Moments That Never Make the Screen

Benedetto da Macuca | Olinda, Pernambuco

There are moments during filming that never make it to the screen—far more of them than one might imagine. I’m not referring to bloopers, those lighthearted clips some reserve for the credits when all is said and done. I mean the other kind—the ones that stay with you, etched in memory.

Today, I find myself thinking of a man in Salta who walked dozens of kilometers alongside his mule to gather bricks of salt from the flats, later to be sold at the town’s central market. I think of the widow of Beimar Mamani, beaten to death in Buenos Aires. I think of the American draft-dodger we found, my father and I, on a forgotten beach in Uruguay—he had fled to avoid Vietnam. And I think of the woman in love, standing in the rain with a bouquet of violets, still waiting for the man she believed she’d spend the rest of her life with.

One such moment announced itself as I walked the cobbled streets of Olinda, the old capital of Pernambuco. It was the sound of an accordion—just a few plaintive notes—that led me to the threshold of Benedetto da Macuca’s home, many years ago now. What followed was a quiet communion through music, his raspy voice carried by the weary sigh of his accordion. It was hot. We talked until dusk.

These are the days I remember with the memory of a documentarian.