As he reaches for Wilson, his imaginary friend, born in the isolation of his tragedy, his face made from the blood of Chuck Noland’s struggling hands trying to make fire … he fails to “save” him! Wilson swiftly fades into the distance on the ocean current and Tom brings the world with him to experience the depths of a particular sorrow. I imagine the audience…. utterly still, a pool of listening minds, hearts slowly breaking.
After viewing this scene, you may hear the whispers of Craig Wright’s play, The Pavilion:
“This is the way the universe begins. A raindrop (that isn’t really a raindrop) drops, like a word, “rain” drops, into a pool (that isn’t really a pool, more like a pool of listening minds), and tiny waves circle out in an elegant decelerating procession, -cession, -cession. Then, after a time, the pool of listening minds grows still.”
What is this particular sorrow that we are traveling on, remembering still? Still. Listening?