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 the play, I think to when we opened cold on a starlit gutter, running gold with the neon drugstore sign and I'd read into its blazing line: forget the ink, the milk, the blood— all was washed clean with the flood we rose up from the falling waters the fallen rain's own sons and daughters and none of this, none of this matters.
Jamie made his landing in the world so hard he ploughed straight back into the earth. They caught him by the head of his one breath and pulled him up. They don’t know how it held. And so today thank what higher will brought us to here, to you and me and Russ, the great twin-engined swaying wingspan of us roaring down the back of Kirrie Hill and your two-year-old lungs somehow out-revving every engine in the universe. All that trouble just to turn up the dead was all I thought that long week. Now the thread is holding all of us: look at our tiny house, son, the white dot of your mother waving.