The music swells, the horses gallop, one can feel the pulse quicken, and we are in the film, not just watching it, but in it, we have entered the world of 18th century France (by way of MGM Studios) and are now in the chase, or being chased. We hold our breaths; we clench our fists. The hero is about to be trapped, then, at the last moment, he escapes to safety.
We can relax. For the moment, Andre Moreau, only for the moment.
But can we relax? Can we ever relax again? I cannot. There was a time, watching this film, long ago on the huge screen at the old Thalia up on Broadway, that one could feel all those exciting things and then relax. But no more. Those days are gone.
Andre Moreau is gone. MGM is gone. The music has gone silent and the horses graze in a field somewhere unknown to me. For you see, the Romance of life is gone. The Romance of life. Interesting phrase and I just thought of it, just now. . . just now, just as I wrote it. The Romance of Life. Life is Romantic, or should be, or is at its best. It is a Romantic journey, not always involving the chase of horses and men, but of little challenges, little joys, and big amusements, big accomplishments.
The lucky among us are able to maintain that chase, that sword fight. Sharpened steel, the sun glinting off the blade, flashing brilliantly in the light, makes us alive and forces the blood through our veins.
But no more. No more for me. It is over, and I accept that the Marquis has plunged his sword deeply into my vital organ, and I fall to the earth, life's blood oozing out of me onto the cool grass. My life is over for the Romance of life is over.
Music up. . . silent music. Music only I can hear, as the theater darkens, and the audience begins to exit.
