Rain Don Paterson
I love all films that start with rain: rain, braiding a windowpane or darkening a hung-out dress or streaming down her upturned face; one big thundering downpour right through the empty script and score before the act, before the blame, before the lens pulls through the frame to where the woman sits alone beside a silent telephone or the dress lies ruined on the grass or the girl walks off the overpass, and all things flow out from that source along their fatal watercourse. However bad or overlong such a film can do no wrong, so when his native twang shows through or when the boom dips into view or when her speech starts to betray its adaptation from a play, I think to when we opened cold on a starlit gutter, running gold with the neon of a drugstore sign and Iâd read into its blazing line: forget the ink, the milk, the blood â all was washed clean with the flood we rose up from the falling waters the fallen rainâs own sons and daughters and none of this, none of this matters.
