From Whence these Benevolent Spiders?

Once in a while, his thoughts were more fluid than usual. What exactly that meant, he did not know, but images in his head were not finite. Everything he imagined could become anything else. Thoughts of life became thoughts of death in one quick sweep. Words came and went without need for attention. He imagined that these thoughts functioned much like the ones he encountered in his dreams, but sometimes he could shape them. But then, he thought, perhaps they shaped him.

That morning, as so often happened at that time of day, he had been visited by the image of something mythical. He had seen a white spider, almost glowing, and in no way frightful. Its presence was not intimidating, yet hinted at belonging to something of great power. He had been reading Irish fairy stories in preparation for a narrative and wondered whether the white, benevolent spiders were really fairies in disguise. His analytical mind told him, why not? They are fallen angels anyway.

He did not want to lose their scent. They floated about him in the same way that electric jellyfish might in the darker reaches of the ocean. This was an image he wished to preserve. One that he wished he could collect. Was that why artists painted, photographers took pictures and filmmakers made them?

We are archivists, he thought. We collect visions. Where they came from, he did not know. Perhaps they came from the same realm as his talking ducks, but what of the visions of others? Did we share that world?

At that moment, he knew that he was being visited by an old familiar friend who awoke in him a burning desire to create, by uttering only one word. "Speak," the stranger said.

"Welcome, dear friend," he replied, "perhaps one day you will tell me your name."

Degrees of Anonymity

Few knew him. No, many knew him, but within certain parametres. How many people really knew him and how many people knew of him. In the same way, how many people did he truly know? He considered his internet social networks, the numbers on his mobile phone, the wild scribbles of notes he took in his various notebooks, all of which contained messages, bits of information, numbers and descriptions that helped him to to remember others and, perhaps, who they were. But he could not say. How much do we really know about other people and to what degree do we remain anonymous?

He remembered reading about the theories of Marc Auge and his supermodernity, in which anonymity and identity merge in public spaces. Cyberspace, though only theoretical space, could perhaps also be seen as public space. Interaction, in whatever form, may be considered a public endeavour. Suddenly, he felt more than modern and on this day he would even go as far as to say, supermodern. Why not? It was in his head anyway.

As he looked out of the window upon Dublin and its habits, he realised that he had not yet decided whether, to him, Dublin would be a man or a woman. He did not know whether Dublin would really know him, or whether he would really know Dublin. He suspected that one might occur at the same time as the other, for that is the nature of friendship. From experience, he knew that two souls never became friends until both gave something, just a hint, of what currents flowed beneath. Every soul carried many secrets, some small, some big, but all noteworthy.

What secrets would Dublin be willing to share with him? How many secrets did Dublin hold? How old was Dublin's soul and how old was his? The thought intimidated him, which made him retreat to fiction. Henry and Loretta were fractions of his soul that might depart from him one day, but how many fractions were contained in the soul of Dublin? Dubliners came and went, inhabiting, emigrating, living, dying, but their visits left imprints on Dublin's immortal soul. Would his fragments make him immortal? Only time would tell.

Remember to live, he thought.

News from Loretta

He decided that, like most women, Loretta wanted to be found. His wife had once told of her Irish great grandmother's rather intriguing philosophy, "a lady leaves no traces." The words held such a sense of mystery, much like a woman, he thought. A more active search for Loretta needed to be conducted.

Perhaps the problem was that Loretta's addressor still went by the name, ?. A most problematic scenario and, to him, an error no writer should make. A character does not take form without a name. Nobody does. Perhaps it was part of our ancient inheritance. In ancient Egypt, the general belief was that nothing existed without a name and that the one who named a thing was in total control of it. This thought suddenly struck a chord. He loved that feeling. Surely, there was no greater sense of achievement as when one comes to a meaningful realisation. He was convinced now more than ever that a writer's great pleasure was to play God. A writer, like any artist, imitates. Every scenario resonates in some way with reality. Even when a scenario does not necessarily depict anything realistic, it nevertheless imitates thought, feeling, action, inaction. A writer plays. A writer speaks without speaking, moves without moving, destroys without destroying, but a writer feels.

? needed a name and he had thought of one. He could not explain why certain names worked, but in this case, the name Henry did. It was short, yet carried much allure. Henry VIII, Oscar Wilde's Lord Harry Henry and countless French chefs were all called Henry. Henry would be the name of Loretta's addressor. And then, after many weeks of waiting, Loretta's letter arrived.

My Dearest Henry,

I apologise for my tardy response, but as you can imagine, my time has not been my own. A long drought was last night broken with the arrival of a monumental thunder storm. Though relief was to be felt by all, none of us slept a wink. The drought had very nearly transformed into a flood, but we managed to get to safety in the nick of time.

I do envy you your surroundings, but when I have a moment to collect my thoughts and assimilate the beauty of the desert plains and that of the approaching storm, I have to wonder whether you do not sometimes miss thunder and lightning. I feel as though they are so ingrained in our fibre that when we have not fraternised with them for a while, we grow sick with longing for them.

I sometimes fear that although we spoke of it a great deal, and I for the most part agreed with you, I am after all in love with this barren, exhaustive and utterly beautiful land. Though it is a tumultuous lover, I cannot entirely turn my back on it. Of course, I do not propose that desertion is what you have done. Not at all. In fact, I now realise that for you to love this place, you need distance from it. But I suspect that in some way, you will always be bound to it. I do not believe that we could truly undo what has been done.

Heavens, what a sombre tone! On to your crow. I so wish to see it in your new habitat. Please send me a picture upon improvement of your digital competence. You are absolutely right, a crow in decidedly crow-like surroundings, like the worlds we used to conjure, is a thrill I would find hard to describe, though neither of us ever cowered from a challenge of description.

Oh, Henry, if only one were able to live in multiple worlds at once, how much simpler life would be! I shall send news of my life and my future plans, but as I am sure you can imagine, duty calls.

I loved hearing from you.

Ever yours,

Lotte

He had always romanticised the idea of such friendships, which is perhaps the purpose of fiction and the world to which he so often retreated. Yet, life has taught him that such friendships are, for all their beauty and ideologies, short-lived. He wondered if Henry and Loretta would eventually grow apart.

Never Trust a Talking Duck

He had woken up that morning with the dream still fresh in his mind. Certain imagery featured in his dreams more often than others. Forests, rivers, islands, ancient structures and flight, which he dreamt of frequently as a child, but of which the occurrence had become more sporadic. His dreams had a tendency to verge on the fantastical, which unnerved him, but which he had great affection for. He despised realistic dreams intensely, feeling that they confused his reality.

That night marked the second dream he had had of a talking duck. In his dream, he had been trying to find his way out of a forest and so came upon a duck, who directed him, but whose directions ended up being false. As a result, his experience of talking ducks had been that they tended to be mischievous creatures, eager to be taken seriously by others yet deceptive in their promulgations. Could it be that talking ducks spoke in riddles? The prospect of riddling ducks, though fascinating, made him wonder whether, in dreams, one might ever converse with them effectively. He found his mind decidedly less agile in dreams, and so, less able to decipher the riddles of ducks.

As his mind drifted into consciousness, he realised that describing him as "a little strange" may not have been entirely inaccurate, although he found most people to be such. He imagined that most people desired to travel into the realms of their unconscious more often and at will. Many individuals did, he thought, though not without some help from their friends. To others, the prospect seemed impractical, because they associated it with a loss of control.

He knew that, to him, the life he left behind in all endeavours material was one that acted both centripetally and centrifugally on him, never wanting to let him go. Always, it wanted more, anxiously awaiting his return. He sometimes ventured there when he aught not to, when the world he found himself in now demanded everything. In times of loss, grief, sorrow and loneliness, he often went there, for in that world, everything seemed as it should be, perfectly proportioned.

Perhaps one day he might return, taking with him those he held most dear. Perhaps he might once again rule over endless landscapes of cypress trees, rivers and ancient structures, and over his minion of duplicitous ducks.

Film Review: The Lovely Bones (2009)

To most people, arguably, the notion of what happens to us when we die is a deeply spiritual and even private experience. I shall admit to not having read Alice Sebold’s novel, but my experience of literary film adaptations is that both filmmaker and audience must accept the differences between the two media. Noted film scholar, Seymour Chatman, once wrote that unlike prose and poetry, film does not have the luxury of description. In short, his argument was centred on the notion that a film continues to roll once it has started and that even film tools used to manipulate time, such as slow motion and freeze frame, are all perceived to be part of the whole. In other words, once a film starts, it keeps going until the credits have rolled.

The trouble, therefore, with adapting a novel into a film is that while a novel is able to explain a deeply spiritual occurrence separate from the narrative, while still allowing the reader a great deal of personal interpretation, a film shows it in its most literal sense. In other words, all that the audience has, is the filmmaker’s interpretation of the original novel. If the audience does not experience such matters as life and death, or heaven and hell in the same way as the filmmaker, the gap between the narrative and the audience broadens even further. On the other hand, if the audience relates to the filmmaker’s interpretation, it has the opposite effect and the audience loves it.

Peter Jackson knows this. He and his collaborators are no strangers to the dangers of adaptation. Many criticised their tampering with J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy (2001-2003) as a butchering of Tolkien’s vision. Their re-imagining of King Kong (2005) invited even more criticism. But the New Zealand team’s films are generally well-loved too and The Lovely Bones (2009) proves to be no exception. While adaptation has any filmmaker treading on dangerous ground, Jackson and his team never cower away from a challenge. Every step they take is a bold one. As artists, they work in broad, lucid strokes. Their films are seldom shy and always become part of the modern fabric. And most of all, their films have heart.

No artist is able to satisfy everyone’s tastes, least of whom those that work boldly. Architect, Frank Ghery, is possibly as lauded as he is criticised. Annie Leibovitz, photographer of many of Vanity Fair’s more risque photo spreads enjoys a similar reception. However, Jackson is not necessarily the maverick his above mentioned contemporaries are. He and Steven Spielberg, his producer collaborator on The Lovely Bones, are finely attuned to the desires of popular culture and have consistently made films that were perhaps scorned by critics, but well-received by audiences. Much of their commercial success has been largely thanks to sizable filming budgets, top notch CGI (computer generated imagery) and a heck of a marketing campaign, but their participation on this film is, in the humble opinion of this reviewer, a match made in...(ahem)...heaven. Both filmmakers have illustrated that while not every film they make ends up being as memorable as, say, E.T. (Speilberg, 1982), Schindler’s List (Spielberg, 1993), Heavenly Creatures (Jackson, 1994), or the Lord of the Rings trilogy, every film they endeavour to undertake is a film that they believe in. While film has retained a surprising amount of filmmakers with integrity, it is also plagued by those who are only driven by the top Hollywood dollar. In this era of celebrity filmmakers, dare I say, Spielberg and Jackson, despite their commercial success and celebrity, have remained Steve and Pete, both heartwarmingly childlike in their enthusiasm for one of the greatest art forms we have known to date.

For that reason, The Lovely Bones works. While its expression of spiritually controversial subject matter might not resonate with everyone, it nonetheless impresses, despite being described as 1970s psychedelic rock album cover art by some. The film can also be quite draining, as one inevitably embarks on a two-hour emotional rollercoaster ride of love, loss, grief, acceptance, sorrow and joy. Overall, the performances intrigue and satisfy, with Saoirse Ronan’s enthusiastic engagement with emotion and Stanley Tucci’s masterfully underplayed darkness standing out. Other performances disappoint somewhat. Susan Sarandon, for instance, is hilarious as the eccentric grandmother, but her performance seems out of place in the film. Mark Wahlberg can be a very engaging actor, but not in this film. Rachel Weisz, who has come a long way since her perfunctory acting stints in The Mummy (1999) and The Mummy Returns (2001) films, struggles to convince in a role that anyone would find challenging. However, the narrative remains strong, which, along with Ronan and Tucci’s performances, carry the film.

Anyone who expects an audiovisual version of the book will, I am told, be sorely disappointed, but as a film, The Lovely Bones makes for a lovely two hours to spend a Sunday afternoon.

The Joys of Being Joyful

He had always been delighted at the fact that his name had not carried meaning. Perhaps, in its Germanic origins, it did, but he dreaded the notion of introducing himself as Happiness, Prince, Fortunate, or Joyful. What pressure, he thought, to live up to a name such as Joyful? He had read that philosophers had always been intrigued by the meaning of life. Why do we live? What is the purpose of a human life?

Religious points of view aside, the thought of a life without meaning had always terrified him. He was not a morose person. He entertained, on occasion, a slight morbid fascination, but had never gravitated towards morbidity (within reason). However, having a name dictate to one a way in which to live, or at the very least suggest meaning, seemed absurd to him. What would happen if a person bearing the name, Joyful, were not? On the other hand, perhaps some pressure might be alleviated, since being Joyful would probably influence others' perception of one's nature. Without trying to, joyfulness might simply be a virtue attributed to one's nature, because the idea was there.

He had thought of the lives of others. Some are surrounded with a decided lack of joy. He had known a friend, who had come and gone, whose mother perpetually sounded as though she were on the brink of tears, whether expressing sorrow or not. He could not imagine growing up in such an environment. The thought, however, of the mother of a thousand tears made him realise that such a woman would never name her child Joyful, for thoughts of joy strayed too far from her mind. Instead, she would name her child after Marxists, serious literary characters, biblical figures and historical leaders. Playful names, like Jack, Jill, Oscar, Fifi, Harry, Katie, Jerry and Jezebel would not be considered, because they never are. Nobody called Archie ever painted a masterpiece and proceeded to take his own life.

But then there were the thoughts of wanting greatness for one's children, even if it meant that they might ultimately die miserable. Why would anyone desire that? Joyful began to seem like a good option. Where there's a will, there's a way, he reminded himself. Joy could be willed, whereupon a way could be found. He, with his Germanic name, would perhaps not be able to live with a name such as Joyful, but Joyful does, and it is not conceivable that Joyful would not be such. Unless, of course, he or she knows only sorrow. The words, tears of Joy, suddenly aroused new meaning for him.

He thought that perhaps he should look for Joyful. He did not know where, or who Joyful was. But if anyone had an opinion on the feeling of joy, it would be Joyful. Perhaps Loretta knew Joyful, but Loretta remained elusive.

Film Review: Brothers (2009)

It is perhaps not so implausible to draw a few parallels between the films, Brothers (2009) and Jarhead (2005). The links are all there. Thematically, both films deal with the personal impact on the lives of Americans who are shipped off, or whose family members are shipped off to the Middle East to fight a war of the utmost controversy (although few wars fail to evoke it). The key difference, of course, is that whereas Jarhead is set in the first Bush administration’s Gulf War, Brothers is set in the latter Bush administration’s War on Afghanistan. Another rather obvious link would be the casting of Jake Gyllenhaal in a central role, although this time, Gyllenhaal’s Tommy Cahill, the family’s black sheep, stays home. And if one were to push the the two films’ parallels even further (albeit questionably), both films were directed by well-established, generally well-respected filmmakers who have enjoyed multiple critical and commercial successes, namely Sam Mendes, who directed Jarhead and Jim Sheridan, who directed Brothers.

The above-mentioned parallels between Brothers and Jarhead might seem coincidental, but on a less superficial level, their parallels run even deeper. In both films, I was struck by the superlative portrayal of the effects of war on the individual, particularly on young men. In Jarhead, Gyllenhaal’s Anthony Swofford is trained to kill by highly sophisticated means. The film’s comment, then, centres on the irrelevance of war, as Swofford and other members of his regiment never get to kill and are recirculated into general American society, possessing knowledge that they never got to use and never will. To some, this knowledge equals a power that would place these individuals in an almost god-like category. Others might argue that these individuals have been trained to disregard their humanity, which reduces their existence to that of an animal. It is the latter category through which one might parallel the two films.

Captain Sam Cahill (Tobey Maguire), a disciplined, courageous young father who aspires to follow in his father’s footsteps, who is a Vietnam war veteran played to perfection by Sam Shepard, is sent to Afghanistan. There, he is taken captive by an extremist group and tortured for information. Meanwhile, back at home, his wife, Grace (Nathalie Portman), is informed that her husband had died. Her intuition tells her otherwise and throughout the difficult months that follow, she struggles to come to grips with her husband’s death, while naturally developing romantic feelings for Sam’s ex-convict brother, Tommy (Gyllenhaal). When Sam returns alive, the delicate balance of the central characters’ lives begins to unravel. It is at this stage that the film starts to deal with the raw, alpha-human behaviour referred to above.

While in Afghanistan, Sam was forced to do terrible things under torture (the details of which shall remain undisclosed). Being re-introduced into society and his former suburban life, one is reminded of the ancient philosophy that when one steps into a river for the second time, neither you nor the river are the same. And then some. The audience knows to what extremes Sam had been driven and the contrast between these actions and his fatherhood of two very young girls makes for a volatile situation at the best of times. He now struggles with the loss of his humanity in a world that requires the utmost humanity. The animal needs to be locked away again.

These films that could perhaps be seen to make up the current thematic zeitgeist, including Brothers, Jarhead, Cronenberg’s A History of Violence (2005) and Eastern Promises (2007), which are not directly related to the war in the Middle East, but deal with similar themes of violence, and Redford’s Lions for Lambs (2007) all deal with the fragility of our humanity. In all these cases, man’s struggle with his animal self is portrayed by men, which leads to an altogether new and perilous debate. However, what is perhaps reassuring to observe is that these films usually enjoy relatively large audiences and draw a great deal of attention. Perhaps we have not lost our humanity. These films generally tend to lean towards a positive outcome, which could not be said of many films made circa World War II that offered a bleaker outlook on the situation (consider the film noir movement). However, it should not be overlooked that these films also offer a warning of how close to the brink of collapse we are as a species.

Brothers offers precisely what we want from ‘Oscar season’. A meaty, well-performed, well-crafted and overall well-packaged film that offers more than enough food for thought to mull over and perhaps, like all good art, dare to change one’s perceptions.