Confessions, A Movie For No Season,, Or Reason

     A few days ago I went to see the movie, Confesiones directed by Carlos Carrera who also directed El Crimen del Padre Amaro. I really didn't know anything about the film or what to expect which is many times the best way to approach a cinematic work. Innocent and open to suggestion. Almost the entire movie takes place within a rather cold upper middleclass house in Mexico City and revolves around what seems at first to be the kidnapping of the family's young daughter. Very soon it is revealed that this is not a kidnapping but a "psychological thriller" about revenge. The family, son, wife, and father are actually the ones sequestered until a confession is extracted from each at the point of a gun. Seems unreasonable doesn't it? The gunman kidnapper takes on the role of a twisted facilitator of revelations that seem to flow much too easily from the father and the wife.The son, although more belligerent eventually succumbs to his exposure as a hypocrite homosexual. Early on the gunman's identity is revealed when the family rebels enough to almost end the thing with a scuffle but then it quickly settles back again into a disfiguring therapy in the round. I asked myself why the gunman knew so many intimate details about these people where was the natural resistance to this farcical reunion of what turned out to be neighbors. I didn't expect heroism just more resistance to the premise. The armed facilitator was like a priest who recognized his confessors as the  congregation's hypocrites who march to the front pew each Sunday so as to be seen by all as  the best of the litter and instead of a bag full of Ave Marias or Padre Nuestros he doles out real pain,humiliation, and destruction. 

     After each confession came a penance, father, son, and wife in order. Each is gruesome and unecessarily graphic. Most modern movies require you to check your brain in the glove compartment before you enter the theatre and this one is no different. Perhaps it is the large screen format that compels one to let go of reason and enter the land where the fantastical rules. As each raw penance progressed the director revealed his own prejudices against the apparently successful in today's society. His moral should be Behind Every Fortune Is A Crime, or Behind Every House Masquerading As A Home In Polanco Is A Hopeless Ball Of Lies. Both those statements are truethful but Carrera handles them employing senseless viceral detail. As the wife's sick penance concludes the audience may think the gunman has exacted what he wants and te entire farce will close out but no he is saving the  best for last,,, the real conclusion/justification for this theatre of the deranged. Dad has one more confession to deliver, a great unveiling and betrayal. He recounts the molestation of the gunman's daughter in detail which he delivers without resistance and with increasing delight as if he were telling the tale of a picnic in the park on a perfect day. What is his penance? Dismemberment with an electric steak knife which he accepts without protest. Can that be real? I laughed to myself when the gunman reached into the kitchen drawer and pulled out the battery powered knife. He hit the button and it buzzed, like a  reciprocating saw as I thought to myself better hurry up before the battery runs out. Pop then lops off his manhood in graphic detail as the family looks on. As the husband lies in one of those increasing cinematic pools of blood we see the wife looking down on him and derisively saying she would not call an ambulance. This was becoming a satirical comedy before my eyes. There was no humanity to be found anywhere. Could it get any more absurd? I thought of the movies of old like Macario, Los Olvidados, and Treasure of Sierra Madre that used inuendo instead of sledgehammers and always left us with words to remember. I don't even remember what paintings were hanging on the wall of the house that served as the stage. There was no sympathy created for any of the characters including the gunman even though his daughter had been violated and traumatized. This is the modern movie devoid of any sense. The very devolution in which we live.  

     Hace unos días fui a ver la película Confesiones dirigida por Carlos Carrera quien también dirigió El Crimen del Padre Amaro. Realmente no sabía nada sobre la película ni qué esperar, que es muchas veces la mejor manera de abordar una obra cinematográfica. Inocente y abierto a sugerencias. Casi toda la película se desarrolla en una casa bastante fría de clase media alta en la Ciudad de México y gira en torno a lo que al principio parece ser el secuestro de la pequeña hija de la familia. Muy pronto se revela que no se trata de un secuestro sino de un "thriller psicológico" sobre venganza. La familia, el hijo, la esposa y el padre son en realidad los que están secuestrados hasta que se extrae una confesión de cada uno a punta de pistola. Parece irrazonable ¿no? El secuestrador y pistolero asume el papel de un retorcido facilitador de revelaciones que parecen fluir con demasiada facilidad del padre y la esposa. El hijo, aunque más beligerante, finalmente sucumbe a su exposición como un homosexual hipócrita. Al principio, la identidad del pistolero se revela cuando la familia se rebela, aunque sin éxito, para casi terminar la cosa con una pelea, pero luego rápidamente vuelve a convertirse en una terapia desfigurante en la ronda. Me pregunté por qué el pistolero conocía tantos detalles íntimos sobre estas personas y dónde estaba la resistencia natural a esta reunión ridícula de lo que resultaron ser vecinos. No esperaba heroísmo, sólo más resistencia a la premisa. El facilitador armado era como un sacerdote que reconocía a sus confesores como los hipócritas de la congregación que cada domingo marchan al primer banco para ser vistos por todos como los mejores de la camada y en lugar de una bolsa llena de Ave Marías o Padre Nuestros reparte verdadero dolor, humillación y destrucción.

      Después de cada confesión venía una penitencia, padre, hijo y esposa en orden. Cada uno es espantoso e innecesariamente gráfico. La mayoría de las películas modernas requieren que revises tu cerebro en la guantera antes de entrar al cine y esta no es diferente. Quizás sea el gran formato de pantalla lo que obliga a dejar de lado la razón y adentrarse en el terreno donde manda lo fantástico. A medida que avanzaba cada cruda penitencia, el director revelaba sus propios prejuicios contra los aparentemente exitosos en la sociedad actual. Su moraleja debería ser Detrás de cada fortuna hay un crimen, o Detrás de cada casa disfrazada de hogar en Polanco hay una bola de mentiras desesperada. Ambas afirmaciones son ciertas, pero Carrera las maneja empleando detalles virreales sin sentido. A medida que concluye la enfermiza penitencia de la esposa, el público puede pensar que el pistolero ha exigido lo que quiere y toda la farsa terminará, pero no, él está guardando lo mejor para el final... la verdadera conclusión/justificación de este teatro de los trastornados. Papá tiene una confesión más que entregar, una gran revelación y traición. Narra en detalle el abuso sexual sufrido por la hija del pistolero, sin resistencia y con creciente deleite, como si estuviera contando la historia de un picnic en el parque en un día perfecto. ¿Cuál es su penitencia? Desmembramiento con un cuchillo eléctrico para carne que acepta sin protestar. ¿Puede ser eso real? Me reí para mis adentros cuando el pistolero metió la mano en el cajón de la cocina y sacó el cuchillo a batería. Presionó el botón y zumbó, como una sierra alternativa, mientras pensé que sería mejor darme prisa antes de que se agote la batería. Luego, Pop corta su virilidad con detalles gráficos mientras la familia observa. Mientras el marido yace en uno de esos crecientes charcos de sangre cinematográficos, vemos a la esposa mirándolo y burlonamente diciendo que no llamaría a una ambulancia. Esto se estaba convirtiendo ante mis ojos en una comedia satírica. No se podía encontrar humanidad en ninguna parte. ¿Podría ser más absurdo? Pensé en las películas antiguas como Macario, Los Olvidados y El tesoro de Sierra Madre, que usaban inuendos en lugar de mazos y siempre nos dejaban palabras para recordar. Ni siquiera recuerdo qué cuadros colgaban de la pared de la casa que servía de escenario. No se creó ninguna simpatía por ninguno de los personajes, incluido el pistolero, a pesar de que su hija había sido violada y traumatizada. Ésta es la película moderna carente de todo sentido. La propia devolución en la que vivimos.

Refrigerator Soup, The Case For Wonder, And Math,

 

     Emmanuel Kant claimed the world we experience is chaotic and we become thinking organisms at the moment we attempt to make sense of it. What does he mean by chaos? The world is a complicated place. Our loves, our work, nature, and our social network to name a few form the problematic landscape in which we live. The moment we decide to make sense of this unsettled world entering through our senses we begin a voyage of reason, the highest endeavor for Kant. Reason seeks to organize the chaos  Although It is quite satisfying to scrutinize and search for answers, the act of reasoning cannot always claim success. We may more often than not be left incomplete even as we are creating a path through the vast jungle. However there are those that employ reason yet have learned they cannot process everything into well groomed interpretations, so they choose to live as partners in orbit with chaos. The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus is a good example of this. Sisyphus creates his own cosmos out of eternal drudgery. 

     How may we travel through this world? Perhaps like those so fettered by materialism they can't help but see the world as an unconcious heap or we can go forth with less ambition and more flexibility, annointing the world with other values. We may choose to clear a rifle barrel straight swath, or pursue a less invasive convoluted route. Either manner of travel presents us with choices but choices can be converted into whims and those inclinations may eliminate mountains. The consciously chosen discursive route will uncover nuances that an already attentive state of mind is poised to scrutinize. Our conclusions may not coincide with the world view, in fact we may see the truth indirectly, from the corner of our eye without fully understanding it yet instinctively know it makes sense. However there may be no place in the world for a dreamer. To be able to take one's time is a golden state of being. The straight line path will arrive on time. After all time is money. Perhaps, as Ennio Flaiano said, "The shortest distance between two points is an arabesque", poking fun at the straight liners at the same time eulogizing the delicacy of twirling tendrils.  

     The meandering path has a better chance to teach us why consideration is so important.  We are prevented from seeing all that is ahead by a sinuous road.  A human baby's growth is painfully slow compared to other species, rich in natural curiosity and heavy on observation liberated from time, a little like the game of baseball. That extended childhood, if one has been lucky enough to have had a childhood in this epoch of uniformity sold as diversity, one should have enhanced the mind's eye. Let's say you are in a valley and focus on a large, tree up there on the high ridge as your goal and, if you have the time to pass, you may assume an erratic path, from time to time consciously checking the location of your tree, yet frequently pausing to explore deadfalls which become godheads, a shaft of golden sun, or the call of an an unseen bird that gives depth to the woods. You will eventually arrive at your tree,, meanwhile having lost yourself in wanderous wonder you  may arrive with a bonus bag full of wild mushrooms. Humans, not fettered with time constraints, have a better opportunity to explore experience because they are able to caress it. I know I may seem to be making a case against bulldozers and canalization. A world full of only wonderers and the vast cereal aisle in in the supermarket will disappear.  

     Monday to Friday. A period of time. The refrigerator, a cubic space with accumulated things in it. What to do? It's time to make refrigerator soup! That's it. At the end of the week open the fridge and examine the contents. Place it all before you then use your intuition to combine what is at your disposal? Cull what doesn't serve. Perhaps use the rejected items for a side dish or dessert but you have at your disposal a generous basket of ingredients in disarray. You stop to consider the culinary combinations and cooking sequences. Garlic and ice cream don't mix well. What does? Figure it out. Finally chef out an ecclectic soup. We might create a delicious meal out of what just before existed in space and time as future compost, accumulated during a week's time, a chaotic mix of things at rest, in a cold box made of sheet metal already innoculated with bacteria that cried out organization, and deserved consideration. Before and after, now and then, are all individual moments that we have separated by our intuition yet we go a step further and create a stability from the clutter. We have learned to separate space and time experience by organizing it. The space, if you will, is the ecclectic mix of things in the refrigerator and the time is what it takes to cobble a passable meal. That is a true philosophers stone. 

     The world of the senses is our swimming hole. We may dive into the cold clear watery silence scanning the bottom for signs of life similar to yet unlike us. We may roll over directing our gaze upward piercing the surface of the pool to see a rippled distorted sky. We emerge, and sit on a billion year old stone that has seen it all but seems mute. Water droplets are suspended on our skin like blisters. A garter snake slithers into the burr reeds. We wonder how it propels itself. Orioles lite on a scruffy patch of alders appearing and disappearing within its confines. The sound of the wind whispers through the pines like gossip. A dragonfly hovers  on patrol seeing a world we cannot. Life embraces us as we begin to ponder and parse its mysteries.

      This is the world of the senses, the world of experience. Mathematics however is an example of something not derived from experience according to many philosophers. It exists apart from the world of rivers, and trees, and hummingbirds. Math proves there is a world of concepts that survive in a non-material environment, like invisible fruit. As a philosopher once  said, "God is a mathematician", the ephemeral well  from which we draw water, to feed our thirst for explanations. Pythagorus said God is a geometer not an algebraist. He felt the magic coincidences angles and shapes pointed to God. Numbers seem to breathe the same air as spirit.  Within the world of the senses we see a hummingbird and form a concept that is portable within us, but I bet Z=Z(2)+C could explain its wing rotation. Math is the numerical expression of the vast universe with all its mysteries. What we don't yet know, and may never know, exists within an organization of numerical phrasing that is the world of experience. The universe provokes a mathematician, and he gazes into his numerical microscope to see. Numbers have a unique capacity to explain intricacies of the universe. The poet on the other hand has an indirect way of seeing:

I heard a Fly buzz - when I died -

The Stillness in the Room

Was like the Stillness in the Air -

Between the Heaves of Storm -



The Eyes around - had wrung them dry -

And Breaths were gathering firm

For that last Onset - when the King

Be witnessed - in the Room -



I willed my Keepsakes - Signed away

What portion of me be

Assignable - and then it was

There interposed a Fly -



With Blue - uncertain - stumbling Buzz -

Between the light - and me -

And then the Windows failed - and then

I could not see to see -

      A concept is how we align the endless parade of experience, how we separate the sense from the internal shimmering thought about it. If we go a step further we can make it myth.

One leaf is for fame,
And one leaf is for wealth,
And one is for a faithful lover,
And one to bring you glorious health,
Are all in the four-leaved clover.

 Hummingbirds are a symbol of good luck. Without this desire to fiddle with the world of sense the journey remains inanimate, dull, like the sound of an aluminum coin on a table. Does that mean we are each our own God? I think so as long as it doesn't go to our heads.

    

El Tornado

 

The Tornado

      Whenever it seemed the art shows became repetitious and unprofitable Matt thought of Derwood. Derwood was fifth generation in Waldo. He had worked his entire life in Hodges’s sawmill in Waldo, Maine and when finally after hobbling along for years it closed Derwood’s dinghy was set adrift. Derwood was somewhere between slow and retarded but possessed the capacity to count lumber. It had been required in school, to know how to figure how many board feet there were in a piece of wood. That was his one skill,, along with honesty and with diligence in his work. In 1985 in Waldo, Maine with its 770 people Derwood had become obsolete and was tossed upon the scrap heap. Too young yet for social security Derwood could be found about the village doing odd jobs of a brutish nature for little money, like digging post holes in the hard clay or even bailing out old septic tanks with a bucket. After the mill closed his old house began to visibly deteriorate, as if it had contracted a form of leprosy. Derwood could no longer afford the upkeep. First the front stairs rotted away then a corner of the porch fell to the ground. What was left was supported precariously by some withering 2X4’s. Eventually even smoke ceased swirling out of his chimney. He was from another generation, much too proud to ask for help. Even when it was offered he would adamantly refuse.   

     Matt recalled one morning leaving his house perched on Capitol Hill on his cross country skis making his way for Chase Stream. It was a frigid winter morning and there was a shallow lake of ice fog suspended above the snow. Ice fog is made up of suspended ice crystals. It only occurs when temperatures fall below -22 degrees Fahrenheit. When Matt left his house at 9:00 AM the thermometer on the porch registered -28. The temperature had fallen suddenly in the wee hours of morning. He had felt the cold creep into bed beside him. Last night when it was warmer , the air must have become saturated with water vapor from the snow, then when the cold snap came down like a hammer conditions were too cold for liquid water to exist, and small ice crystals developed creating the eerie fog. He skied down through Levi Gordon’s fields entering the forest where the woods began. There was an opening in the fence next to ‘barrel spring’. It was called barrel spring because long ago someone had interred a barrel without a bottom in the earth about the vein. As he emerged from the woods he spied Derwood embedded in the brume on the other side of the Bog Road. He was splitting wood in front of the house of Eben Gould. Durwood stood in front of a haphazardly piled cord of some of the largest knarliest elm Matt had ever seen. Gould was notorious for paying little and spending even less. He had hired Derwood to split this impossible wood its grain tightly aligned like frozen whorls of smoke. Derwood’s breath mixed with the fog in which he waded. His bore two sweat shirts under a ragged jacket and his traditional watch cap. The cuffs of his sleeves hung down in tattered strands. He had no gloves,, probably couldn’t afford them thought Matt. He came down upon the elm with a wallop with his double bitted axe only to plant the axe deeply into the twisted elm grain. It was slow difficult work and no doubt Derwood was desperate to have it and had most likely contracted to split the cord for a set fee. Even a hydraulic wood splitter would have had problems with this pile of elm. Matt was sure Gould had made a great bargain for himself. Derwood stopped and looked up at Matt knowing it would cost some work to extract the axe.

     “Matthew”, Derwood said, always using the full name of anyone he addressed. How be you this cold morning.”

     “Fine Derwood, fine,, and you?” Matt spoke the words knowing that Derwood was anything less than fine.

     “Aww, I’m afraid Matthew that I’m between a rock and a hard place.”

     “You don’t have any gloves, Derwood”, asked Matt.

     “No Matthew they won’t let me get a good purchase on the axe handle.”

     Eben emerged from his house and stared at the two with an impatient look. He didn’t speak but Matt knew that his demeanor was saying get back to work and you on the skis, be on your way.

     “Well take care of yourself Derwood and remember to slab it off the edge.”

     “Thank yee Matthew and Godspeed”, said Derwood.

     Eben watched with narrowed eyes as Matt continued on his way.

     At some point during the physical deterioration of his house Derwood and his wife disappeared from view. It was February and no one had seen Derwood or his wife about town for a week. His nephew was dispatched to the house and after heavy knocking could elicit no response.  With difficulty he entered. The porch was treacherous, and the door had been skewed into a parallelogram. Once inside the nephew found a shocking sight. Most of the floor was dry rotted and had fallen into the shallow basement. He saw Derwood and his wife on a small section of floor still in its place. They lie there like two frosted dolls, side by side, frozen to death.

     That memory always rattled Matt’s soul enough to easily shake off any arrogance that might creep into his thoughts. Matt’s life was a cakewalk because he had what he needed and in addition the gift of time. Jesus I am farting through silk he thought. He was in Catskill, New York at the annual Jefferson Heights Art and Craft Fair. It had begun as a pure art show but now twenty-five years after the first fair crafts represented more than 75% of the exhibitors. Many artists had grumbled about this trend in the outdoor shows but Matt felt it had actually worked out positively for him. There were less overall art exhibitors and therefore less competition. He only worried about the future when shows might become exclusively crafts. It seemed to be the trend.  However he had made some money after spending three long days in Catskill, but not like in years past.  The crowd had been small and the movement was interminably slow. This was the first year the promoters had charged admission and that made a visible difference in the quantity of clients. The Greed Factor times the law of entropy was work.

     It was Sunday about 5:30 on a balmy summer afternoon. The show had ended and Matt had broken down and stored his booth in his Van. Veronica Carlisle, an old friend, and his neighbor for three days was still meticulously packing her melted glass objects. He lingered a little talking to her while she worked. Claps of thunder could be heard as the sky to the east began turning gray.

     “Better hurry up Vero or everything is gonna get wet.”

     “Don’t fret Matty, I’m nearly there. You should go you have a lot further to travel than I.”

     Matt made his goodbyes, giving Veronica a good hug and took off up Route 9G heading north parallel to the Hudson River. At Hudson he turned to the east on 23 heading for the Massachusetts border. He crossed over just after Hillsdale, New York when the route number changed to 41. The destination was Great Barrington where he would continue north and meet the Massachusetts Turnpike. Just after South Egremont and before Great Barrington a heavy rain began to fall, so heavy that the wipers on high couldn’t handle the quantity of water. The patter of the enormous drops on the van roof was deafening like an brigade of energized drummers. The sky had darkened to the color of wet slate as if night were falling. Matt spied his watch and saw it was 6:30 PM. It was summer in the north and darkness didn’t fall until nearly 9:00. This must be a whopper of a storm he thought that turns the day into night. He had slowed considerably, his visibility severely restricted by the rain. In the distance distorted by the heavy rain on the windshield he saw bright tail lights as if there were a line of cars stopped. Matt slowed to a crawl, and then stopped behind a queue of about ten cars. Traffic was stalled. He rolled down his window and asked an officer in a parka what had happened.

     “A tornado just cut a swath through here. You cannot enter Great Barrington it’s a mess.”

     “A tornado,,, in Massachusetts?”, asked Matt incredulous.

     “It was strong enough to tear gravestones from the cemetery and send them flying. It even picked up a Volkswagen with four kids and deposited their bodies about a mile away. Downtown Barrington is a mess, just a tangle of trees and rubble, you can’t pass through there.”

     Matt was stunned. He didn’t even know there could be powerful tornados this far north. He thought of any of the other exhibitors who might have traveled in this direction. If he had not lingered with Veronica he might have driven into this. I must remind myself to kiss her when I see her again. He asked the policeman for an alternate route to the turnpike and was told to retrace his steps and in about a mile he would turn right on the Egremont Plain Road which would take him north into New York once again towards Austerlitz where he would meet up with the turnpike.

     The dark slate sky had turned to a lighter shade of gray but the sunlight that filtered through it was combed slightly orange. He made the New York border quickly and a few miles before Austerlitz he encountered a strange intersection, where the path taken by the tornado had crossed perpendicular to the highway.

     He paused on the empty highway, mists from the rain emmanating from the hot earth suspended in the air like unspun wool. “It passed here”, he said aloud. There was a wide path resembling the initial clearing for a new highway, about 50 yards wide beginning abruptly like someone had laid down a chalk line. All the trees within the aisle had been plucked of all their leaves. Only in this particular track, like an erratic band that trailed off towards the horizon on either side of the road it seemed like autumn. On the left was a house squashed flat as if stepped on by a giant. Delicately leaning upright precariously propped against the pile of rubble was a large maple with an enormous crown of bare branches shorn of all their leaves. Thirty minutes ago it had been a shade tree. What was remarkable was that the roots were still in the ground untouched. The tree had not been uprooted. The wind had torn the trunk off where it met the ground, lifting the weight of the entire tree then depositing it twenty feet away, upright alongside the house to which it once offered shade. It was a surreal painting. Matt turned his head to the other side of the road. There were high bushes.Trimming the thicket of bare branches and trailingoff perpendicular to the ground were sashes of fiberglass insulation sucked from the squashed house, all extending in one direction like frozen ribbons.

     By 8:00 the sky was swathed in charcoal. The heavy rain recommenced. He was west of Springfield and off to his right every two or three seconds the sky was illuminated by enormous streaks of lightning coursing horizontally across the sky in branches,, flashing like a roadmap. With every blazing flash Matt was reminded of how lucky he had been. By the time he made Springfield the sky was tranquill and he felt he had left the worst behind.