Radiance

The Radiant Car Thy Sparrows Drew

(Oxblood Films, dir. Severin Unck)

SC3 EXT. ADONIS, VILLAGE GREEN—DAY 13 TWILIGHT POST-PLANETFALL 23:24 [30 NOVEMBER, 1944]

[EXT. Former site of the village of Adonis, on the shores of the Sea of Qadesh. Night. The Divers Memorial is a backlit monstrosity, bulbous and black. Wind buffets the sound and lighting equipment; lanterns swing wild, illuminating splatters of congealed white fluid drenching the site. In twenty-eight months no one has cleared the damage or removed the debris. Beams of illumination land on a series of objects, as briefly as a kiss, then leave them in darkness again: A door with an absurd number of locks—more than anyone could need—stove in. The crumpled, netted face of a diving bell. The mangled head of a carousel horse. A swath of white fabric wadded up like scrap paper—a parachute, perhaps? Tarpaulin? Broken amphorae. Pieces of roof. Broken glass. The child’s slack, catatonic face. The faces of SANTIAGO ZHANG and HORACE ST. JOHN, struggling with cables and the boom mic, which dips into frame with the gusts of wind. MARIANA ALFRIC, her at-waist sound rig turning smoothly, though she has turned her back on the scene. She holds her hands over her face. Her nails are bitten raw. The mic records only wind, rendering SEVERIN’S beloved talking picture a silent film.

SEVERIN is grabbing the child’s hand urgently. He begins to scream, soundlessly, held brutally still in his steps by ERASMO and MAXIMO VARELA, whose muscles bulge with what appears to be a colossal effort—keeping this single, tiny, bird-boned child from his circuit. The boy clutches his hand to his thin chest as though it is a precious possession. His only possession. The boy’s eyes are as wide as an electroshock patient’s, pupils blown, his whole body rigid, erect. He moves his head back and forth: no, no, no. It is hard to tell—the film is damaged, the light levels destroyed, patches of overexposure blossom over the footage like splashes of milk—but the boy is mouthing a word that looks like please. The storm eats up his voice, if he has one.

SEVERIN’S jagged hair, and occasionally her chin, swing in and out of frame as she struggles with him. She turns over the boy’s hand, roughly, to show the camera what she has found there: tiny fronds growing from his skin, tendrils like ferns, seeking, wavering, wet with milk. The film jumps and shudders; the child’s hand vibrates, faster, faster. FILM DAMAGED FOOTAGE OVEREXPOSED SKIP AFFECTED AREA SKIPPING SKIPPING SKIPPING]