In The Detail

Oily rag, black nails, paunchy stance,
the script put the mechanic there
so when the star collected the car
he’d say, cash-registered smile,
“Ready for you, Sir,” open the door.
Not a line to Oscar for,
merely what the smart writer calls
very similitude.

But the mechanic had to go.
A trick of lighting?
Casting got him for the gold teeth?
As he delivered, tiny flames
lip-synched from his stubbled mouth
lambent fire licking back in
with the rolled r of Sir.

Umpteenth re-run in the editing suite,
the director, bearded fan of Buñuel,
the editor, statuesque as her AFI award,
sit uncommonly speechless.
The blown budget can not reshoot
a flaming mechanic!

“It can’t be real,” is all he can say,
of the unspecial effect.
His colleague, neckhairs also tingling,
works her dextrous art.
They see the mechanic depart
“Lucky he wasn’t in a wide shot,
focus-pull is to the car … There we are!”

To cut a long oneiric story,
the bluegreen flame
now came on four words of the heroine.
Then from the star.
Removed from billboard lips
it spoke on those of crowd-sceners.
Wherever they tried, the fire next time
whispered from a different mouth.

The mechanic had to be restored.
At normal speed, they agreed,
—shaken, stressed, behind on the edit—
nobody would notice, give credit.
Poor quality 35mil stock?
A Buñuel-ish trompe l’oeil?

Critics roasted the film
but not one
mentioned the Detail.