A middle-aged woman, cigarette dangling casually from her mouth, enters from a door at the back of the “space”. She whispers something to her doting props man – something about the bags she has to carry – and takes a sizeable swig of something from a bottle that he hands her. We are backstage, moments before show time. With the sound of applause rising steadily on the soundtrack, we cut to a set of hands operating a lever, then to a sudden, vertiginous shot of the curtain rising up into the rafters. The camera looks up into the stage lights; its lens, momentarily, flares. We cut again to a brief shot of the audience, who are no longer applauding, but watching, waiting. There is a murmur of anticipation. We cut, for the third and final time in the sequence, out into the auditorium. We have joined the audience and are looking up at the stage. People’s heads keep popping into frame. The woman enters and the play begins.
Matthew Clayfield
Matthew Clayfield is a journalist, critic and screenwriter.
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