Mugabe Victor
Screenstorytellers rarely talk about the first scene. Maybe because it feels too personal. It feels naked, personal, or dare I say, explicit. Like confessing the first dream you had before your story learnt to speak. Before the themes, the structure, or the dialogue. Just an image that refuses to leave you alone. Maybe every story is meant to begin that way. Not with a plot, but with an image.
It’s no secret that Dear Darling started off as a collection of letters. Fragments of grief and longing passed between voices trying to survive themselves. But before Archies and Darling became real, before the world expanded around them, there was only one image in my head.
A wasted, broken man lying on a kitchen floor.
His eyes are salty with tears, having mourned for an eternity. His body is twisted and unnatural. The pose: The hanged man. A borrowed tradition from tarot cards. They say it depicts suspension between surrender and transformation. Caught between a strange space of wanting to live and being too tired to continue. Sacrifice: Giving up temporary comfort, habits, or control to achieve a greater, long-term goal.
The camera lingers on him. Etching at the audience’s patience. Around him, we see empty medicine packs, broken utensils and dirt. A symbol of the chaos of his world. A slight nod to what he has just done. An overdose, in hopes of ending his life.
He doesn’t blink. The silence stretches long enough to become uncomfortable.
Then Bang Bang Bang.
A sound somewhere; foreign from the moment. Out of place. A cheeky melody. The soft buzz of his phone echoes in the kitchen finally pulling the man out of his trance. His eyes finally twitch. He blinks for the first time.
The phone, an arm’s reach away, buzzes, inching closer to the edge of the kitchen counter. As its last inch is covered, the man finally reaches for it. We stay with the sounds for a while. Fabric dragging against the floor. Weak breathing. The scrape of dead weight pulling itself upright.
And then, instead of answering the call, he starts dancing.
Not well.
Not joyfully.
His limbs jerk awkwardly to the rhythm coming from his phone. Like a corpse trying to remember what dancing looked like when it was alive. It is strange. Slightly pathetic. Maybe even funny.
But most of all human.
And that ladies and gentlemen was the bridge into Archie and Darling’s world. Not the plot. Not the themes. Just a broken man dancing alone in his kitchen because somewhere deep inside himself, something still wanted to move.
“This article is part of a series exploring the themes behind my upcoming short film, Dear Darling.”
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