Dean Spanley Page #7

Synopsis: Each Thursday, a man approaching middle age calls upon his father, aged, caustic, nihilistic, and emotionally distant, perhaps from the loss of a son in the Boer War and his wife soon after. On this day, the son suggests they attend a visiting guru's lecture on the transmigration of souls. There they chat with a vicar and a soldier of fortune; dinner follows. Over glasses of Hungarian Tokay, the vicar, Dean Spanley, tells a story of friendship, freedom, and reincarnation. In what earthly way could this tale connect father and son?
Genre: Comedy, Drama
Director(s): Toa Fraser
Production: Icon Film Distribution Ltd.
  7 wins & 7 nominations.
 
IMDB:
7.2
Rotten Tomatoes:
86%
PG
Year:
2008
100 min
Website
583 Views


that he could make that one sound

convey so many meanings.

There was a "Wag" which meant a walk.

There was a "Wag" which meant

"Go away from the table"

and there was a "Wag" which meant

"You are to be bathed. "

And of all the "Wags"

that "Wag" was the most terrible.

Why was that?

Because, for all his great wisdom,

he never understood how embarrassing

it is to meet another dog

when one isn't wearing one's own smell.

But more importantly,

they did not know who you were,

so you had to go through all that business

of circling and sniffing and growling.

I was always being embarrassed in that way

with a particular friend of mine.

So what did you do?

Did you have to fight him?

Oh, we fought a few times,

just to get acquainted. That I enjoyed.

My favourite grip was the ear.

You always hear how going for the throat

is the best approach,

but in my experience it's almost impossible

to get a throat grip,

so I would always go for the ear.

But it does give the opportunity

for excellent complaint.

My friend had a very good complaint,

which I memorised and I would use

if I had to take a beating from the Master.

- He beat you?

- Only...

On certain occasions it was called for,

certainly.

Then I would use this splendid complaint

which I'd learned from my friend.

So what was his name,

this friend of yours?

His name? I don't think I knew

the name his master called him.

Indeed, I'm not entirely sure

he had a master,

but his complaint was most satisfying.

"Oh, rescue me. I'm a poor, unfortunate

creature, far from home and without a friend. "

"Help me, help me. "

"I have fallen into terrible straits

and am about to be murdered. "

Which, of course, was not the case.

This dog, the one without a master,

what sort of dog was he?

Oh, the best of fellows. Adventurous

and carefree, fearless and bold.

But you said he was whining

and snivelling about being murdered.

Oh, that was just his complaint.

How did you meet him,

this friend?

He would leave messages

on the cart that brought the milk.

And I would reply.

And then one day, he came to our door.

Well, I told him to go away

or I would chase him

and I barked my most enormous bark

and made myself very huge.

But he wasn't afraid and said so.

You weren't... how will I put it...

a female by any chance, were you?

- Of course he wasn't.

- Not at all.

We were just good friends.

He'd led a very interesting life

and knew many more things than I did,

which he told me about

in considerable detail.

- How did he tell you?

- In the messages that he left me.

And I would leave word of my doings,

which, I confess, were not comparable to his,

because all I'd ever done was

go for evening walks with the Master.

And while they were enjoyable outings,

they were but moon-cast shadows

compared to his adventures.

Did you ever go

on an adventure with him?

Indeed.

The greatest of my life.

I remember the Master had to go away

and I couldn't go with him.

And I was going to follow him,

but then my friend came

and he proposed we have an adventure.

Since the Master was leaving,

I said yes.

And off we went.

What a day that was to be a dog and

to be with one who knew how to be a dog.

For I confess, happy though I was

to belong to the Master,

until that day I had barely glimpsed

the glories of dogdom.

He introduced me

to the joys of chasing animals.

A matter in which

I was largely unversed,

having previously only had the opportunity

to chase a couple of cats.

Cats are of no use for chasing

for, not knowing the rules,

they invariably climb up trees,

a habit I find contemptible.

Horses, on the other hand,

understand the rules perfectly

and enter the business in good spirit.

But of all the creatures

that a dog can chase,

none exceed sheep for sheer pleasure.

Their fear drifts in clouds behind them

and you breathe it in as you run along,

so you become quite intoxicated by it.

It's as if one is not so much running

but flying on it.

Or perhaps swimming

might be more a exact description.

Were it not for their master appearing,

we might have chased them all day.

Be gone!

My friend didn't care,

but I thought we might be seized

and prevented from further adventures,

so I persuaded him to leave.

So we went into the woods.

And there we had the good fortune

to come across... a rabbit.

It's not commonly known

that rabbit scent,

particularly when it's frightened -

and this one was very frightened indeed -

does not lie along the ground,

but rises in heaps

so you have to jump to inhale it.

When we'd had our fill of its fear,

we turned to catching it,

and in this endeavour my friend showed

what a splendid fellow he was,

for he drove

straight through the thicket,

paying no heed

to its many inconveniences,

and sent the rabbit scuttling

to where I was stationed.

...how much more satisfying

a recently alive rabbit tastes.

I'm afraid the masters fail

to appreciate fur, guts and bones

for the delicacies that they are.

Then it was time to quench our thirst.

And then, as in all things

that befell us on that glorious day,

we came across some water

that had gathered in a hollow.

Then, after we drank our fill,

we rolled in it

to give ourselves a good glow

and then we went into the woods

to rest in the shade.

- Perhaps we should take our...

- Father.

Be quiet and sit down, please.

You went into the woods and...

And we slept.

That most sublime of states,

when a dream dreams you

rather than the other way round.

And when we awoke, the moon was rising.

It was just on the other side of the woods,

so we set about surprising it.

And we came very close to catching it,

for it was slow to get up.

But just when we were almost on it,

my friend couldn't control himself

any longer and let out a cry.

And had we been there

but a moment sooner,

we surely would have seized it

and torn it apart like the rabbit.

How it would have tasted, I cannot tell.

So we told it what a great

cowardly, unsmelling thing it was

and if we ever caught up with it,

it would surely regret it.

Then we turned around and went home.

So you knew the way home?

Oh, yes. Turn towards home and go there.

But you had been out all day, running free.

How far from home were you?

Yes, we'd gone many overs, that is true.

How many, I couldn't tell.

Overs?

Overs. Many overs. Over woods and

fields, streams and hills. Many overs.

And you just... turned towards home?

- How else would one do it?

- Then why...

And I knew that I should be beaten

and I remembered my friend's complaint

that I would use

and how delicious it would feel

when the beating had stopped

and the insults had finished.

Yes, the glow of having paid the price

for wrongdoing.

And were you punished?

No, not on that occasion.

Why was that? Do you know?

Because a very remarkable thing

happened on the way back...

which I cannot fully explain.

One moment we were running along

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Alan Sharp

Alan Sharp (12 January 1934 – 8 February 2013) was a Scottish novelist and screenwriter. He published two novels in the 1960s, and subsequently wrote the screenplays for about twenty films, mostly produced in the United States. more…

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Submitted on August 05, 2018

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