.jpg)
Sport 43: 2015
Chris Tse — MacGuffin
Chris Tse
MacGuffin
To say the briefcase is pertinent
is to ignore the man in
the speckled grey suit slouched
by the pay phone, moustache
ready to turn villain,
his concealed gun pressed squarely
against his ribcage. You can tell
he’s a baddie because
he doesn’t blink and looks straight
into the camera like he couldn’t
give a fuck. To express
that the film did not commit
to the characters’ intents is to
impose your own logic, tongue
lashing at the masses, not able to
turn their eyes to the dirty light
tainting the walls
of bathroom stalls
used for hook-ups and quick
fixes. There: the clinical plink
of syringes falling to the floor
and fluorescent tubes realising
illumination. At this point, we are
questioned about our own intent
as an audience of willing
accomplices. Our eyes dilate.
What will it take for us to stop
resorting to tradecraft
to pull each other into honest
page 245
dialogue? Some of us rely on
our gift of good timing; our days
are hung on it. The rest of us
second-guess The End. I never
walk out on films because
I hate to see a story go
unfinished. You are more
likely to walk, whereas I could
never leave you. But there’s
the door, and I’m told the sky
is particularly bright tonight.
It only takes a little moonlight
to test your commitment
to a role.