No Vaseline Here

I watched, repeatedly, when I was a child,

  the scene in 

Wuthering
 
Heights

 where Merle Oberon, as Cathy, 

  stares into the night, having just exclaimed her hatred 

  of his manners, his dreams, his Heathcliffness, and says, 

  “I am Heathcliff.” 

The shot is, of course, masterfully crafted 

  so that we see the shadows of the raindrops falling like tears 

  down her face,  

  see the bright light of sudden lightning illumine 

  her broad exquisite features 

  through the Vaseline-tinted lens. 

It is, of course, melodrama of the purest kind,

  a classic, gothic, tragic story in which lightning always strikes

  just when you are delivering your most striking line, 

  just when you are turned at a perfect three-quarter angle 

  to the camera,

  just when it can conceal the flight of your lover who did not stay

  to hear the part  he needed to hear. 

It is also an extraordinary statement. 

If she is he, then who is she? Is he she? Is there no she? 

Are they each other? 

It seemed, while frightfully romantic, 

  an unlikely comment to make to me then. 

How could this be, 

  that she should so disdain him, dislike him even, 

  and yet state she was he? How could she be he at all? 

It is not a question of love, though certainly love plays a part, 

It is a question of identity. 

These days I feel I understand it more clearly 

  as I fight a painful battle, not against my fleeing lover as such, 

  but with the part of me that is he, or that was. 

I have, however, still not found the right line to speak 

  which will at least give my 

  heartbreak such cinematic power; 

  there is no Vaseline here.