Interstellar

First comes darkness, the constant hushed murmur of wind through brittle leaves. And then a woman's voice, quavering pleasantly with age.

"Sure", she says. "Sure, my dad was a farmer back then."

Then the darkness is gone, and all is golden and green as the wind stirs the tassels of waist-high young corn, rattling the stalks as it picks up, as if somewhere a storm is sending notice.

"Like everybody else back then," the woman continues. All at once she is visible against a dark background. The lines of laughter and grief etched into her face, the relief map of a long life.

"Of course," she says, "he didn't start that way."