martina stopped abruptly before a new sight, lacking the strength to finish her sentence.
Before her, in the coffin, lay a dry, dead Chinese man.
“This man…” The director immediately began to dispel the dark atmosphere that had seized the young actress’s soul. “…served my family and me for a full forty years. He passed away last night. I wanted him to spend one more night with me, like this.”
“But why…?” Martina could not take her eyes off the bier.
“Please, sit down. Sara, be so kind…” Sara understood that she should serve the guests.
There was little light in the salon. Upon returning, Sara lit the large candles that had been placed around the coffin. She brought with her a liter of some old cognac and a pitcher of water. They settled into a comfortable and luxurious bamboo seating set.
“For me, what you see — the dead man, of course — is an image of both the natural and the supernatural, of existence and non-existence. Before our eyes are love and hate, virtue and pride, knowledge and ignorance, and whatever else you like…”
“You are still using this man. Even dead, he serves you…” Martina spoke as if in a fever, downing almost half a glass of cognac. She continued haltingly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about… all of a sudden… I said I have no definite position… but even though he is dead, I am not dead… I will tell everyone that you exhibited a dead servant so that even dead, he might serve you and entertain your imagination.”
“That’s interesting. But you see, you're having no definite position is in the past. Today, everyone has a position: God or the Devil, Black or White, whether it’s made of glass or iron. There is no more of that last-century philosophy that God is dead but maybe not dead, that the Devil doesn’t exist but maybe there’s something to it. Such a philosophy cost our civilization dearly in the last century. We are obliged to define ourselves and to understand that if there is no God, there is no Devil either, and vice versa — or, of course, that we don’t care about any of it, which would then make us physical and mental cripples.”
“So what do you believe in?” Martina’s pupils suddenly dilated.
“Me… I don’t care. I advocate the idea of mental cripples and their mutants…” The director laughed horribly, then somewhat startled even his now completely drunk friends, who nevertheless burst into laughter along with him.
“This is completely absurd, terrible…” Martina felt a slight tremor.
“Girl, girl, let me smell you…” Dicht, who was sitting next to Martina, shoved her face into Martina’s long hair. She managed to tug it a little. Martina flinched and looked at the drunken woman, wondering whether she had pulled it on purpose or by accident.
“Darling… my people… liander, white night on hot sand by the ocean… oh, what all scents are hidden in you…” Dicht began to sway slightly.
“I think I should go,” Martina had had enough.
“No, no. Now we’ll let our little Liu listen to some evening music. He has entertained us enough…” The screenwriter stood up, looked at the director, and, seeing his approval, got up and began looking around the room.
“Please…” Martina no longer knew what to do. She was sitting in complete darkness with people she barely knew. The lethargy from the beginning of the evening had been replaced by unexpected aggressiveness.
Her still unhappy thoughts were struck by a violent blow. The screenwriter had put on music — some version of The Phantom of the Opera. He approached the table while Dicht and Sara stood up and began to dance.
The director took a small special pipe, placed in it a small piece of something he had taken from a box on the table, and lit it. His face instantly became completely deformed; his firm, characteristic features seemed to melt away, and he truly took on the appearance of a mentally disturbed person. Only his eyes, through half-lowered lids, glittered with a sinister, fluorescent glow.
“What are you doing…?” Martina, horrified and completely unsettled, rose from the table.
The screenwriter, who was standing beside her, approached and whispered:
“Can you BELIEVE… I BELIEVE…,” he giggled, swaying and trying to catch the rhythm.
Martina, without a word, shot him a look, then looked at the two dazed women and now completely mad director, who was drinking cognac from the bottle and looked like a desperate man at the end of his rope, about to do something terrible — yet he did nothing, only laughed, knowing the impression of disfigurement he left.
Martina could not take it anymore. She left without saying goodbye.
The way home — by taxi and then a little on foot — was strewn with the most varied, painful impressions, and she felt the need to scrub herself with soap and bathe as soon as possible. Her thoughts became blocked and disappeared unfinished, replaced by others, equally exhausting but completely incomplete and unclear.
In front of her building, she stopped. Next to the entrance, deep in the shadow, stood a man. She felt his presence strongly. His eyes from the darkness seemed to devour her.
“You again?” Martina obviously knew the young man hiding in the dark.
“Forever with you…” The young man answered in a heavy, shaken tone.
“As you wish. But understand, everything has its end.”
“There is no end. You know that. I love you, and as long as that is so, I can be ‘free’ on your side. But you will never be ‘free’ — that painfully ‘free’ on my side. I will never allow you to obtain such ‘freedom.’ It would kill you. I think that’s not even ‘freedom,’ but ‘free hell’…”
The young man spoke with sobs, visibly shaken… his lips trembled.
“And you will watch…” he continued, beside himself.
“What will I watch?” Martina looked at him significantly.
“I will set myself on fire!” he said, now with a strange, sinister gleam in his eyes.
“You will what!?”
“I will douse myself and set myself on fire…” The young man was already fading.
“All of you… sick…” Martina cut him off and ran into the building.
After showering, she turned off all the lights and covered her head with a pillow. For a long time, she could not fall asleep. She decided to break the chains of various compromises. She decided to refuse the respected director and the challenging role. She decided to start believing in someone or something — only she did not know exactly in whom or in what. Everything she decided remained that night. And with the first sharp onset of morning freshness and the scent of acacia that filled her room, she sank into sleep.
Sebastian Sava Gor – Biography
Sebastian Sava Gor is a contemporary Serbian writer, musician, and multidisciplinary author whose work spans literature, philosophy, theology, film aesthetics, and deep introspective analysis of modern human existence. His creative output emerges from a persistent tension between the visible and the invisible, the rational and the intuitive, the personal and the universal.
Gor’s writing is characterized by a distinctive fusion of poetic expression and conceptual precision. He explores themes such as identity and personality, the nature of consciousness, the relationship between freedom and structure, and the spiritual condition of man in the modern world. His work often reflects an engagement with Orthodox Christian thought, as well as philosophical and psychological traditions, integrating them into a unique contemporary voice.
As an artist, he approaches creation as a fundamentally transformative act — an attempt to shape meaning from chaos and reveal deeper layers of reality. His literary style frequently incorporates cinematic elements, constructing scenes with strong visual and atmospheric presence, while maintaining philosophical depth and symbolic resonance.
In addition to literature, Gor is actively involved in music and broader artistic expression, treating all forms of creativity as interconnected fields within a single existential and spiritual inquiry. His work seeks not only to interpret the world, but to challenge the reader or viewer to engage consciously with it.
Sebastian Sava Gor’s projects are driven by a commitment to truth, beauty, and the expansion of human awareness. Through his writing and artistic practice, he aims to encourage critical thinking, inner reflection, and a more profound understanding of reality beyond surface appearances.
📖 Спонтано сагоревање - Себастиан Сава Гор - Nova POETIKA
📖Komplet Knjiga - Sebastian Sava Gor - Nova POETIKA
SCRIBD: She is a Movie Star - Novel by Sebastian Sava Gor
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