Argo

Director:  Ben Affleck

Writers:  Chris Terrio (screenplay), Joshuah Bearman(article)

Stars:  Ben Affleck, Bryan Cranston, Alan Arkin, and John Goodman 

Let’s start with a bit of history via Wikipedia:  Main article: Canadian Caper

On the day the hostages were seized, six American diplomats evaded capture and remained in hiding at the Swedish and Canadian embassies. In 1979, the Canadian Parliament held a secret session for the first time since World War II in order to pass special legislation allowing Canadian passports to be issued to some American citizens so that they could escape. In cooperation with the Central Intelligence Agency who used the cover story of a film project, the six American diplomats boarded a flight to Zürich, Switzerland, on January 28, 1980. Their escape and rescue from Iran by Canadian ambassador Ken Taylor has come to be known as the "Canadian Caper".^[90]The subject of the six escapees and what went into the planning and execution was also covered in the 2012 film Argo, directed by Ben Affleck.

I liked two aspects of this movie—a lot!

First, I appreciated the pacing.  The movie begins with a down-‘n-dirty catch-you-up-to-speed history of why the Iranians took the hostages in the first place.  Frankly, for a good reason.  The US harbored an overthrown dictator who brutally murdered many innocent Iranians over the course of his rule.  The US put him in power and protected him after he was deposed.  We hear about all of this while we’re watching what look like comic book illustrations.  I was puzzled.  But later in the movie I’m watching, the ARGO “movie” fake story boards were produced; and I realized that Argo is portraying history as a manufactured, staged event.  I confess that there’s a scene in Argo that wonders if the riots are media-staged events.  OK back to my pacing tribute.  Argo alternates between tension and whimsy, between the reality of the hostages /US government/Iranian situations and the farce of Hollywood movie making and makers.  “Argo fuck yourself” is repeated several times and directed not just at the Iranians but at bureaucrats and other annoying folks.   So easily, this movie could have propagandized the Iran hostage situation.  Instead, it suggests that while terrorism appalls, it also confuses and entertains us.  How many times can we watch on our flat-screen LCDs thousands of people chanting in a foreign language we don’t understand, in an animated fashion similar to Olympic opening ceremonies?  How many times can we rally around leaders who promise not to "impose additional sanctions” and refrain from making “hostile statements” while applauding an insurgence of American patriotism as a result of terrorism? Argo reminds us that while real people endure real torture, others are manipulating the atrocity for political and personal gain.

Second, I am attracted to Tony Mendez’s code.  When the US government decides to abort the mission, Mendez is supposed to abandon the 6 hostages, regardless of the promises he’s made to them and the work he’s done with them.  After a night of serious alcohol consumption, Mendez decides to call the US and alert them that he’s responsible for the hostages and going to try to get them out.  “Responsible” is a word he uses more than once and it stands out beyond a sense of duty, which I associate with my “should” list.  For Mendez, it’s neither what he should do or wants to do.  It’s what he must do.  It’s clear to him why he is responsible.  (Of course, there’s also a bit of “Argo fuck yourself” to his CIA superiors.)  It is Mendez’s sense of responsibility that saves his hostages and returns him to his estranged family.  The mission details stay classified until he is old, and Canada enjoys the credit.  So no glory or reward for Mendez. In fact, he sits alone on the airplane flying to Zurich while the hostages swill champagne and high-five each other.  Only one has the decency to thank him.  Thereafter, they enjoy media acclaim while Mendez is awarded a medal that is immediately revoked.

Responsibility without fame or payoff.  When was the last Hollywood movie that featured that code?  Kudos to Affleck as Argo’s director.

Mastering The Master

The Master, (2012), written and directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, Joaquin Phoenix and Amy Adams.  The two male leads dazzled me with their full-bodied performance. Whether it was Hoffman’s face, which combined humor and sinisterness (ala Jack Nicholson), or Phoenix’s posture and gait, of which he constantly struggled to gain control of, both deserve to win best actor awards, as they did at the Venice Film Festival.

This is a movie that you must watch more than once to speak intelligently about it.  I have seen it only once. 

That leaves me with questions for my second viewing:

1.      How closely do Lancaster Dodd’s purposes and tactics parallel scientology’s?  If such a strong comparison exists, does it extend to Lancaster’s physical and threatening behavior?  [You simply must read The New Yorker’s  expose on Scientology… http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2011/02/14/110214fa_fact_wright]

2.      I missed some of the dialogue in the bathroom scene.  I know what I see, but I don’t know why it’s going on beyond a creepy power battle between husband and wife.

3.      How innocent is Dodd?  How sinister?  Does he change during the course of the movie? 

4.      Why is Freddie so aggressive and addictive to near-poisonous alcoholic drinks?  Beyond his military service experiences, has he always been so flawed?

5.      At one point we hear a faithful follower puzzle over the second edition’s revision from recalling to imagining.  She realizes that this departs drastically from the premise of returning (Plato-like) to a core self through Dodd’s recollection sessions.  The second edition’s imagination replaces the first edition’s nostalgia.  Dodd takes a minute to understand her confusion and the import of his (unintentional?) revision.  However, we understand immediately that to imagine is to create, not recreate.  He has left Plato behind and embraced Aristotle.  But he has no clue.  Is he an idiot?  A pawn?  After all, we’ve seen his wife dictating to him what could be the new manuscript.  Who’s running this cult—Mr. or Mrs. Dodd?  If she’s the brains behind it, did she intend the transition to imagination  because her philosophy has evolved?  Or is she trying to set him up for failure?

6.      Where is the son-in-law at the end of the movie?

7.      At the end of the movie, Lancaster threatens Freddie—not just in this life but in other lives.  Why is he so angry?  Threatened?  Why isn’t Freddie that phased?

8.      At the end of the movie, Dodd challenges Quell:  “If you ever figure out a way to live without a master, any master, be sure to let the rest of us know, for you would be the first in the history of the world. “ Who/What is Dodd’s master and why is he controlled by him/it?  Who/What is Quell’s master?

9.      The music offers an important dimension to understanding the movie.  It requires more attention upon a second viewing.

10.  So do the set designs and costuming.

Check back later for a better mastering of this film’s message.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close—But Not Close Enough

Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close—But Not Close Enough

 (2011)

  In Stephen Daldry’s Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, we follow a young boy’s searchings.  We see his father’s (Tom Hanks’) tutelage and inspiration, which sends his son, Oskar Schell (played by Thomas Horn), on many a journey through the boroughs of New York City.  Before he dies on 9/11 in one of the towers, Thomas Schell  introduces his son to the “reconnaissance” mission of discovering the missing sixth borough.  But his death, and the six answering machine messages that he leaves prior to the tower’s collapse, detours his son to search for the lock that matches a key found in a blue vase hidden at the top of his father’s closet. Was that convoluted enough?  Through the five boroughs, Oskar visits everyone whose last name is “Black”—the single word written on the envelope containing the mysterious key.  OK, it did get more convoluted. Along the way, he learns to talk civilly to people, which is quite an accomplishment for a child suspected of Asperger’s Disease, discovers his long-deserted grandfather, and overcomes significant fears (e.g., riding on public transportation). It’s a good coming-of-age story, at least for the first two stages (separationàmargin), Oskar repeats every Saturday when he (later, joined by his grandfather) journeys from his Manhattan apartment to fulfill all of the requirements of the margin stage:  mentor, breaking taboos, struggling with tasks, facing trials, dealing with failures, and grabbling with (pre-)adolescent angst.  All that is fairly obvious and well-done.  So I don’t choose to discuss it further.

Rather, I’d rather complain about the disturbing ethics of the ending. (Spoiler alert.)  Although his mother yearns to hear her husband’s voice just one more time, proclaiming his love for her—a desire she confesses to her son at the end of the movie after they’ve quickly patched up his hostility toward her—Oskar continues to conceal the answering machine messages, one of which reveals his father’s profession of love.  Or more accurately, her husband’s profession of love to her.  How can he be so cruel, especially since he’s just so poignantly reunited with his mother? 

Oskar has one more secret, which he tells to a random character, but again, not to his mother.  Flashback to 9/11.  Oskar has listened to the first five answering machine messages left by his father.  Oskar hears his father’s desperation at being on one of the tower’s floors amidst crying, screaming, and sirens.  The phone rings again.  Poised, Oskar becomes emotionally and physically paralyzed, ignoring the phone.  The machine clicks on.  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” …  “Are you there?” Nine times.  The phone goes dead.  After switching out answer machines, Oskar spends many a secret moment reviewing the messages.  We don’t hear the sixth one until very late in the film when Oskar reveals that he envisions his father to be inquiring about him.  But Oskar must know that it’s just as likely that this is a husband seeking his wife, a woman he seems to have adored.  And Oskar must know how much this sixth message would, in particular, console his mother.  Likely, he also knows how much it would disturb her that Oskar never picks up the phone, consigning his father to lonely, lost final moments. 

Why Oskar conceals the messages from his mother—his guilt, his control, his spite—matters not to me.  He deprives his mother of the truth and perhaps, of the only consolation she will ever find amidst the shambles of her life.  While his decision causes her no more anguish, it cheats her from a pseudo reunion with the man she has loved and has loved her. 

All ethics aside, this decision prevents Oskar from successfully completing the coming-of-age cycle: separationàmarginàaggregation.  With such a secret, how can he create a healthy relationship with his mother, his new-found grandfather, and his grandmother?  How can he self-actualize when self-actualizing demands creating healthy, authentic relationships?

In the final analysis, Oskar has cheated himself.

A/Too Dangerous Method 

Directed by David Cronenberg, A Dangerous Method  attempts two agendas—to show us how the genesis of Sigmund Freud’s genius (psychotherapy) inspires and alienates Carl Jung and how Jung’s affair with a patient unravels his life.  Starring Michael Fassbender, Keira Knightley and Viggo Mortensen, the movie adequately portrays each agenda but fails to correlate them seamlessly.  That seems to be my job here.

What fuels the tension between Freud and Jung?  Freud, for his part, refuses to abide any alterations of his talk theory.  No matter that this leaves his patients more self-aware because he leaves them without prescriptions—without hope.  Jung wants to explore avenues for those prescriptions, whether that be mysticism, dream theory, and any other approach yet to be considered that has the least chance of working.  Freud wants no part of the therapist as curer.  And he resents Jung’s attempts to consider that role.  Think of Freud as Creon, although much older, who’s not willing to tolerate the young upstart’s (a male Antigone) new ideas and loyalties.  After all, Freud’s done all the work—listening to his patients drone on for hundreds of hours about mommy and daddy stuff, then, churning all that yakking into sex, sex, sex.  Now, Jung comes along and it’s dream imagery this and archetypes that.  There may be sex but there’s no guarantee.  So, Freud thinks, what’s the point of listening?  (I’m projecting, I confess.)

Or is the tension between teacher and student fueled by something more basic?  Like jealousy? Jung has this very, very disturbed (and hot) Russian female patient with whom he violates the rules of psychotherapy.  Yes, he becomes her lover.  But worse, he cures her.  She walks right, talks right, becomes a psychiatrist, and functions as a friend and professional.  She forgives Jung his transgression and tries to console him after his life with his family and patients has deteriorated into a series of patient-mistress affairs.  Think of that iconic scene (or will be some day) in The Artist when the silent movie actor is descending the stairs and the talking picture ingénue is ascending.  Sad, but it's the way of the world, of course. Your patients, like your students, exceed your achievements and status.  Ironically, Jung doesn't seem to value that his patient's transformation embodies a great professional success for him--the goal of prescription he so fervently sought, despite Freud’s disapproval and professional rejection.

I suspect that’s what has upset Freud more than Jung flexing his psychiatric muscles or having his patient affair.  Jung’s patient improves—something that Freud claims lies beyond his interests.  Or does he actually realize (at some semi-/unconscious level) that curing lies beyond his talents, a I suspect that it does?

Does the movie suggest that Freud’s aversion to Jung’s explorations reveals the teacher’s professional jealousy? Not really.  But it should have, for that would have connected the two agendas.

Of course, if Freud were reviewing this film, he would likely project that his character’s ire is sexually driven: he’s jealous of this younger, more sexually potent rival.

You chose which analysis you prefer.  Our time is up.

Son of Man/Mother of All

Son of Man.  Director: Mark Dornford-May. Spier Films 2006.

  

Up until the last scene, Son of Man should be called Mother of All, for Mary becomes the self-actualized driving force for all in her community.  If there is any hope for her neighbors, it is because Mary develops her self-confidence enough to inspire their hope and influence change.  Jesus, on the other hand, walks through his scenes without much emotion and deliberation.  Contrasting Jesus’ flat characterization to Mary’s fully developed portrayal; I hope to show how the film comes very close to portraying female self-actualization. 

Let’s quickly review what I have determined (from Abraham Maslow’s work) to be the three criteria for self-actualizing: 1) know and accept who you are; 2) resist unhealthy, forced acculturation; and 3) contribute to a better relationship/world.

First, we see her self-knowledge and acceptance.  After a boy angel (presumably Gabriel) announces to Mary that she will conceive the son of God, Mary—though initially confused—accepts her role of the mother of the Son of God just as she later accepts her pregnancy, her marriage, and her son’s birth. 

Next, we see Mary resist forced acculturation.   Escaping the political decree to murder all male babies, Joseph and Mary hide with Jesus in the bushes as they watch the slaughter.  After diverting Jesus’s face, Mary turns him toward the violence. She, unlike Joseph, refuses the paternal mandate to shield one’s child from violence.   Forcing her son to acknowledge the violence from which she has saved him and which still exists in this unstable political climate, Mary self-actualizes away from the forced cultural role of submissive wife and nurturing mother.

From here, the movie switches its focus to Jesus who gets himself beaten up, killed, and buried in obscurity.  No messiah here. 

Finally, we see Mary contribute to a better world. After Jesus’ failed ministry, the film returns to Mary and other mothers of murdered sons and daughters.  We assume that it is Mary who has orchestrated the spectacle of a crucified Jesus (long dead) on a raised platform.  It is Mary who faces down the armed soldiers. And it is Mary who unites her neighbors to stand against violence—for peace amidst singing and dancing.  Mary has contributed to a better village life.

Up until this point, Son of Man has departed from the Gospels, portraying no triumphant, immortal Jesus. Instead, it has afforded its viewers a self-actualized social activist.  The film has depicted Mary as Maya Angelou’s “phenomenal woman.”

Illogically, the film then abandons Mary’s self-actualization and returns to a more patriarchal and faithful Gospel agenda—Jesus as messiah.  Mysteriously, the once-dead and now, denim-shirted, immaculately dressed Jesus (who looks like a Golden Corral employee), along with a slew of child angels, climbs a sandy mound, turns to the camera, and raises his fist as if in triumph.  Is it a kowtowing to patriarchy or latent faithfulness to the Gospels that compels the film to save Jesus from ignobility and ludicrously portray him as its ultimate savior?  I can’t say.   And I don’t care why Son of Man, like many Jesus films, ultimately restricts itself to the message of Jesus as messiah.  We hear his undeserved triumphant song:  “The sun in spring will rise over the mountain. Today we are united. We are one people.” As such, the film falsely credits Jesus  with unifying the people and for the spring sun’s rising again over the mountain.  Think the end of the first Rocky film.  The only difference is that Rocky deserved his moment in the spring sun but Jesus does not. 

If there was ever a film that rewarded you for watching the credits, it’s Son of Man.  As the film’s credits roll, a quote appears from Genesis 1.26: “And God said, ‘Let us make man in our own image, after our own likeness.”  How, exactly, does the film support this?   And then, photos.  As if aware of its own Jesus/Mary saviors contradictions, the film returns to female agency with photo after photo of women and children: playing, cutting hair, retrieving water, etc.—all peaceful activities.  Photographically, women and children empower their village’s hope and future.  The film returns to female agency.  I leave my viewing convinced that whether it’s patriarchy or religion that attempts to overshadow her potency is   irrelevant.  Rather, what haunt and inspire are the images of the village women who effect a peaceful change.  I slip the DVD back into its case and glance at the cover.  Without thought, I find myself returning the smile of the film’s most illustrious of those women—a self-actualizing Mary.  

The Skin I Live In Disappoints

The Skin I Live In (2011) La piel que habito (original title)

Director: Pedro Almodóvar. Writers: Pedro Almodóvar (screenplay), Agustín Almodóvar(collaboration). Stars:  Antonio Banderas, Elena Anaya, Jan Cornet

First, I’d like to be on record as saying that Pedro Almodóvar’s The Skin I Live In is a film worth seeing.  So see it and then continue reading.  Otherwise, be prepared for major spoiler alerts.

[Insert film viewing here.]

Last night, we watched the film.  This morning, on our walk, my dear husband tried to explain to me Almodóvar’s ongoing cinematic interests.  Here’s what I recall from that conversation.

RW: Almodóvar is interested in gender-bending.

Me: Then, why didn’t Vincent perform as women do? Or at least consider that he’d become a woman?  Or be afraid that he would become a woman?  Or wonder what it means to “be a woman” beyond having a cunt (film’s description).  Let’s adopt Judith Butler’s premise that we are how we perform.  That is, if someone acts like a woman—regardless of body parts—she is a woman.  So let’s look at the behavior of 

Vincent turned Robert-renamed Vera.  

1.      Vincent watches the huge flat screen: National Geographic and some old movie don’t catch his interest.  However, the promises of mind-control and personal freedom through a life of yoga do.  Makes sense but hardly a female attraction.  Although the film first shows us Vincent’s yoga practice through a voyeuristic lens in which we think we’re watching a slinky female contort her body into highly-flexible poses, we later realize (when we view the info-commercial’s promises of a better mental and emotional life along with Vincent) that we’ve been watching Vincent search for some semblance of control and comfort.  What once seemed to be the actions of an alluring female, we realize is the androgynous quest for peace and comfort. Nothing female there.

2.      Vincent enlarges his vaginal opening with a series of bigger dildos. The only reason he participates in this practice is because he has no choice.  Robert commands; Vincent obeys.  It’s not complicated because Vincent is the prisoner.  But shouldn’t his reaction to repeated enlarging dildo use be complicated?  After his vaginoplasty, shouldn’t he be able to pleasure himself with the dildos?  Wouldn’t that upset him as he clings to his maleness?  At the very least, shouldn’t that self-pleasuring confuse his sexual orientation?  But we don’t know because we never see him do this and we never hear him talk about it.  We just know that it enlarged his “orifice”—the film’s particularly non-sexual description.

3.  Vincent, the rapist, himself endures a rape and suffers the raw physical aftermath, which allows him to postpone sex with Robert.  He’s not acting coquettishly female, he’s damn sore.  And when he complains that he’s still raw from being raped, he questions Robert’s suggestion to “do it from behind” as being painful.  It’s not clear what “from behind” means.  Regardless, wouldn’t this just as likely be a male response?

4.      Vincent wears a skin-tight body suit because Robert scientifically explains that it’s to be Vincent’s “second skin.”  I’m confused what that means because I thought the new skin was basically, indestructible. Anyway, Vincent goes along with Robert’s order and wears it.  Does he enjoy this gender-bending apparel?  He doesn’t seem to.  For, aside from the outline of his small-medium size breasts, he looks surprisingly androgynous in his body suit.  And although he wears the body suit, he rejects more clearly female attire—a selection of dresses.  Violently shredding the dresses sent to him and sucking their tatters away using the wall vacuum, Vincent rejects crossing the line between androgynous clothing and female apparel.  I don’t see any gender-bending here.

5.      Vincent writes on the walls, recording his days as more of a catalogue of dates than a diary of emotions.  So emotionless are his recordings, I wonder why he bothers.  For whatever reason, he fills up the walls with dates rather than melodramatic musings.  He doesn’t seem confused by his situation.  He seems driven.  Dare I suggest that as a male stereotype?

In short, Vincent doesn’t adopt any particularly female behavior that I can see.  In fact, his assurance that he remains male is almost unrealistic.

RW: Almodóvar is interested in a post-modern conception of identity.

ME: So for the director, identity is fluid?  Ok, then why, when Vincent sees his picture in the newspaper article for missing persons, does he kiss his photo?  Why does he, at the film’s end, announce to Christina and his mother that he is “Vincent” and that his changed appearance is only because of alterations of his physical?  True, he’s wearing a dress when he reunites with his mother and shopmate but that’s for the purpose of identification: the last private conversation he had with Christina focused on her refusing the dress and suggesting he wear the dress, implying a female sexual orientation.  It’s neither ironic nor revelatory that the dress becomes his access back into his old life.  It’s a plot device.  It makes sense.  It’s not a statement that he’s merged into the Robert-imposed Vera identity.  The marvel of the movie is that Vincent never once questions that he is still Vincent—not Vera—and that all of these changes are only physical—not identifying—and that he doesn’t deserve what happened to him.  He is one of the best (although perhaps, unrealistic) modern examples of Plato’s belief in an essential core identity.

RW: The title suggests a Platonic duality.

ME:  I was lost and asked for clarification.  RW: “skin” = body.  “I live in” = soul.  The second equation is not nearly as obvious to me as the first is.  However, I do credit the film’s duality—independent of its title: Vincent’s body is separate from Vincent’s identity.  On the other hand, Vincent’s male-altered female body recreates for Robert his deceased wife’s body.  So for Robert, body = soul—no duality. But for Vincent, body ≠ soul--duality. And that non-equation triumphs at the end.  So I guess that I do see the Platonic duality being played with.

RW: The movie recalls Shelley’s Frankenstein.

Me: It’s hard to dispute that every story with a mad scientist (and this guy is a real perv, as well) echoes Frankenstein.  However, note the dissimilarities within the similarities:

Same: Both scientists remold human life. 

Different: Their motives.  Victor Frankenstein wants to alleviate death from mankind.  At first, we think that Robert is revenging his daughter’s rape; but later, we see that he is attempting to renew his physical (including sexual) relationship with his deceased wife.  One noble reason; one ignoble reason. Big difference. 

Same: Both creations attempt a relationship with their creators. 

Different: Again, their motives.  The monster longs for a father-son relationship because he yearns for tutelage and human companionship.  Vincent only pretends his loyalty to Robert in order to escape.  That doesn’t make his motives any less profound than the Monster’s, but it does make the story more about plot than character and the human condition. Huge difference.  (Hardly anybody must read  Shelley or they’d get that it’s about so much more than the stupid experiment.) 

Same: Both creations attempt to destroy their creators. 

Different:  Motive again.  Victor abandons his creation after cursing him to live a self-exiled life in a mutilated body whereas Robert clings to his creation after cursing him to live a forced exile in a gorgeous body.  The Monster has nothing but his freedom to wander.  Vincent has everything but his freedom to leave. An important difference.

The movie, for me, recalls Poe’s works on revenge, which always (ultimately) ruins the revenger.  Not only is Robert dead by the film’s end but before that, he is seduced and duped by his creation.  What Poe does so much better, though, is show us how the act of revenge—not the victim—causes the revenger’s demise.  It’s more psychological; more complicated; and probably, more realistic.  Certainly, more worthwhile, self-examination-wise.

What I’ve omitted from our conversation is my if-only-I’d-directed-the-film commentary.

1.       Let’s say I’d undergone treatments to attach testicles and a penis, enjoyed the forgetfulness of opium, suffered the isolation of human contact except intercom voices and my abductor’s intermittent visits, and suspected that I was surveilled at all times.  I’m sure that I’d be confused about not just what I’ve become, but who.  After all, I live in a post-modern, Western world of identity fluidity.  Although that concept doesn’t need to confine me, I still can’t escape its influences to some degree. That’s why the movie needs at least one scene in which Vincent considers adopting the Robert-imposed/-created Vera persona. 

2.      Along that same line, the reunion with his mother should have been explored and complicated.  She stares at him/her. He stares back as him—announcing he’s “Vincent,” her son.  That staring and declaration is the end of film.  Why doesn’t the film explore the complexity of his reentry into his family and social life—if not for him, at least for others?

3.      The victim is the rapist.  That’s seems like it should be complicated but not for this movie.  Shouldn’t we see Vincent explore his guilt beyond his defense that he was drugged out and doesn’t remember?  And what about the parents?  Where is a Freudian to wonder how the mother’s (suspected) adultery and father’s creepy mad scientist domestic life contribute to their daughter’s suicide—beyond the rape?

4.      The revenger becomes a pervert.  Shouldn’t we see Robert at least question why his revenge turns obsession?  At first, the revenge is clear: the kidnapped Vincent—chained, starved, and abandoned—will pay for raping Robert’s daughter.  He will lose his genitalia and gain a woman’s.  The rest of his appearance will surgically and cosmetically become female-aligned.  At some point in viewing the movie, I began to wonder how far this revenge was going.  Why the breasts?  The makeup?  The hairstyle?   Then, I realized that Robert was trying to recreate his dead wife.  But I couldn’t determine if he was doing that from the start.  Did he initially think that he’d simultaneously punish his daughter’s rapist and also reclaim his wife?  What I couldn’t get past (because the movie fails to explore) was that the guy wants to have sex and, possibly, a marital-like relationship, with someone who raped his daughter.  That seems like two very different flow charts he’s going down.  Where is the scene that explains that flow chart or justifies him switching from one chart to the other?  I need that scene to explain if Robert was a crazy perv from the beginning or if revenge sparked/created some perviness in him.

5.      The creation kills his creator.  One quick gunshot. Robert slumps.  Robert dies.  For the entire movie, I’ve been waiting for Vincent’s revenge on his revenger—not just in actions but in speech.  Where is the “you’ve done me wrong” castigation speech?  Where is the “you’re a bigger perv than I am” diatribe?  All we get is Vincent acknowledging, “I lied” when, in disbelief, Robert questions his betrayal.  I want much more.  Even most Westerns would give me a pre-gunfight speech, explaining (but not detailing) the moral compass of the film.  How much more morally satisfying it would be to hear Vincent and Robert duke it out with their justifications and accusations.  Remember those great confrontations between creation and creator that Mary Shelley gives us?  That’s all I’m asking for.

In summary, the film had great potential.  It could have explored numerous post-modern questions: Are we female or male because we perform as such?  Can we choose to be female or male?  Can our “cultures” successfully impose female and male identities on us? Are scientific experiments dangerous when performed in secret?  What should be the limits of physically altering the bodies we’re born with? How responsible are we for our behavior when operating impaired?  Is identity fluid or can we adhere to some core version of ourselves despite “cultural” stimuli and expectations?  Does revenge corrupt the revenger?  I’ll stop there.

I’m not demanding answers.  I just wish that the film had explored these questions.  However, its aftermath—my conversing and blogging—have questioned.  So maybe the film’s ending is meant to be confrontational (See Marianna Torgovnick).  It certainly made me mad.  And it also made me think…and question. 

OK, now I’m feeling a little satisfied.

Death of a Salesman at the Barrymore Theater

Death of a Salesman:

An Attempt at a Non-judgmental Look at One Man’s Failed Self-Actualization

I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman play Willy Loman for the 2012 penultimate performance at the Barrymore Theater.  That’s why I went. Just to see him play him—without much interest in the play.  But I left in love again with Miller’s play despite years of teaching it to unresponsive students.  I’d forgotten that watching  the play overwhelms its audience viewers.   

Make no mistake though.  There’s more to the play than staging and performances. The script affords its readers great lines—and lessons—especially about the failure to self-actualize. Here are some gems that illumine Maslow’s 3 criteria for self-actualization.

1. Know yourself and accept who you are…

The famous shouting match of Act 2 appears to suggest that Willy Loman fails to accurately self-evaluate—not his failure but his worth: 

Biff: “Pop! I'm a dime a dozen, and so are you!”
Willie: “I am not a dime a dozen! I am Willy Loman, and you are Biff Loman.” (Act 2)

Although he is fired, abandoned, and broke, the play ultimately suggests that Willy Loman is not a dime a dozen.  Neither Charley, Biff, Happ, or Linda esteem him to be expendable.  They realize that he’d been a dedicated father despite his ineffective parenting style with its emphasis on being liked rather than on being ethical; that he had been a relentless salesman despite his recent sales failures; and that he’d been a faithful family provider despite his waning commissions.  On the other hand, the play disallows any heroic retrospective, tempering Willy’s good with his bad. Clearly, even sacrificing his life for his family’s insurance money, Willy Loman is no great man.  He is, like most of us, a tremendously flawed human being. The play (through boss’s, family’s, and neighbors’ eyes) shows us such an unflattering portrait of Willy Loman that I imagine there are times when we wish he’d just get his suicide over with.  But there’s no one more disappointed in Willy Loman than Willie Loman.  Despite his bravado, he knows he’s failed.  How can he not? He begs money.  He raises two sons who lack filial piety. He loses his job yelling at his boss.  He can’t even keep his car on the road or pay his insurance or repair his appliances.  He knows he’s past his prime. 

But the play stresses that none of these failures demeans him as a worthless and expendable human being.  The shame of it all is that Willy doesn’t know his self-worth.  Although by the end of the play, Willy gains self-awareness of his failures, he never gains self-acceptance of his merits.  In order to self-actualize, we must honestly acknowledge who we’ve become—without exaggerating the good or the bad—before we can move forward to improve ourselves. 

2. Resist unhealthy acculturation…” You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man is not a piece of fruit.” (Willy Loman, Act 2)  “After all the highways, and the trains, and the appointments, and the years, you end up worth more dead than alive.” (Willy Loman, Act 2)  Many critics and educators believe that the play blames capitalism and/or the American Dream for Willy’s demise.  Obviously, the play questions the merits of prizing possessions (Howard’s tape recorder, silk stockings, footballs, pens, etc.) over human connections.  But does the play really suggest that capitalistically expendable, Willy is “worth more dead than alive”?  Hardly. Nor does the play suggest that Willy should have changed careers (for being a salesman is what he is) or should force Howard into giving him a job at a New York City desk. Neither does the play pretend that the life (yet alone the death) of Dave Singleton was a dream come true. The play clearly portrays that Willy, once a successful salesman, has become a failed salesman and that if he were still successful, he would still be employed.  However, he is not, so he is not.  What struck me with this recent viewing was not so much that the play critiques capitalism and the American Dream but that the play distinguishes between family vs. business rhetoric in the work place. 

Let me explain.  When your company want something extra from you (like a charitable contribution), notice how they likely use family rhetoric—loyalty, dedication, sacrifice, etc. But when your company wants a financial improvement (like end-of-the-quarter sales), notice how they likely change from family rhetoric to business rhetoric—productivity, budget, cut-backs, etc.  Willy brags about his past success using business rhetoric—commissions, sales, and orders.  But when he focuses on his diminished productivity, he relies solely on family rhetoric—naming Howard, being liked, personal relationship with the company’s founder, etc.  Had Willy been able to determine that the family model works only when the employer employs it and not when the worker asks for a favor, he would have avoided disillusionment and have taken the job from Charley.  The play shows that “it’s not personal; it’s just business” undergirds all bottom-line business decisions.  Is that just with capitalism?  I doubt it.  The play teaches us that we’d best realize that business rhetoric and its accompanying expectations are all we can count on from our company.  Rare is the time when employers sacrifice profits or jeopardize prestige for an employee’s needs.

3. Establish healthy relationships…“I don't say he's a great man. Willie Loman never made a lot of money. His name was never in the paper. He's not the finest character that ever lived. But he's a human being, and a terrible thing is happening to him. So attention must be paid. He's not to be allowed to fall in his grave like an old dog. Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person.” (Linda, act 1) 

This is my husband’s favorite line.  Everyone needs attention, affection, or support.  For years, we’ve argued over the merits of exposing children to the story of The Velveteen Rabbit.   I say no: it’s damaging to tell children that they’re loveable only if someone loves them.  Then, what about orphans or kids with shitty parents?  He says yes: be realistic.  Without someone who loves you, you have no chance to develop your self-worth.  It’s not that you’re unloveable; it’s that you see yourself as unlovable.  Linda Loman’s insistence that her husband needed support—despite his flawed character—makes me wonder whether the play blames Willy and Biff for their ridiculous emphases on personality (“The man who makes an appearance in the business world, the man who creates personal interest, is the man who gets ahead. Be liked and you will never want.”   …“He's liked, but he's not well liked.”) or everyone in his who should have attended to Willy, whom Linda sees as exhausted.   Linda is the only person who attends to Willy.  Ben breezes in and out, bragging about some vague diamond discovery riches.  Charley periodically suffers Willy’s wisecracks and bashings while ultimately, offering a hand-out job and a hand-out; but he doesn’t act as his friend (no matter what Willy says).  The sons are worthless—too lost and selfish themselves to care about anyone else.  And Howard is his boss.  (I’ve already covered how the play releases him from personal responsibilities.)  So that leaves Linda.  Why isn’t Linda’s attention enough?  As the Velveteen Rabbit, don’t we all need that one person to love us?  But do some people—like salesmen, comedians, and politicians, need more than one person?  After all, a salesman needs his clients’, boss’s, and co-worker’s respect. Otherwise, he is a failed salesman.  Too ashamed of becoming a failed salesman, Willy won’t become something/someone else.  To him, if he’s not a salesman, he’s not Willy Loman.  The play demonstrates that he fails—not so much as a salesman—but as a self-actualizer.  He fails to revisit his self-image.  No one but Willy can rescue him.

What’s so great about my 40+ years exposure to this play is its invitation for multiple (and contradictory) interpretations.  This time, I’m settling on Charley as the play’s touchstone.   After the funeral Charley admonishes Linda and the sons: “Nobody dast blame this man.... For a salesman, there is no rock bottom to the life. He don’t put a bolt to a nut, he don’t tell you the law or give you medicine. He’s a man way out there in the blue, riding on a smile and a shoeshine. And when they start not smiling back—that’s an earthquake. And then you get yourself a couple of spots on your hat, and you’re finished. Nobody dast blame this man. A salesman is got to dream, boy. It comes with the territory.”  (“Requiem” ) The play, heard through Charley’s mouthpiece ultimately negates playing the blame game.  It’s not Willy’s fault, Charley warns.  So too, it’s not Howard’s, nor Biff’s, nor Hap’s, nor Linda’s, the play indicates.  Nor is it the fault of capitalism or the American Dream.  According to Charley, if you self-identify as a salesman, you must dream.  And dreams, beyond your control, may become your worst nightmares.  In order to self-actualize, we must accept failure, but we must never lose sight of our worth. Reexamining our worth, we must struggle to construct a more successful self-image in order to become a happier person.  Yes, we need support.  But we also need a good dose of realism and self-nurturing.