“I’m a soundtrack kind of girl,” she told me. The sun honed in low, shadows that nuzzled into her ruby hair – hair the vermilion of a dowager aunt’s soft furnishings.
And I thought about what she was telling me. The interplay, the cinematic verve of loaded dialogue – as if banks of brooding, legato strings had woken up to the timbre of this movie; the fedora-wearing protagonist, lighting a cigarette in the monochrome night; the femme fatale, and that glimpse of leg, high up on the cinema screen.
Except that this wasn’t a film, or even a wedding present, only words. Mentions of Morricone, of Bernard Herrmann, of Audrey Hepburn singing ‘Moon River’ on her fire escape. She sipped her drink with barely a hint of suggestion as words and images flickered against the celluloid backdrop. There was so much I wanted to say – questions framed by sunset, by movie theatre intrigue – and maybe I asked them all, but she only smiled, and with the raise of a subtle eyebrow, whispered “You’ll find any excuse to feature a Cinerama track”.
Cinerama / Wow
And in case the above reads like a self-indulgent slice of anti-fiction, Cinerama were the sabbatical band – think early 2000’s – of a certain David Gedge. And if you’re unfamiliar with that name, then you’re certainly not going to spot the moniker of his substantive act, shoehorned painfully into the text… I’ll be writing something far less obtuse in the next adventure.