Sally Menke: Rest in Peace
Radiation Level: Dangerous, Do Not Go Outside
Listening To: Golden Years by David Bowie
Sally Menke, the editor for all of Quentin Tarantino’s films, died on Monday. She was 56. Apparently she went hiking in Bronson Canyon with her black lab and was found deceased at 2am that night, her dog standing faithfully by her side. It just so happens that Monday was the hottest day in Los Angeles ever recorded. It’s not known if the heat was a factor, but it was damn hot.
An autopsy was performed yesterday, but as far as I can tell, the results haven’t been released. She was twice nominated for Academy Awards.
Editing has always been a mysterious art form to me. I’ve sat next to editors as they try and put the pieces of my shot script together, making them more than coherent. The goal is to make them fit together in a way that transcends watching real life. It’s painstaking. It’s a bitch of a job. It’s alchemy. It is the final draft of ones script.
I found two videos that show the love Quentin clearly had for his editor and friend. This one is comprised of “Hi Sally’s”
This one has Quentin speaking about his relationship with Sally several years ago when making Death Proof.
I wish strength and courage to Sally’s family and friends…
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaethon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway’s eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven’s back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow’d night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.