Monday, 5 January 2015

They dance the Continental.

They dance until they ache, and they keep on dancing. They dance until their muscles give in, and they keep on dancing. They dance until they sleep, and they keep on dancing.

Is it the magic of cinema keeping them going? The magic that kept Harold Lloyd hanging to the clock, that turned the gears of Metropolis, that came out of Al Jolson's mouth?

Or is it a darker magic?

The paper cutout of two lovers spins on the record player. Once, their deception would have been obvious. Before the Continental began. Now no-one notices. No-one cares.

Ginger sees something flicker over Fred's once-handsome face as he grabs her waist. A grey hair. Has it been that long? Now they're all grey. The world is grey. The illusion shattered, the magic seeps away, but the dancing continues.

They can't stop. They won't stop.

What I'm saying is, the big final dance number in this film is SO FUCKING LONG.


Post a Comment