Author: John

Pale Rider (1985)

A long break from posting, but with good reason…the birth of my son, Nicholas on July 4th. All are well here, and hopefully I’ll get back to posting a bit more regularly.

As I started thinking about my recent viewing of Pale Rider, I was immediately reminded of Shane (1953), as well as another recent viewing: The Magnificent Seven (1960). Of course, thinking about that film got me thinking about an all-time favorite: Seven Samurai (1954).

Pale Rider seems to me a pretty clear homage/remake/knock-off of the George Stevens classic, Shane. Most striking is the lone gunman riding into town to save the poor people from the rich cattleman/miner, who buys power and influence and thuggery with his growing empire of ill-gotten gains. On top of that, the dialogue at the end of the later film is identical in places to that of Shane, with Megan crying out for the Preacher, asking where he is and that she loves him.

On the other end of the spectrum, The Magnificent Seven is an acknowledged remake of Seven Samurai, and translates the bulk of the story and characters into a film that emphasizes the “cool” of its stars and minimizes the rich characterization and intensity of Kurosawa’s Japanese original. And of course, these two films share a similar thematic structure with the previous two – they involve a group of villagers who are in need of help of getting out from under the thumb of terrorizing thugs.

What strikes me most about these four films is that while the central problem in all of them is the same, the way that problem is dealt with is quite different – at least in comparing the first two films with the second two. Pale Rider and Shane both hinge on the lone gunman who comes to town, and while preaching togetherness, ultimately needs to take down the forces of evil on their own. Most obvious here is Eastwood’s Preacher in Pale Rider, who tells the villagers of Carbon Canyon that they have no hope unless they stick together, no matter what. Yet in only a few hours, he ditches Hull (Moriarty) so that he can ride into town alone and finish the job, which he essentially does. Shane does a similar thing, as he rides into town alone to face the gunman. Eastwood’s film simply ups the ante by making him face seven gunmen.

Now, in the two Seven films there is a direct contrast, with the heroes not being lone gunmen, but a group of fighters who must not only band together, but also rely on the untrained villagers for help. I think this is one of the superior aspects of Seven Samurai, btw. We see how the samurai depend on the villagers, in spite of their pride and desire not to show it.

I think these latter films have a definite one-up on films like Shane and Pale Rider. While those films have their strong points, it seems they are fraught with an inherent contradiction that doesn’t exist in the Seven films. The Seven films have heroes who both teach togetherness and unity AND show it. Pale Rider and Shane have heroes who talk about sticking together, and then deny it by their actions.

What I find most interesting about all of this though is that the Seven films come from a story told originally in Japan. It is a story about how there is strength in numbers, and that through sticking together, people can fight back the invaders. Not without loss, mind you, but it is how the fight goes on. Films like Shane and Pale Rider are quintisentially American. They feature the lone hero that goes in on his own and takes out all the bad guys, saving the poor innocent saps who are too cowardly or inept to defend themselves. There seems to me in that an inherent pride, an arrogance that talks of trusting in others, but practically has no intention of doing so. This hero is an insulated person, self-sufficient, who can take care of himself. He doesn’t really need anyone else. This taps into a sort of mythic persona that is so closely identified with America and an American way of doing things that I’m pretty sure I miss most of its outpourings.

The obvious contemporary connection here is the critique of the US policy in Iraq, for the relative lack of involvement of anyone else with anywhere near the kind of commitment the US has made. But there are others and I think this issue runs much deeper than something as obvious as the Iraq critique. I am thinking more broadly, about an insular mindset that shrugs off responsibility to others who lie outside our inner circle. There is talk about sticking together, but is there really action? For some, no doubt there is. But is that the way of the world? I think not.

I am too consumed with my own problems, responsibilities, and friends to even notice all the people floating by. I have created my own little insular world, and while I talk all the time about the virtues of community, unity, and sticking together, I have much to learn as I strive to live it out in this life. So while I am repelled by the inherent contradictions in films like Shane and Pale Rider, when I think about it long enough, I find that I deal in those contradictions far too often myself. And then I guess that maybe, just maybe, Pale Rider hits the nail on the head in its identification of the Preacher with Revelation 6:8.

Howl’s Moving Castle (2005)

Two nights after seeing this, I find myself still captivated by the images and rhythms of this film. I’m not sure there is a filmmaker working today that better brings me to a place of wonder than Miyazaki. My mind is active in his films. I find myself thinking about what might be going on around a corner, just over a hill, or inside a random building. The worlds he creates are so utterly plausible that I can’t help but think there are all kinds of stories worth telling in and around the one he has chosen to show us.Yet I find myself asking a follow-up question: Just what exactly is so plausible about the worlds he creates? They are filled with strange creatures, wizards, witches, birds, giant babies, bouncing heads, flying dragons, and of course, the face of Studio Ghibli – totoros. So it isn’t the kinds of characters, per se. Rather, it is the characters themselves. Even if I’m not convinced that there are totoros wandering around in my backyard, the characters in Miyazaki’s films are dealing with real problems. He provides us the time to know them. There is always some kind of real life hardship that roots his stories in reality. Whether it’s Chihiro’s need to find her parents, Satsuki dealing with her mom’s illness, or Kiki finding her own way in the world of grown-ups, his films involve lone characters dealing with the real hardships of life.

Howl’s is no different. With another young female protagonist, Miyazaki brings Sophie to life as a girl who fears growing up. She receives all kinds of pressure to get out of her hat shop and do something for herself. She’d like to continue in the hat shop to honor her father who started the business, but also seems desirous of something more. She wishes she would at least be noticed from time to time.

In comes Howl, a wizard with a reputation for heartbreaking. But what follows is not the simple boy meets girl, woos girl, and gets girl, but rather a tale of them both needing to overcome significant problems in their lives. Either of their own volition or due to others forcing things on them, both Sophie and Howl are faced with the prospect of ridicule, injury, or even death.

The film is captivating, and in its honoring of the elderly, it stands unique among many films of its kind. Also, the visual inventiveness of the film never ceases to amaze and delight. For instance, so much of the comedy of the film comes in quiet, subtle moments that almost seem like throwaway moments. When Sophie first enters the castle, there’s a moment when she stops at the top of a staircase. All we see is the top of her head and her eyes just peeking over the side glancing this way and that. It lasts only a second or two, and if you blink, you’ll miss it; yet it’s so delightful in its simplicity.

There’s more to say about this film, but I’ll let it simmer for now. I’m planning on catching one of the few Miyazaki’s I haven’t yet seen in the next couple of days: Nausicaa, which is considered his first major effort with his own material. I am looking forward to it in eager anticipation.

Arts & Faith Top 100

I originally posted a version of these comments over at the discussion board I visit on occasion, seeing as the top 100 spiritually significant films list grew out of the group of people that frequent the site. I am a sucker for lists, while at the same time recognizing their limitations and constraints. No list will be perfect. Every list will be a reflection of those involved in its creation, and therefore limited to their experience and interests. That being said, I still like them, and find them an interesting way to access films and directors I may not have heard of or titles that might have otherwise escaped my attention. Lists are also a good way to see titles that are well-regarded or important in both critical or historical circles.

With my recent viewing of Tarkovsky’s The Sacrifice, I have completed at least one viewing of all 100 films on the list. Many I had seen before the list came out, so in the last year to 18 months, I have made it a goal to check out the 30 or so I hadn’t previously seen.

It’s been a varied experience. Admittedly, most of the one’s I hadn’t seen fell into the foreign language or older film categories. Some of my first viewing experiences were downright transcendent – films like Au hasard Balthazar and Stalker. Others were strange, beautiful, and wonderful – Songs from the Second Floor and Werckmeister Harmonies. Others were more difficult to process, and while I recognize the craft involved, need more time and viewings to really take them in – Ozu’s Tokyo Story or Tarkovsky’s Mirror (which I commented on below) might fit here.

Overall, I must say I am pretty pleased with the list. It is varied, and has a nice collection of world cinema, biblical films, and many titles that fall outside that sort of ‘beat you over the head spirituality’ category. If I had one critique of the list, it might be that it tends toward newer films. I know that some disagree, but I find it difficult to put very many new films (from this decade) on a list like this. That doesn’t mean I think none from this decade belong. Obviously that’s not the case, as I have some in my list of films I love. I suspect it might also could use more non-English language titles, but one would expect a group of English speakers to favor English language films to some degree.

As for specific titles, I’ll only mention those titles residing closest to the extremes (both good and bad):

Films I love: The Addiction, Au hasard Balthazar, Babette’s Feast, Bicycle Thieves, Close-Up, Crimes and Misdemeanors, Dead Man Walking, Dekalog, Dogville, Fearless, Gospel According to Matthew, Ikiru, Magnolia, A Man Escaped, The Night of the Hunter, The Sacrifice, Secrets & Lies, Shawshank, The Son, Songs From the Second Floor, Stalker, Sunrise, 13 Conversations, Three Colors, 2001, Waking Life, Werckmeister Harmonies, Wild Strawberries, Wings of Desire, Year of Living Dangerously, Yi Yi

Films I could do without: American Beauty, Bad Lieutenant, Changing Lanes, Dogma, Eternal Sunshine, Fight Club, Groundhog Day, Life of Brian, LOTR, Prince of Egypt, Star Wars

What’s missing: Winter Light for sure and possibly Picnic at Hanging Rock.

The Searchers (1956)

The Searchers begins with a door opening, providing a glorious view into Monument Valley and to the approaching Ethan Edwards (John Wayne). It ends with that same door closing, this time with Edwards retreating, back into the landscape from which he came. In between, he scours that landscape, looking for his kidnapped niece, Debbie, who has been taken as a future bride of the notorious Comanche chief, Scar (Henry Brandon).This search provides numerous instances of suspense, comedy, battle, and heroism. But beyond that, and what makes this film so intriguing, is that it provides us a look into the heart of a man (Edwards). And it provides us an opportunity to reflect on the aftermath of one of the great conflicts in US history.

When Edwards returns to the West Texas farm of his brother, he has been out of the Civil War for some three years, and rumors have been flying about just what he was up to during that time (he was probably involved in some kind of criminal activity). He fought for the Confederates, and he brings home loads of money that looks straight from a treasury. He’s probably also a racist, as his frequent comments about the Comanche Indians indicate. But when he decides to pursue the warring Indians that killed his family and kidnapped his niece, he will not bend, even if it means keeping up the chase for five years.

The thing I love about this film is that as viewers, we are forced to sympathize with a man we don’t really want to like, yet his perseverance and the honor of his task compel us to do so. He’s essentially a distant uncle to this girl, a girl that was close to a baby the first time he saw her. Yet he sacrifices himself to get to her – but here is where it gets tricky. Is he trying to save her because she’s family? Is he trying to get to her because no Comanche deserves to be with a white woman (his hate for Indians is his motivation here)? Is he going after her to see to it that justice is done?

These elements work together in him, playing off of each other, revealing themselves at different times in the film. At one moment, we think the motive is familial affection. Then we are convinced it’s the racist and vengeful impulses in him. When he shoots the dead Comanche in the eyes, the racism takes the forefront. When he tells of the way he cared for the body of Lucy, we see the feelings for his family come forth. When he eschews the “too lengthy” funeral service for the search, the motive is more ambiguous. This ambiguity appears to be the dominant theme in his character. One could interpret many of his actions in more honorable ways, but there seem to be a number of factors pointing in the other direction – toward his racism, his thirst for vengeance, and his criminal past.

All this causes me to reflect on questions that arise all the time about motives. Why do we do what we do? Do we ever do anything for purely selfless reasons, or is it more often than not that we act out of our own self-interest, out of our own desires for what we want and how we think things should be? Ford shows us a true man in Edwards, a man who is terribly conflicted (whether he knows that or not), a man who acts in heroic ways, but who may actually be something none of us aspire to.

Fanny and Alexander (1982)

As I watched the long version again (the second time in 2 1/2 months), I was struck by the utter ambiguity in the relationship between imagination, magic, and even divine intervention. The scene that got me thinking along these lines was one I had forgotten, from the final act. During the rescue of the children, after Isak has put them into the chest, Edvard makes his way to the nursery, in what we expect will be a scene where he discovers that the children are missing.Instead, what he finds are the children laying together on the floor with their mother looking over them – yet we know they have been placed in the chest. How can they be two places at once? It seems to me there are several ways of looking at this scene, which I think Bergman purposefully leaves ambiguous, as he does many other scenes like it in the film.

The options: First, it could be that somehow either Isak or Emilie snuck puppets into the house, and during the intervening moments, snuck those puppets into the room. Of course, the puppets would have originated with Aron, and either come in with Isak, or through him to Emilie in secret. Second, it could be some kind of magic or other illusion, as we see Aron talk with Alexander about the breathing mummy. Third, it could be in Isak’s imagination. As he falls to the ground, the camera focuses in on him, as if these are his thoughts at this moment. And when Edvard goes upstairs, Isak calls in the boys for outside to carry the chest. Finally, it seems this could even be an instance of divine intervention of some sort. Isak falls to his knees and looks up, as if he could be praying. And in this moment of all moments, God intervenes.

The thing about all these options, is I think there’s no way to know for sure which is which. And this is part of the greatness of this film. You see, this is where we all are with reference to what we know about God in the world. We see all kinds of strange and unexplainable things, some of these miraculous, some not so much. Some of these yield good things in the immediate, some do not. Yet much as we might like to attribute this or that to the hand of God or some other force or even our own imagination, it seems that in the end, none of us can make such a call for sure. We might like to believe it’s this way or that way, but believing is all we can do. And as finite human beings, living with this belief or faith is the tension we have to live with, it seems to me.

Bergman captures this ambiguity beautifully all through the film, with all the scenes of ghosts, imagined or otherwise, and other strange occurrences. His protagonist finds himself right in the middle of that ambiguity, and is ultimately unsure of what to do with it. Bergman as writer and director doesn’t seem to want to account for it with imagination, or God, or magic. He just leaves these things in tension, without any steps of faith in any of these directions.

The Night of the Hunter (1955)

Well-known actor Charles Laughton directed only one film. One might be hard-pressed to find a better film from one who had directed so little. Night of the Hunter centers its narrative on a couple of fatherless and kids and a shady preacher who gets in good with widows for their money. When the preacher, Harry Powell (Robert Mitchum), learns that recently widowed Willa Harper (Shelley Winters) has some cash, he wastes no time in tracking her down and marrying her. But that’s only the beginning, for it’s actually the two children who have been entrusted with the cash from their bank-robbing father. The children eventually take off down river, and end up on the farm of a Ms. Cooper (silent film star Lillian Gish), who makes a habit of taking in orphans. She takes in John and Pearl, washes and clothes them, feeds them well, and reads them Bible stories. All of this leads up to a final showdown between the false prophet and the true.A couple of elements stand out from this viewing: First, we have different versions of religion, and Christianity in particular, presented to us. From the very beginning of the film, we get dialogue about false prophets, and how you can know they are actually true by their fruit. It is the actions we have to watch – all of them. And Mitchum’s preacher does quite a bit of sermonizing about right and wrong, but he does little. Ms. Cooper, on the other hand, is virtually all action, and when she does speak, the speech points toward God and the Scriptures. One other note here: I find it interesting that all through the film, Powell talks about religion, and even sings a couple of hymns, but never invokes the name of Christ. Cooper, however, invokes not only the name of Christ, but also Moses in her short part. Hers is a religion of action that is tied to real historical events. Powell’s is religion of words that is tied to his own experience.

Secondly, the portrayal of fanaticism is chilling. As we enter the film, we have a definite perspective on Powell, and we are rightly suspicious of him. But of all the others in the town, personified in the Spoons, we have a more positive view. They appear to be kind people, who care about the widow and her children. They go to church picnics, sing hymns, and bring over food for the hurting family. However, theirs is also a religion of their own experience, and as long as they hear things about how bad all the world is out there, beyond their cute little town, they are on board. Powell gives them what they want to hear, and they are taken in by him. And these are the same people who by the end of the film, turn against Powell in a disturbing display of a mob mentality. Not only that, but Powell and the townspeople have something else in common: they both react to evil in the same way – they are appalled by it, pushing away from them anyone who might happen to be caught up in it. Contrast this with Ms. Cooper, who when confronted with an evil act by one of her orphans, is filled with compassion, and works to solve the problem as it now stands. The contrasts all through this film are strong.

This is one of the more disturbing films I love. Both times I have sat down with it (and more so with the second), I was gripped by the plight of the fatherless family. I am appalled by the actions of the townspeople. And I am moved by the portrayal of true Christianity in contrast to false. You will know them by their works, indeed.

Frankenstein (1931)

Having seen bits and pieces of this at various times on cable growing up, it was an interesting experience to finally sit down and watch this in its entirety. I found I was most familiar with the latter half, which while interesting, is less striking without the first. Most people know the story: Dr. Frankenstein is determined to create a man, taking body parts from digging up graves, the gallows, and even the medical school. When he has all the pieces in place, and with the aid of a lightening storm, he is able to channel the needed energy into the man, giving him life. But Frankenstein’s new man ends up killing people, leading to a violent confrontation to end the film. But this is a film about much more than a monster story. It confronts questions as large as what it means to be human, and the beauty of it is, it asks us to examine these questions by looking through the eyes of a monster.The opening half of the film works to set up the tragedy to follow. Of course, the moment we meet Frankenstein, he and Fritz are preparing to dig up a freshly buried man. As they do, Frankenstein heaves a shovelful of dirt right onto an image of the grim reaper, there in the graveyard. He is above death, for he knows how to give life, to breathe life into a dead body. This is the power of God, and it is Frankenstein’s mission to create a man in his own image, without the participation of God. This arrogance serves notice of troubles to follow. But it also sets up an important characteristic about Dr. Frankenstein and his own humanity: he is completely self-serving. Even at his own wedding, his mind is clearly on his experiment. In this sense, Dr. Frankenstein is one-dimensional. He has no complexity in the moral arena, there seems to be no tension there. Even after things go badly, like at the wedding, he never has a crisis of conscience.

This is a great contrast to the monster. Once the monster is created with the help of the storm, we see it – or is it him? (This is an interesting point, for while the monster is supposed to be Frankenstein’s creation of a man, he never gets above referring to the monster as “it.”) However, the monster begins to act violently toward Fritz, but only in reaction to Fritz’s nervousness and aggressiveness. This eventually leads to Fritz’s death. And if the monster kills anyone, it is either because he is being attacked in someway, or it is much more ambiguous, as with Maria. Signs point very strongly to it having been an accident with Maria, and the monster runs when he sees what he’s done. He seems to know he has accidentally done a bad thing. These elements lead to a lot of questions: Is the monster really evil? Does he have any moral sensibility? If there are no moral sensibilities, is he a man? Can he be human without any moral sensibility? In that sense, what does it say about Dr. Frankenstein, who is only ever concerned about himself and achieving success in his experiment? I mean, at least the monster has some variance – fear, violence in self-defense, playfulness. It seems then, that in a moral sense, the monster is more complex and advanced than the doctor.

Thus, it is the ending that is so troubling. Yes, the monster is responsible for the deaths of multiple people. Yes, he seems likely to kill even more people if left alive. However, one cannot help but feel sorrow as the monster is chased down like a dog and given the worst possible end he could be given. The idea here seems to be that he was created that way – he could not help but act the way he did. He really didn’t know any better. And no one seemed too anxious to help him. Dr. Frankenstein was too consumed with himself and the success of his project. Once it started to get out of hand, Frankenstein essentially gives back to the monster what the monster has doled out to Fritz and others – violence. Yet this only ends in tragedy. Was there an opportunity for reasoning with the monster? He surely seemed open to playfulness with Maria. He was far from one-dimensional, but due to the pursuit and taunting, most of what we see from him are fearful reactions to the ill-treatment from others.

On top of all this, I cannot help but see how this really speaks into the life of director James Whale, a man known not only for directing this film, but for being a homosexual at a time when it was much less acceptable than it is today. One can easily slip Whale into the shoes of the monster, a man who was simply created with a particular kind of brain, and is thereby forced to act this way. Yet, those actions are not acceptable, so the man must be treated poorly. There is real pathos from the monster, and I wonder if that comes not only from the performance of Karloff, but from the strong connection Whale no doubt had with this material. It’s no wonder then that this is often considered the greatest of all the old monster pictures of the 30’s. And maybe we need to say that even more strongly: this is just a great film period.

Waking Life (2001)

I watched this again recently, and the more I see it, the more I see in it. Though having said that, while the film continues to hold together better and better on repeated viewings, there is still something dreamlike and fuzzy about my thoughts on it. In an effort to articulate a couple of those thoughts, I thought I’d write a bit. Of course, this will be grossly simplified, but hopefully can be the beginning of me sketching out some concrete things about this movie I have enjoyed and been puzzled by every time I’ve seen it.It seems that Linklater is, at least in part, using the dream imagery in contrast to reality to bring out a couple of points. First, we should not be sleepwalking, or dreaming, through life. The idea here is that too many people just sort of stumble through their existence, without giving it much reflection or thought. One good example here is near the end of the film, when Wiley runs into the girl in the stairwell, and she then starts up a conversation between them. One of the first things she tells him is that she doesn’t want to be an ant. She doesn’t want to just go through life doing her job and going from here to there. She expresses the need for connection, for something real and vibrant. Also on this point I think about the scene in the middle of the film, in the room with three men. The third man Wiley talks to (also the first time Wiley talks to anyone outside of the phone) says this: “It seems everyone’s either sleepwalking through their waking state or wake-walking through their dreams.” He says this as a caution to Wiley, essentially saying that he needs to learn to control his dreams.

The second point in this “dreams versus reality” contrast can also be connected to Wiley’s time in that room. In his conversation with the Uke player, Wiley receives some important advice. He needs to combine his waking rational abilities with the infinite possibilities of his dreams. This is built off of the previous point, and is sort of the “how-to” of the film. Part of what the film is doing, is to show us the odd connections and one might even say randomness of the dream world – to show us these infinite possibilities. This is really the essence of a waking life. However, the genius of the film is that the more you watch it, the more the paradox between this randomness with the growing sense that this is all connected somehow. And what I love is that this connection is not drawn out for us in some all-explaining closing scene. The sense of connectedness is there, but the mystery of how it actually connects remains.

One final point: the final scene of dialogue, which is given by Linklater himself, is a striking way to close the film. The necessity that is borne out of that scene, and its connection to God’s imminence is quite effective. And Linklater’s use of the Bible reminds us of all the places within its pages that speak of the end being near – not in any kind of predictive sense, but as a way to encourage people to live and believe well. We have less time than we think. Thus, as Linklater says in that scene, God is making an offer, an offer that we come to accept through life. If only we will just wake up.

A Man Escaped (1956)

Robert Bresson’s minimalist style is in full force for A Man Escaped. However, even as I throw that term “minimalist” around, I wonder if it isn’t somewhat misleading. Without a doubt, A Man Escaped is one of the more exciting and arresting films out there. What Bresson is doing though is clear: by keeping the action confined to the perspective of the prisoner Fontaine, he in many ways shuts out the world beyond. It is through the absence of any knowledge of the outside world, the absence of any kind of context, the absence even of the faces of most of the German officers, that the confinement of Fontaine encroaches upon us as viewers.Yet the tension slowly builds. Bresson uses the sound and music to his advantage here. We get the soft sounds of the passing trolley train. We get the loud scraping as he jostles his door. We get the crunching of glass, the scraping of iron, and the tapping of neighbors, all of which serve to break the deafening silence. However, this becomes most apparent just as the escape begins. Fontaine and Jost have just ascended to the roof, and the use of the whistle and the moving train in this sequence make the tension nearly unbearable.

Bresson’s most ingenious move may be with his use of Mozart’s Mass in C Minor. The music seems to always break in either during or right around periods of movement for Fontaine – going to and from his cell, in the courtyard, etc. There is a freedom associated with music, something about it that is untamed, that cannot be contained. It works well when it shows up.

There are also a number of theological ideas running through the film, though on this viewing I was less attuned to those bits of dialogue and was rather focused on the rhythms of the film, the music, and the sound. This being my second viewing, I was definitely more emotionally engaged than before, when I admired but did not feel strongly about the film. The second viewing was a great improvement, as I expected it would be. No doubt a third will continue that trend.

The Mirror (1975)

It’s difficult to know where to start with this film. It contains only the loosest of narrative frameworks, and it seems as if the narrative is not the point. Instead what we are presented with is a series of loosely connected images, with faces that become familiar as the film goes along, but we are often uncertain both of the relationships between characters within scenes and of the scenes to each other. In this way, the film then strikes me more as a poem, with tons of loosely connected images that together form something unique, puzzling, and beautiful.The thing I was struck by most strongly initially was the fluidity and assurance of Tarkovsky’s camera. There was a very safe kind of feeling in this, because I instinctively knew that I was in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing, the kind of confidence one gives to their doctor or dentist. The shots themselves are often complicated, with movement up and down, left and right, forward and backward, zooming in or zooming out. I think here of the final shot, which stays with the mother and boys across the field, onto the road, and as they walk, the camera retreats back through the trees as they fade from our vision. It was as if we had joined them on their journey for a time. We are with them, and then we are not.

Time seems significant in the film as it darts back and forth, from the past to the present and vice versa. Memories become jumbled up. Certain images from the present meld themselves back into the memory of the past. I think here of the off camera speaker who tells his (ex?) wife that he pictures her as his mother whenever he thinks of the past. I wonder also if other characters experience this same transformation, though not explicitly stated. But this darting back and forth, this melding of past and present seems to indicate something about the nature of our lives in this world. It seems that wherever we are and whatever we find ourselves doing, the past is always with us. The past is always informing who we are. Or maybe I should say our memory of the past is doing the informing. Of course, all this talk about the past has me thinking of that line from Magnolia, “We may be through with the past, but the past ain’t through with us.”

I am also reminded of what struck me as one of the stranger scenes in the film…the first scene of the television program. No doubt this has significance in the film, but it is more disconnected with the events and characters of the film than pretty much anything else (even if this is a program Ignat is watching). Basically, it involves a young man who has a stuttering problem, and the healing he receives from a doctor or nurse of some sort. As I think about it now, the healing was strangely reminiscent of some of the odd things Jesus does when he heals people, such as covering the eyes of the blind man with mud. She touches his head, makes him lose his balance a couple of times, and makes him hold his hands steady. And then, somehow, he is healed of his problem.

Two things seem important about this scene: First, it is unexplainable. There doesn’t appear to be any kind of scientific method she uses. It is coming through some sort of hypnosis or other tradition used to cure such ills. Or maybe something supernatural is going on. Whatever the case, it isn’t him taking some pills or going through some kind of speech therapy. And this seems to parallel a bit the situation near the end of the film when the man is in the hospital, and there isn’t certainty about what is wrong with him. Second, the emphasis at the end of the scene is definitely on speech, on being able to speak clearly and strongly. I was struck by it, but am not sure how it might inform other elements of the film.

In the end, the image of a mirror is at least in part a means for us humans to look at ourselves, both in a personal and a collective sense. Each of us viewing the film see ourselves in mirrors everyday, but are we really looking? But we also, through the film, have the opportunity to see others, as the camera dwells on many mirrors throughout. Sometimes those mirrors contain people or objects, sometimes not. Part of what it seems Tarkovsky is doing here is offering an opportunity to look at humanity in general, and ourselves more specifically. So as I leave this film, I am left with questions, and not many answers, on these issues. Who am I? Who was I? Who are we collectively? How do those things that have touched us, taught us, and scarred us, make us who we are today?