When immigrants enter this country, seeking solace and citizenship, we subject them to a battery of tests before we count them as one of our own. These tests gauge their knowledge of our traditions, customs, history, language and culture. They must know all of these things intimately to be sure that they can interact appropriately with all of us Americans. But if this knowledge is all it takes to be American, if these tests indicate what degree of a citizen one is, then all of the naturalized immigrants have us beat. It is said that most Americans would fail these tests, showing that in a way, these immigrants can sometimes be better Americans than we are. Or perhaps it shows how easy it is to take your cultural heritage, your national pride for granted. The human race is much the same way. We exclude everything else from our elite ranks, be they wooden doll, androids, or the son of Lucifer himself. We exclude these figures from consideration due to their unique histories and origins. But there is something about being human that they are able to see, which we manage to pass over. They are able to see through, interpret and aspire towards our purloined identity, making certain aspects of it apparent and visible. They become human by augmenting these aspects and all of this falls somewhere between the ironic and justified.
Pinocchio, a puppet endowed with anthropomorphic tendencies, seeks out the Blue Fairy in order to become a real boy. He goes on a journey of self discovery, a journey of experimentation and imprisonment where things seem at once within and without his control. He deviates from the criteria that the Blue Fairy set forth, the criteria that would allow his complete transformation into a human, but his deviation is in the form of imitation. He drinks and gambles because of Lampwick, he joins the circus to help out Stromboli. But it is only when Jiminy Cricket brings him home that he realizes what is of value, and chases after that. He saves Geppeto from the whale, and dies in the process. Having now illustrated the characteristics that defined a human to the Blue Fairy (bravery, honesty, selflessness and a good conscience) she rewards him with resurrection as a real boy.
In Bladerunner, Ridley Scott's purported masterpiece, Rick Deckard is of the title profession and, as such, must retire rogue replicants. (For those of you who slept through the last 30 years, replicants are androids that heavily resemble humans. In particular, the ones in question have implanted memories and synthetic emotions so that the line between human and android is so blurred as to make them almost indistinguishable.) These replicants have a 4 year life span, so as to prevent them from discovering that they are not human and becoming dangerous. Deckard successfully chases them all down and retires 3 of the 4. The last, Roy Batty, is the one with whom we eventually sympathize, due to his famous last lines: “I've... seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain... Time to die.” These memories suggest that he was able to tell the difference between actual experience and implanted memory.
Deckard also subjects these replicants to a test to determine how human they are. They must endure what, in one instance, can amount to 6 hours of probing questions. Some of the questions ask what they would do in a given situation, and other attempt to provoke empathy or repulsion. What is suggested, though never carried out, because it would wreck the subtler elements of the film, is to turn the test on a human, to see how a human fares on this gauntlet of gauntlets. If subjected to that test for 6 hours, I don't think I would have the energy to continue. It would almost be possible that passing the test after so long would be proof of being a replicant, because humans could not bear such a series of emotionally violating queries.
So what does this mean for nonhumans? They must access some aspect, some characteristic of humanity that we ignore. To counter their glaring lack of humanity, they must find what we have lost over the years, the heirloom hidden in the closet, covered in dust, they must find this and use it against us. When we envy their selflessness, their honesty, their ability to be more human that we ourselves, they have won the battle. In times of great duress, we will, as we always have, blame it on the outsiders. But for them to even be included among our number, they must follow the footsteps of Hercules. He completed the 12 labors, which were considered beyond the ability of most gods, in order to become one.
If we are going to expound against these outsiders when we feel threatened, we must learn to exude the same human characteristics that they do. We must be able to pass the same tests, to cross the line between human and animal. We must identify those things that we demand of those who aren't members of this elite fraternity, and then become worthy of the title we hold so dear.
7.30.2009
Kurosawa and the Two Classes of Great Films
It seems to be the case that when one lists the greatest films of all time there are two classes into which they must be divided, which for simplicity's sake I will refer to as the technical and the emotional. By the technical I mean those films that exemplify certain filmmaking techniques perfectly, inventing a few along the way. You cannot deny their excellence, but upon repeated viewings, there seems to be something missing. By the emotional I mean a film that may lack certain technical aspects, it my have a diminished level of pacing, or the cinematography could be sub-par. But the experience you have from watching the film, and the experiences the characters undergo within serves a greater purpose, one depicting empathetically the whole of humanity. These films seek to elucidate some hidden truth among the rubble of our lives, to find the elusive diamonds in the rough. Akira Kurosawa, one of the greatest of the Japanese directors, never fails to have his films included in a top 100 list; perhaps it is because he has mastered both forms. In particular, his films Rashomon and Ikiru fit into these categories quite comfortably.
Rashomon is resoundingly in the first category, the technical. It has cinematography that is, for lack of a better word, mind blowing; it has dialogue that, if one were so inclined, could be quoted all day long. The images presented on screen are some of the most poignant ever, not to mention the fact that either Kurosawa or Miyagawa (his cinematographer) had the inspiration to point the camera at the sun, blinding its audiences with an image never before seen. The film is largely about a trial that took place earlier in the day and is being recounted by a character known simply as the woodcutter. The trial seeks to resolve what took place in the woods where a samurai was found dead and his wife raped. The first testimony comes from the bandit, who is proud of having fought and beaten the samurai and raped his wife. The wife then claims that she accidentally killed him. A medium is brought in who, channelling the spirit of the dead samurai, claims that he committed Hara Kiri after his wife's dignity was stolen. Then at the end the woodcutter, who has told us this entire story, has been shown to also be a bit dishonest in his retelling. It is largely a film about truth and justice, with large philosophical ramifications, but it lacks a certain human element. It is about the big ideas, but seemingly avoids more emotional issues. Guilt surfaces once, and the last scene has a human element to it, but the film at large depicts little of this.
Ikiru, on the other hand, is about a man who decided to live deliberately. When he finds out he has stomach cancer, Kanji Watanabe undergoes several stages of coping with it. After he battles the depression that is crushing him, he decides to truly live, to be alive and to feel this life coursing through his veins for one night. After that night, he continues doing things that he has always wanted to do, but it dawns on him that this is only temporal, this will all be forgotten when he dies. So he goes back to his job at the department of public affairs, where nothing ever happens due to the lethargic state of the internal bureaucracy. There he decides to accomplish something, to do something for other people, and he finds a petition for a park to be built over an old sewage dump. He makes it his life goal to get this park built. When it is finally finished, he goes to the park in the middle of winter to die, because at that point his life is complete.
Now both of these films are excellent in their own ways, the determining factor is individual taste. I personally prefer Ikiru, but many of my friends prefer Rashomon. They each have their faults, but so does every film. The question of which one is better is not one that can ever be easily answered, I always say between these that they are two different types of films, and must each be taken as their own thing. They each tap into human truths, they each have philosophical questions and answers, but they differ on a technical level.
It would seem, therefore, to make a film that could exist in both realms, that could spout pearls of wisdom, that could be a fount of human emotion and transcend the boundary between the technical and the emotional. Is this even possible? It seems the only way to prove it is would be to provide some examples. Raging Bull crosses this line, its dialogue and camera movements, its score and De Niro's acting, all raise it to the peak of technical creation, and yet it oozes out a thick tar-like substance that is Jake LaMotta's soul, we peer in and see the bubbling boiling rage inside of him and recognize the human aspects of the character that could have been easily portrayed as pure evil. This film does manage to fuse the two to create a portrait of a man that is astounding in both its precision and sympathy. Does that make this film better? I think it does, but as I have said in a previous essay, the real determining factor in deciding a films greatness lies completely outside of the film itself. It is based solely on how it effects you, the audience, how it complements your experiences, how it outlines your philosophy, how it puts words and images to your thoughts. A film is like a mirror, the greatest ones are the ones that allow you to see more of yourself in them.
Rashomon is resoundingly in the first category, the technical. It has cinematography that is, for lack of a better word, mind blowing; it has dialogue that, if one were so inclined, could be quoted all day long. The images presented on screen are some of the most poignant ever, not to mention the fact that either Kurosawa or Miyagawa (his cinematographer) had the inspiration to point the camera at the sun, blinding its audiences with an image never before seen. The film is largely about a trial that took place earlier in the day and is being recounted by a character known simply as the woodcutter. The trial seeks to resolve what took place in the woods where a samurai was found dead and his wife raped. The first testimony comes from the bandit, who is proud of having fought and beaten the samurai and raped his wife. The wife then claims that she accidentally killed him. A medium is brought in who, channelling the spirit of the dead samurai, claims that he committed Hara Kiri after his wife's dignity was stolen. Then at the end the woodcutter, who has told us this entire story, has been shown to also be a bit dishonest in his retelling. It is largely a film about truth and justice, with large philosophical ramifications, but it lacks a certain human element. It is about the big ideas, but seemingly avoids more emotional issues. Guilt surfaces once, and the last scene has a human element to it, but the film at large depicts little of this.
Ikiru, on the other hand, is about a man who decided to live deliberately. When he finds out he has stomach cancer, Kanji Watanabe undergoes several stages of coping with it. After he battles the depression that is crushing him, he decides to truly live, to be alive and to feel this life coursing through his veins for one night. After that night, he continues doing things that he has always wanted to do, but it dawns on him that this is only temporal, this will all be forgotten when he dies. So he goes back to his job at the department of public affairs, where nothing ever happens due to the lethargic state of the internal bureaucracy. There he decides to accomplish something, to do something for other people, and he finds a petition for a park to be built over an old sewage dump. He makes it his life goal to get this park built. When it is finally finished, he goes to the park in the middle of winter to die, because at that point his life is complete.
Now both of these films are excellent in their own ways, the determining factor is individual taste. I personally prefer Ikiru, but many of my friends prefer Rashomon. They each have their faults, but so does every film. The question of which one is better is not one that can ever be easily answered, I always say between these that they are two different types of films, and must each be taken as their own thing. They each tap into human truths, they each have philosophical questions and answers, but they differ on a technical level.
It would seem, therefore, to make a film that could exist in both realms, that could spout pearls of wisdom, that could be a fount of human emotion and transcend the boundary between the technical and the emotional. Is this even possible? It seems the only way to prove it is would be to provide some examples. Raging Bull crosses this line, its dialogue and camera movements, its score and De Niro's acting, all raise it to the peak of technical creation, and yet it oozes out a thick tar-like substance that is Jake LaMotta's soul, we peer in and see the bubbling boiling rage inside of him and recognize the human aspects of the character that could have been easily portrayed as pure evil. This film does manage to fuse the two to create a portrait of a man that is astounding in both its precision and sympathy. Does that make this film better? I think it does, but as I have said in a previous essay, the real determining factor in deciding a films greatness lies completely outside of the film itself. It is based solely on how it effects you, the audience, how it complements your experiences, how it outlines your philosophy, how it puts words and images to your thoughts. A film is like a mirror, the greatest ones are the ones that allow you to see more of yourself in them.
6.15.2009
Succumbing to the Beast
[A note, first: I took a hiatus for the month of May from watching films. In the mean time, I thought about art and music and literature. This essay is one of several that I wrote on those subjects. I hope you enjoy, despite its change in subject matter.]
Nietzsche speaks, in The Birth of Tragedy, of a moment of such piercing clarity, a moment that is so brimming with understanding that it is as if the viewer is able to see two things simultaneously: the work at hand, and the almost blinding truth behind the work. He calls this the "double look." As we viewers who have experienced the double look can attest to, it is as if you are watching a film on a screen, and all of a sudden you can see through the screen into reality, into truth and you stare it dead in the eyes. The only thing keeping it from killing you is the screen itself.
There is a painting by George Frederic Watts called The Minotaur (above) that almost perfectly exemplifies this pseudo-visual phenomenon. It shows the mythic creature sitting on a balcony, looking longingly to the sea. But the first thing we notice, the screen if you will, is that he is a Minotaur. We notice his brutality and his ability to kill us without a second thought. That is his modus operandi, and our fearful reaction is all too expected. However, as we gaze deeper, as we look closer, we notice the lines of anxiety in his face, the melancholic look in his eyes. We see his human characteristics. And it makes us think of his purpose, or moreover, his dreams. From that look in his eyes, we can tell that he has them, that he hates the labyrinth, and is waiting for someone to free him, to give him a chance. The stories inform us that the Minotaur was half bull, half man, and we have always seen that distinction as purely physical. We have sometimes even see the man half as his cunning nature. But what if the thing that separates us from all other animals is not our ability to reason, but our ability to emote? What if the most human thing we can do is feel something real? That, I think, is what Watts was driving at, trying to get us to understand.
Jorge Luis Borges, the godfather of South American Literature and one of the greatest short story writers of all time, wrote a piece entitled The House of Asterion. It told the story of a man trapped in a place with an infinite number of doors and an infinite number of paths, so intricate that he would never find a way out by himself. So he waited and waited for someone to fulfill the prophecy and free him from his prison (he was, after all the heir the the titular royal house). When people come to visit him, he recognizes the fear in their eyes, and it infuriates him. They shouldnt fear him, they should help him. So he kills them out of frustration. But one day his hero comes and our prisoner can tell that he is the liberator from the look in his eyes. The story ends with Theseus exiting the Labyrinth saying "It was strage, he didn't even put up a fight." This captures that ineffable sense of longing that our Minotaur feels as he stares over the Mediterranean. He is waiting to be freed from his prison, tired of his limited diet of virgins and prisoners. He realizes that he is stuck in an endless loop, a never-ending cycle that leads only to his perpetuated ennui. He is like all of us who are discontent with our lives. We are all the Minotaur: half beast, half man. But if we forget the man, if we forget the emotion, the feeling, in short, everything that is good about life, we have lost the struggle, and succumb to the beast. And then we are only remembered for our brutality.
4.21.2009
Great Films
There is no greater joy in the cinema than the feeling that a film was made uniquely for you. There is something to be said for films that create such an intense bond between subject and object regardless of their technical prowess. Some films may utilize great actors, others great writers, but only the select few are considered great. After a certain point, the acting cannot improve, the writing is superb, the music fits perfectly and it is difficult to distinguish in such quantitative terms between comparably well-made films. One must switch to the qualitative, the emotional, the gut, to determine which films are greater. This is why the great films are so personal, because without that connection they would be dull, lifeless imprints on celluloid.
Take, for example, the difference between Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket and Rushmore. The former is a techinically crude meditation on innocence, lost and gained, about three friends who can't believe that it is acceptable to just be themselves, and instead turn to a life of crime, something they have picked up from other films. The latter is also a meditation on innocence and individuality, and although it doesnt delve as deeply into those issues, it has a better script and is more “professional,” less crude. Which of these is the better film? It is impossible to tell from any description. The films must connect to the viewer.
Now there are some films which surpass the basic need to affect one person, and affect the world entire. These select few, naturally endowed with a sort of beauty that one cannot help but have a personal connection to the film. Citizen Kane, often cited as the best film of all time, holds that title because of this very fact. It is the story of a man driven by the American Dream, only to find out that he has lost something vital in the twilight of his life. This is something many people connect to, as we have all had lost dreams and regrets.
So, it seems that there is some area between being technically excellent and personally significant, and in this area is where the great films lie. They capture the hearts and the minds of their viewers. Some of the films I personally consider great are Breathless, The Godfather, Raging Bull, The Grand Illusion, Rashomon, Sullivan's Travels, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Royal Tenenbaums, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Pulp Fiction, and Short Cuts. This is by no means an extensive list, but these are all films that I go back and watch, time and time again. Each time my relationship with them is furthered, intensified. They become a part of my being, my experience, they elucidate my understanding of the world. And when I think of how good they are, I go soft in the gut. These are great films. And this is why.
Take, for example, the difference between Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket and Rushmore. The former is a techinically crude meditation on innocence, lost and gained, about three friends who can't believe that it is acceptable to just be themselves, and instead turn to a life of crime, something they have picked up from other films. The latter is also a meditation on innocence and individuality, and although it doesnt delve as deeply into those issues, it has a better script and is more “professional,” less crude. Which of these is the better film? It is impossible to tell from any description. The films must connect to the viewer.
Now there are some films which surpass the basic need to affect one person, and affect the world entire. These select few, naturally endowed with a sort of beauty that one cannot help but have a personal connection to the film. Citizen Kane, often cited as the best film of all time, holds that title because of this very fact. It is the story of a man driven by the American Dream, only to find out that he has lost something vital in the twilight of his life. This is something many people connect to, as we have all had lost dreams and regrets.
So, it seems that there is some area between being technically excellent and personally significant, and in this area is where the great films lie. They capture the hearts and the minds of their viewers. Some of the films I personally consider great are Breathless, The Godfather, Raging Bull, The Grand Illusion, Rashomon, Sullivan's Travels, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Royal Tenenbaums, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Pulp Fiction, and Short Cuts. This is by no means an extensive list, but these are all films that I go back and watch, time and time again. Each time my relationship with them is furthered, intensified. They become a part of my being, my experience, they elucidate my understanding of the world. And when I think of how good they are, I go soft in the gut. These are great films. And this is why.
4.08.2009
Indiana Jones and the Significance of Cultural Art.
[I reject the new Indiana Jones movie from the discussion.]
Indiana Jones is an almost mythic figure in our modern cultural heritage. He seems a demigod, when it comes down to it. But despite his seemingly pulp status, he, through his actions, makes very astute aesthetic judgments. Though I will only refer specifically to the film trilogy, he even makes these choices in the Young Indiana Jones series. In fact, all of the films seem to be directed toward one thing: possession. The villains all want the artifact for some purpose or design, while Indiana Jones tries to give it to the world. Perhaps there is some degree of selfishness to this, but he prefers to share these culturally significant objects with that culture, instead of having the items locked away or hoarded by some greedy individual. He realizes the significance of cultural art.
In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy tries to obtain the Ark of the Covenant, but only after he discovers that the Nazi's are doing it, too. He knows that if they found an object of such magnitude, they would be unstoppable against all the armies of the world. So he sets out on his quest to beat them there. And he does beat them, but they expect him to do so, and lie in wait. The villains let him find the Ark, and then take it from him. After much fighting and whip lashing, Indy gets the Ark back only to have the US government take it from him to put in Area 51. He argues that it belongs in a museum, something that has already and will always escape from his lips.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy finds himself in India. A local tribe tells him of a great evil that has stolen their spiritual rock, which he discovers is one of the legendary Shankara Stones. They offer to help him if he will retrieve the stone from the clutches of a great evil man. He tracks down the location of the stone, only to discover that it is held inside a temple in which the menu is comprised of still living reptiles and human flesh. Every night, amidst child slavery and black magic, the high priest Mola Ram, sacrifices another human after ripping out his heart. The slaves are the children of the tribe that begged him for help. Mola Ram has also captured the other Shankara Stones from other neighboring villages, and is using the power that derives from their proximity to exert a certain control over the entire community. If you drink the “blood of Mola Ram” you are immediately under his control. Anyways, Indy saves the day, gets all of the stones back and frees the children. When asked why he doesnt take the stones back to a museum he responds that it would just become “another rock collecting dust.”
In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, his goal is the quest of all quests: the search for the Holy Grail. The Nazi's are after this prize too, but that does not inspire him to chase as much as the fact that his father was recently lost looking for it. Indy finds all the signs, then finds his father, only to be stabbed in the back by his partner, a Nazi spy. He and his father, Henry, have a large abyss between them due to a falling out years ago. But they put that behind them to search for the greatest treasure of all time. Their biggest difference is not one of practice, but of belief. Indy, as a scientist professes no faith in God. Henry, though, is a devout Christian, something he claims is necessary to discovering the Grail. When they get to the end of the line, Henry is shot, and Indiana must proceed in order to save his life with water from the Grail. That is the only way to save him now. So Indiana takes the leap of faith, rather literally, and does discover the Grail. He saves his father, and is almost swept up by its magnetism, but in the end, lets the Grail go, leaving it behind never to be in a museum.
So, you might ask, how do these three endings have something in common? Well, he does what is right for each artifact. When a work of art becomes a part of a culture, is transcends its canvas,, its bronze, its unique fusion of colors, its workmanship. It transcends all of this. It shares a bond with the community that it is a part of. Quite recently it was discovered that the copy of the Thinker present at the University of Louisville was actually the original. It was believed to be a copy made by a student of Rodin's, but it has been tested and traced back, and the conclusion stands. It is the original Thinker. So the art professors and scientists decided to do a restoration of the work, given its significance. During this process, someone suggested that it be relocated to the Speed Museum, a museum that is practically on campus, so as to preserve it better. But they decided against this because there is a mutual symbiosis between the sculpture and the student body. To put it under a glass case would alienate them from each other. The Thinker no longer ponders the Underworld as he did 100 years ago. The Thinker is now an image of the student, constantly perusing books and rethinking ideas, fashioning new thoughts and contemplating its surroundings. It has rubbed off on the students, and the students have rubbed off on it. They share a bond, and to break it would be as wrong as destroying it.
A community that looks upon a work of art and collectively ascribes a certain meaning to it, based on their experiences changes that work of art. It is something new. It is forever changed. To take the Shankara Stone away from the Indian tribe that reveres it would be to remove that great cloak of meaning, to void in it all that is valuable. It would lose those magical properties and become “just another rock.” To not protest the relocation of the Ark of the Covenant would be akin to hiding a bit of someone's faith in the shadows. And to take the Holy Grail with you and show it to the world would be to remove the burden of the leap of faith. To prove God's existence is to remove the power of doubt.
All of these things are enhanced by a certain magical property. The Stones light up and imbue their owner with superhuman abilities. The Ark lets forth the Wrath of God for those who believe. And the Grail offers eternal life and health. As Indy professes, he does not believe in magic tricks like these, so we must take their significance to the next level. These objects are not powerful in and of themselves, they are not powerful because God made them that way, or Ganesh was particularly pleased, they are powerful because we make them that way. If we did not give the objects their power over us, they would just be rocks collecting dust, or boxes filled with the dust of age old tablets, or a cup made of clay. We give them the power to change our lives, and for one person to possess this and not share it with the world is one of the greatest injustices of all.
Indiana Jones is an almost mythic figure in our modern cultural heritage. He seems a demigod, when it comes down to it. But despite his seemingly pulp status, he, through his actions, makes very astute aesthetic judgments. Though I will only refer specifically to the film trilogy, he even makes these choices in the Young Indiana Jones series. In fact, all of the films seem to be directed toward one thing: possession. The villains all want the artifact for some purpose or design, while Indiana Jones tries to give it to the world. Perhaps there is some degree of selfishness to this, but he prefers to share these culturally significant objects with that culture, instead of having the items locked away or hoarded by some greedy individual. He realizes the significance of cultural art.
In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy tries to obtain the Ark of the Covenant, but only after he discovers that the Nazi's are doing it, too. He knows that if they found an object of such magnitude, they would be unstoppable against all the armies of the world. So he sets out on his quest to beat them there. And he does beat them, but they expect him to do so, and lie in wait. The villains let him find the Ark, and then take it from him. After much fighting and whip lashing, Indy gets the Ark back only to have the US government take it from him to put in Area 51. He argues that it belongs in a museum, something that has already and will always escape from his lips.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy finds himself in India. A local tribe tells him of a great evil that has stolen their spiritual rock, which he discovers is one of the legendary Shankara Stones. They offer to help him if he will retrieve the stone from the clutches of a great evil man. He tracks down the location of the stone, only to discover that it is held inside a temple in which the menu is comprised of still living reptiles and human flesh. Every night, amidst child slavery and black magic, the high priest Mola Ram, sacrifices another human after ripping out his heart. The slaves are the children of the tribe that begged him for help. Mola Ram has also captured the other Shankara Stones from other neighboring villages, and is using the power that derives from their proximity to exert a certain control over the entire community. If you drink the “blood of Mola Ram” you are immediately under his control. Anyways, Indy saves the day, gets all of the stones back and frees the children. When asked why he doesnt take the stones back to a museum he responds that it would just become “another rock collecting dust.”
In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, his goal is the quest of all quests: the search for the Holy Grail. The Nazi's are after this prize too, but that does not inspire him to chase as much as the fact that his father was recently lost looking for it. Indy finds all the signs, then finds his father, only to be stabbed in the back by his partner, a Nazi spy. He and his father, Henry, have a large abyss between them due to a falling out years ago. But they put that behind them to search for the greatest treasure of all time. Their biggest difference is not one of practice, but of belief. Indy, as a scientist professes no faith in God. Henry, though, is a devout Christian, something he claims is necessary to discovering the Grail. When they get to the end of the line, Henry is shot, and Indiana must proceed in order to save his life with water from the Grail. That is the only way to save him now. So Indiana takes the leap of faith, rather literally, and does discover the Grail. He saves his father, and is almost swept up by its magnetism, but in the end, lets the Grail go, leaving it behind never to be in a museum.
So, you might ask, how do these three endings have something in common? Well, he does what is right for each artifact. When a work of art becomes a part of a culture, is transcends its canvas,, its bronze, its unique fusion of colors, its workmanship. It transcends all of this. It shares a bond with the community that it is a part of. Quite recently it was discovered that the copy of the Thinker present at the University of Louisville was actually the original. It was believed to be a copy made by a student of Rodin's, but it has been tested and traced back, and the conclusion stands. It is the original Thinker. So the art professors and scientists decided to do a restoration of the work, given its significance. During this process, someone suggested that it be relocated to the Speed Museum, a museum that is practically on campus, so as to preserve it better. But they decided against this because there is a mutual symbiosis between the sculpture and the student body. To put it under a glass case would alienate them from each other. The Thinker no longer ponders the Underworld as he did 100 years ago. The Thinker is now an image of the student, constantly perusing books and rethinking ideas, fashioning new thoughts and contemplating its surroundings. It has rubbed off on the students, and the students have rubbed off on it. They share a bond, and to break it would be as wrong as destroying it.
A community that looks upon a work of art and collectively ascribes a certain meaning to it, based on their experiences changes that work of art. It is something new. It is forever changed. To take the Shankara Stone away from the Indian tribe that reveres it would be to remove that great cloak of meaning, to void in it all that is valuable. It would lose those magical properties and become “just another rock.” To not protest the relocation of the Ark of the Covenant would be akin to hiding a bit of someone's faith in the shadows. And to take the Holy Grail with you and show it to the world would be to remove the burden of the leap of faith. To prove God's existence is to remove the power of doubt.
All of these things are enhanced by a certain magical property. The Stones light up and imbue their owner with superhuman abilities. The Ark lets forth the Wrath of God for those who believe. And the Grail offers eternal life and health. As Indy professes, he does not believe in magic tricks like these, so we must take their significance to the next level. These objects are not powerful in and of themselves, they are not powerful because God made them that way, or Ganesh was particularly pleased, they are powerful because we make them that way. If we did not give the objects their power over us, they would just be rocks collecting dust, or boxes filled with the dust of age old tablets, or a cup made of clay. We give them the power to change our lives, and for one person to possess this and not share it with the world is one of the greatest injustices of all.
Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum.
It seems hard to imagine a musical, of all things, taking place during 1930's Germany. And, in fact, if it had been about anything else, the film would have been tasteless, tactless, and morally void. However, when push came to shove, Bob Fosse created a film that was not only beautiful, but communicated something very core to the human experience. He showed us what it means to live, to die, to cope, and to understand great tragedy and injustice. His film illuminates the human response to travesty, something felt by everyone who walks this earth.
Cabaret, as its title suggests, revolves around the activities of a nightclub dancer named Sally Bowles. This American girl meets a British writer, named Brian, near the start of the film, and falls in love with him, something not impeded by his later confession of homosexuality. She continues to pursue him as he is sharing an apartment with her, though she makes sure to keep her advances low-key. Eventually he caves and begins a romantic and sexual relationship with her. They also befriend a rich man named Max von Heune, who, one evening, invites them both over for a party. Their relationships are all ambiguous, and we find out later that both Sally and Brian had sex with Max.
At first she and Brian quarrel over this, but then Sally discovers that she is pregnant. She is not sure, however, who the father is. Immediately Brian suggests that they get married and move back to England, but Sally realizes her need to toss caution to the wind would be suppressed there, and instead decides to have an abortion. When he discovers this, he goes back to England, she stays in Berlin, and their lives go on.
If it were not for the sad ending and the shroud of Nazism, this would almost be called a happy film. That is because the characters make their world happy. They are surrounded on all sides by death, torture, injustice and war. In effect, they are surrounded by death. And how can you live in that world? How can you eat, drink or be merry in a world where it is unusual to walk down the street and not see a bloody corpse? How can you stay in your home when people put dead dogs on your doorstep? These are destructive times, and everyone needs an escape.
So Sally, in her great bohemian wisdom, creates that escape. She creates life. Her getting pregnant is simply a metaphor for the German people at that time. She sings and dances on stage, she oozes sexuality from every pore. She is life, or as she puts it near the end, life is a cabaret. Because, you see, the very act of creation does something to stop the destruction. Eventually, this metaphorical love child will be aborted, but the fact that love was there is beautiful enough. It gives them a brief reprieve from the broken world in which they live.
The Cabaret is simply a microcosm for this phenomenon that exists in all times and all places. Whenever we are surrounded by death we create life, and when we are surround by life, we destroy. Look at the 60's, a time when the country was entrenched in the Vietnam War, and there was a romantic bohemian revolution, a sexual revolution, a musical revolution. It was a revolution of life. Look at Adam and Eve: when presented with creation, they had to disobey. It is as if our bodies need to keep the creative and destructive juices in equilibrium. We need to keep our homeostasis, and when presented with a world that is either too good or too bad, we have a psychological need to reduce it to the middle.
I leave you with a quote from another great film, The Third Man: “Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
Cabaret, as its title suggests, revolves around the activities of a nightclub dancer named Sally Bowles. This American girl meets a British writer, named Brian, near the start of the film, and falls in love with him, something not impeded by his later confession of homosexuality. She continues to pursue him as he is sharing an apartment with her, though she makes sure to keep her advances low-key. Eventually he caves and begins a romantic and sexual relationship with her. They also befriend a rich man named Max von Heune, who, one evening, invites them both over for a party. Their relationships are all ambiguous, and we find out later that both Sally and Brian had sex with Max.
At first she and Brian quarrel over this, but then Sally discovers that she is pregnant. She is not sure, however, who the father is. Immediately Brian suggests that they get married and move back to England, but Sally realizes her need to toss caution to the wind would be suppressed there, and instead decides to have an abortion. When he discovers this, he goes back to England, she stays in Berlin, and their lives go on.
If it were not for the sad ending and the shroud of Nazism, this would almost be called a happy film. That is because the characters make their world happy. They are surrounded on all sides by death, torture, injustice and war. In effect, they are surrounded by death. And how can you live in that world? How can you eat, drink or be merry in a world where it is unusual to walk down the street and not see a bloody corpse? How can you stay in your home when people put dead dogs on your doorstep? These are destructive times, and everyone needs an escape.
So Sally, in her great bohemian wisdom, creates that escape. She creates life. Her getting pregnant is simply a metaphor for the German people at that time. She sings and dances on stage, she oozes sexuality from every pore. She is life, or as she puts it near the end, life is a cabaret. Because, you see, the very act of creation does something to stop the destruction. Eventually, this metaphorical love child will be aborted, but the fact that love was there is beautiful enough. It gives them a brief reprieve from the broken world in which they live.
The Cabaret is simply a microcosm for this phenomenon that exists in all times and all places. Whenever we are surrounded by death we create life, and when we are surround by life, we destroy. Look at the 60's, a time when the country was entrenched in the Vietnam War, and there was a romantic bohemian revolution, a sexual revolution, a musical revolution. It was a revolution of life. Look at Adam and Eve: when presented with creation, they had to disobey. It is as if our bodies need to keep the creative and destructive juices in equilibrium. We need to keep our homeostasis, and when presented with a world that is either too good or too bad, we have a psychological need to reduce it to the middle.
I leave you with a quote from another great film, The Third Man: “Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
3.27.2009
The Seventh Seal-The Point of the Game.
As a group of travelers settles down for the night, a man suffering the unimaginable terrors of the black plague appears just beyond their encampment and begs for something to quench his undying thirst. He, in intense agony, expresses his fear of death, a fear so human, we all sympathize with his troubles. But the more harrowing image presented to us in this scene is not this man on the verge of death, but rather the squire Jons as he comments on the futility of helping him. He refuses to give him water claiming, in effect, that the die is already cast. He has contracted the plague and is beyond help. This is a scene from one of the greatest foreign films of all time, The Seventh Seal. The films deals largely in metaphysical questions, the big questions of philosophy, but more importantly, the questions of dying men. Because when it comes down to it, we are all this dying man, we are all, in a manner of speaking, on the verge of death. It is, as they say, simply a matter of time before we check out, which in turn begs the question: Of what use is offering anyone help? We all stand with one foot out the door.
The film begins with a crusader, Antonius Block, and his squire, the aforementioned Jons, as they are on their journey home. The return to Sweden to find their homeland ravaged by the black plague, a constant reminder of the proximity of death. But Block is not reminded of death by the mottled corpses, it is the presence of Death itself. Death, a man in a black cloak without a sense of humor, approaches Block to tell him that his time is up, the die is cast. In a futile attempt to stall Death, to earn a few precious hours on earth, the knight challenges the reaper to a chess match. Block, riddled with doubt doesn't want to die until he can be sure of God's existence. As is the knightly norm, he embarks on a quest.
At first, this quest is a quest for knowledge. But he discovers soon that he will never be sure of God's existence. He will have to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Reason and “knowledge” will just take him to the edge of the cliff. To truly understand he must jump. So he abandons this quest for knowledge and instead searches for some meaning. During one of their chess bouts (Death frequently leaves to go kill some people) Death asks about the knight's new traveling companions, suggesting that because he has brought them along, they too will expire.
To backtrack a little, this group that is traveling with Block is a portion of a troupe of actors. They make their living by going from town to town making people laugh. But when the masks come off, they somehow manage to stay above the grim cloud of despair that permeates everyone else's existence. Jof and his wife, Mia, and their son, Mikhail, brim with radiance at the world. They are joyous, despite every reason not to be. When one of their number leaves the troupe to pursue a woman, they are left alone. The knight stumbles upon their makeshift encampment and Mia offers him wild strawberries and fresh milk.
Jof somehow realizes that Block is playing chess with Death after a fateful glance from the knight, and realizes that if they wish to survive, they must leave at once. Block seizes the moment, knowing that Death will not notice their departure as he has checkmate in two moves. He knocks over the pieces. As Death places them back where they were, Jof and his family escape Death's clutches. Death, in his elitist drawl asks whether the knight gained anything by the delay. And he did. Meaning.
We are all playing chess with Death. We may not realize it, but we know that one day we will die. That is the nature of life. It enriches life, it empowers life. In fact, death is the only thing that makes life worth living. Yet somehow, when faced in the eye with our own mortality, we cower in fear, hoping it will pass. Death doesn't pass. Man never wins the game. Why then do we play? Because playing the game is winning. Playing the game circumvents Death. We live in troubled times: times of war, drought, AIDS, distrust, and an increasing state of alienation. It feels like the end of times, just as it did during the black plague. But to lay down and let Death take your queen is to let Death win. The outcome of the game does not determine the winners in this world or the next. It all comes down to the way you play the game.
Marcus Aurelius once said, “It is not death that a man should fear, he should fear never beginning to live.” He wants us to pick up the pieces and start a game that we will lose, for we are all mortal, just for the sake of the game. He wants us to look at Jof and his family, a group of people that represent a light in this world. To put out that light, or be responsible for its dousing, would be a nearly unforgivable sin. They give hope, they make people laugh, they offer a reprieve from this world of suffering.
Sullivan's Travels, one of my all-time favorite films, is a meditation on the need for comedy. At the end, Sullivan says “There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.” This is what Jof does: he makes people laugh. He gives them a raison d'être. He understands why you play the game. For him it's family, for others it is friends. But perhaps the link between all of these is the creation of something beautiful. We must proactively let Beauty into this world. If we don't, we have a Pandora's box full of despair without the grain of Hope. In the end, it is the game of life that we are involved in; as long as we pick up the pieces and play with dignity, we can never truly lose.
The film begins with a crusader, Antonius Block, and his squire, the aforementioned Jons, as they are on their journey home. The return to Sweden to find their homeland ravaged by the black plague, a constant reminder of the proximity of death. But Block is not reminded of death by the mottled corpses, it is the presence of Death itself. Death, a man in a black cloak without a sense of humor, approaches Block to tell him that his time is up, the die is cast. In a futile attempt to stall Death, to earn a few precious hours on earth, the knight challenges the reaper to a chess match. Block, riddled with doubt doesn't want to die until he can be sure of God's existence. As is the knightly norm, he embarks on a quest.
At first, this quest is a quest for knowledge. But he discovers soon that he will never be sure of God's existence. He will have to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Reason and “knowledge” will just take him to the edge of the cliff. To truly understand he must jump. So he abandons this quest for knowledge and instead searches for some meaning. During one of their chess bouts (Death frequently leaves to go kill some people) Death asks about the knight's new traveling companions, suggesting that because he has brought them along, they too will expire.
To backtrack a little, this group that is traveling with Block is a portion of a troupe of actors. They make their living by going from town to town making people laugh. But when the masks come off, they somehow manage to stay above the grim cloud of despair that permeates everyone else's existence. Jof and his wife, Mia, and their son, Mikhail, brim with radiance at the world. They are joyous, despite every reason not to be. When one of their number leaves the troupe to pursue a woman, they are left alone. The knight stumbles upon their makeshift encampment and Mia offers him wild strawberries and fresh milk.
Jof somehow realizes that Block is playing chess with Death after a fateful glance from the knight, and realizes that if they wish to survive, they must leave at once. Block seizes the moment, knowing that Death will not notice their departure as he has checkmate in two moves. He knocks over the pieces. As Death places them back where they were, Jof and his family escape Death's clutches. Death, in his elitist drawl asks whether the knight gained anything by the delay. And he did. Meaning.
We are all playing chess with Death. We may not realize it, but we know that one day we will die. That is the nature of life. It enriches life, it empowers life. In fact, death is the only thing that makes life worth living. Yet somehow, when faced in the eye with our own mortality, we cower in fear, hoping it will pass. Death doesn't pass. Man never wins the game. Why then do we play? Because playing the game is winning. Playing the game circumvents Death. We live in troubled times: times of war, drought, AIDS, distrust, and an increasing state of alienation. It feels like the end of times, just as it did during the black plague. But to lay down and let Death take your queen is to let Death win. The outcome of the game does not determine the winners in this world or the next. It all comes down to the way you play the game.
Marcus Aurelius once said, “It is not death that a man should fear, he should fear never beginning to live.” He wants us to pick up the pieces and start a game that we will lose, for we are all mortal, just for the sake of the game. He wants us to look at Jof and his family, a group of people that represent a light in this world. To put out that light, or be responsible for its dousing, would be a nearly unforgivable sin. They give hope, they make people laugh, they offer a reprieve from this world of suffering.
Sullivan's Travels, one of my all-time favorite films, is a meditation on the need for comedy. At the end, Sullivan says “There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.” This is what Jof does: he makes people laugh. He gives them a raison d'être. He understands why you play the game. For him it's family, for others it is friends. But perhaps the link between all of these is the creation of something beautiful. We must proactively let Beauty into this world. If we don't, we have a Pandora's box full of despair without the grain of Hope. In the end, it is the game of life that we are involved in; as long as we pick up the pieces and play with dignity, we can never truly lose.
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