"This is where I live," she says. As the camera pans out, on to the descension-of-altitude hilltops [in green] towards the Pacific Ocean and the little town in the big city.
We see a boy at a window, on the other side of it is a cold and stately Boston. It's a memory the girl is having - this vision of the boy and his city, so far away from her own - a memory of something she's never seen. Only gleaned from a procession of brief meeting to midnight conversations when she has something to express, and days worth of frustration from lack of expression, but he seems to get her anyway.
This we figure out because the brilliant director finds flashes of scenes on the movie screen to help explain what words are insufficient for.
With an appropriate soundtrack, naturally.
There have been enough brilliant discussions at run-down cafes, enough educational triumphs, enough tortured poetry, enough moments of peace [following obstacles overcome], enough earth-shattering nights and soul-fulfilling days to consitute the next halfhour of film.
Climactic worst-day-of-life action up next. Make the audience feel her fear. We want them to know the repetitious pain as it came in after-shocks piling up on each other so fast it was like a seizure of uncertainty. Get their sympathy, pity, and love. They will love her for her misfortune.
Maybe she'll go visit the boy in Boston. Maybe he'll visit her at the Pacific Ocean. [They'll have dinner, let them drink red wine by candlelight] and talk over all the past with as few words as possible, but with more meaning than mere language could say again. Dramatic music to stress this importance of friendship, then camera shots of breathtaking scenery.
Once the earthly turmoil and moral victory have been shared and put in the past, credits roll.
Because in the movies, and in writing, there is always an ending. She loves happy endings. But she also knows that really things don't end, just circle back around again. That neverending story that is a sequel whose credits don't matter as much as the moments do.
We see a boy at a window, on the other side of it is a cold and stately Boston. It's a memory the girl is having - this vision of the boy and his city, so far away from her own - a memory of something she's never seen. Only gleaned from a procession of brief meeting to midnight conversations when she has something to express, and days worth of frustration from lack of expression, but he seems to get her anyway.
This we figure out because the brilliant director finds flashes of scenes on the movie screen to help explain what words are insufficient for.
With an appropriate soundtrack, naturally.
There have been enough brilliant discussions at run-down cafes, enough educational triumphs, enough tortured poetry, enough moments of peace [following obstacles overcome], enough earth-shattering nights and soul-fulfilling days to consitute the next halfhour of film.
Climactic worst-day-of-life action up next. Make the audience feel her fear. We want them to know the repetitious pain as it came in after-shocks piling up on each other so fast it was like a seizure of uncertainty. Get their sympathy, pity, and love. They will love her for her misfortune.
Maybe she'll go visit the boy in Boston. Maybe he'll visit her at the Pacific Ocean. [They'll have dinner, let them drink red wine by candlelight] and talk over all the past with as few words as possible, but with more meaning than mere language could say again. Dramatic music to stress this importance of friendship, then camera shots of breathtaking scenery.
Once the earthly turmoil and moral victory have been shared and put in the past, credits roll.
Because in the movies, and in writing, there is always an ending. She loves happy endings. But she also knows that really things don't end, just circle back around again. That neverending story that is a sequel whose credits don't matter as much as the moments do.
