I’m setting up this scene more carefully <br />than any other; it’s the key scene in <br />that film that’s forever unreleased: <br /> <br />we’re sitting there, quiet, <br />comfortable in each other’s company; <br />there’s an anticipatory pause as <br />I turn to her and say <br />‘You’ve been a brilliant mother…’ <br /> <br />and it doesn’t matter how she replies; <br />I’ve said it at last… <br /> <br />perhaps if I do the retake with <br />every time, more care in detail <br />(faint background music? No; <br />that would make it artificial…) <br />do the retake, how many, ten, a hundred, <br />a thousand times? it would <br />come true.. <br /> <br />And now I’ve set that up, <br />I can’t imagine setting up the scene <br />with my father.. even now, <br />I cannot bear to think of those <br />pale blue eyes fierce with an anger <br />I could not bear to meet; <br /> <br />where’s the script..? whether it would <br />shatter his world if I said (I can’t even <br />say the words in mind…) : <br />‘You’ve been a…’ <br /> <br />or worse: if he softened, instantly.. <br />and in a gentle voice, began to speak <br />for hours on end, all he had hoped <br />to make this son of his, but how.. <br /> <br />.. or if (and here the script <br />is stained, unreadable…) <br />he were, too late, too late, <br />to say what fathers must all hope to say <br />one day, to grown-up sons.. <br /> <br />but who cares a flunkey’s muck <br />for films about self-pity?<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lights-camera-action-4/
