On long takes and held breath
The first time I held a shot longer than I was allowed to, I felt the room get quieter. Not the fictional room — the editing one.
There is a temptation in early cuts to keep things moving, to get to the next gesture before the audience has finished feeling the last one. The temptation is wrong. A held shot is not empty time; it is the shape we leave for the viewer to climb into.
What I keep returning to, in Marigold, is a single take of the daughter looking out a kitchen window for what feels — to me, alone in the dark — like too long. Then, just before the cut would have been merciful, she breathes. And the breath does what no edit could have done.