We once had an old cook, a great hand at elaborate pastries. I watched her in the kitchen putting the final touches to a huge pie. Vine leaves, scrolls and curly bits of pastry, all brushed over with a feather dipped in yolk of egg. A final flourish and “There, Master Michael. A pie fit for a king.” she said. Then, as she slid it into a hot oven, the disillusionment of a true artist swept over her and I heard her mutter darkly “And then you eats it, and it’s all done.” If her audience praised her work, she beamed. If they were indifferent, she would say scornfully “Not a bit of good cooking for some folks.” She is still making pies and I am still making films, but for a long time, none can be so near my heart as The Edge Of The World. I wish I were as sure of its perfection as the old cook was of her pies. At any rate, like her, I can always have the last word.
The Edge of the World: The Making of a Film (Michael Powell)
Quixotando 