This morning, just before I woke, I dreamed a scene from an unmade Tarantino film. We’re in a garage — a locked, wide-angle shot — looking side-on at a large sedan or small pick-up. It’s daytime. The passenger side door, closest to us, hangs open. In the driver’s seat, furthest from us, there’s a man. The man is Christoph Waltz. He is slumped low in the driver’s seat and he isn’t moving. Next to him, in the passenger’s seat, there’s a dog. The dog is a German Shepherd. It lies on its back, spilling out of the car, muzzle stretching to the garage floor, its body bent to a hoop of breastbone and throat. The dog moves, but barely. Blood leaks from a wound on its chest; we can guess it has been sliced through the heart. As the dog takes its dying breaths we feel it is already an unliving thing and this is its ebbing. Tarantino makes us watch its final moments.
How like a person it sounds, when it faintly pants and gasps.
By now we have noticed sounds from outside the garage. They’ve been going on all this time. Voices, the clattering of tools. Human activity. The world goes on, even as beasts die.
The car is European, I think, since it points to the left of shot and the driver’s seat is furthest from us.
Just when we are about to lose interest, Christoph Waltz gives a start.
He moans, and slumps a little further in the seat.
Now we realise that Christoph Waltz must have won the fight between the man and the dog.
We mentally intercut a burst of flashback: the snarling and thrashing, the teeth, the knife, the cramped confines of the large sedan or small pick-up. What a fight that must have been, between the German Shepherd and Christoph Waltz.
By now we realise the dog is no longer breathing. Someone says something outside, but we can’t hear what they’re saying.
Tarantino does such good soundtracks, man.