The Echoing Woods (Introduction, rewritten)

Mysterious Forces

The old ones of Lagunas County often say that one should be very careful when out near the forests. The trees are almost as old as the mountains, and there is a reason why they have lasted so long. They know how to defend themselves, and they know enough to keep people out of the forest. If one has good sense one knows it just by looking at them, seeing how they glower if you stare too long at them, as if it would be wise to provoke them.

The great open plains of this great open land lie to the east and north of this forest. There are rolling hills that are covered by grasses, and it is said that where there are more hills, that is likely a sign that the people have lived there the longest. A legend has it that most of these hills were made to bury things, most likely the bodies of famous warriors and hunters, along with their favorite weapons and other things they might need to begin the next stage of their hunt. This was in the time when the people drew comfort from the thought of keeping a reminder of the fallen ones, but those times changed. The few remaining descendants of the people have conserved a few stories about these hills, but no one can say for certain whether this is just a trick that they use to hold the attention of others, or the flickers of a wandering imagination.

The sleepy one, Old Temerario, insists that it is so, but he is just as likely to growl with the next breath and tell any eager treasure seekers that it is unwise to release any more ghosts than are already roaming on the land. The way he tells it, it is as if the ghosts were standing right next to him, invisible to all but him, and eager to stop up a person’s nose and slide down his throat if he took more than a passing interest in a hill. People tend not to be overly curious when the sleepy one is around.

In this land the clouds make it a habit of pouncing suddenly out of the south. One minute the sky is an empty expanse of searing blue, and the next, an aerial stamped is seen hurtling across overhead, as if the clouds were wolves, hiding until the time came to burst out. The air turns heavy and sullen, and then, the flash of light and the growl that accompanies it, as the sky strikes its target with a piercing white spear. It is a sight to behold, out in the open land, where the old people of yore were never completely safe, and where the elements had a deadly edge. This doesn’t mean that the descendants of the old people don’t look back wistfully at these times, and wish they had taken heed of the signs that were there for everyone to see of a new wave of migration by outsiders that changed their way of life and, many say, made them poorer.

Now, the vast and open plains are still desolate, but not completely so. There are modest towns and small ranches, but nothing like what is found further down south. It is still a wide-open land, and while there may be some fences, these seem almost like an afterthought from a more ambitious time, when the settlers first arrived. The small towns have a forlorn look to them, being old and underpopulated, with the young ones preferring to move to the south of the state and settle in the big cities to find jobs and excitement. The small settlements almost seemed destined for this fate, with names such as Dolores de la Piedad, Acorralada and San Jerónimo Providencia. The inhabitants are a mix of people, some coming from the old stock, and some, from the settlers who marched up from the south two hundred and fifty years ago, and were expelled after the original inhabitants rebelled, only to return in force a few decades later and make a second go at it.

The plain ones, for so they have taken to calling themselves, live lives of resolute stoicism. They have little enough to eat, and decrepit housing, much of it having been abandoned by the settlers who, after the last depression almost eighty years ago, seemed to have decided it wasn’t worth it to have reconquered this land once again. It is a land of grasses after the wet season, but most of the time, it is dry, and the land is an open expanse of brown. It has also become much less exciting than it used to be, because before, when the people needed to hunt in order to feed their spirits, there used to be bison that would swarm across the land every year, coming down from the north, and the people could have their fill. Now, the bison has long been hunted to near extinction, and the livestock and horses seem like an effrontery to the old ones who remember the stories that were told by their old ones.

One thing that hasn’t changed, the forest remains as forbidding as it ever has. People have never explored it fully, and in the past, the old ones almost never ventured inside it. People respect boundaries, and they recognize this as one that is best left untouched, for to do otherwise was to invite the attention and anger of the wolves, and to bring with it a plague of bad dreams and ill health. The settlers, having come from another land, used to scoff at these “superstitions”, but from the beginning they deemed it more prudent not to violate these taboos, if only not to risk riling up the subdued native people who might once again see fit to resist them once again. And with time, the settlers found no compelling reason to venture into the forest, because as much as they could have used the materials for their settlements, they found it easy enough to use what was otherwise available on the plains. There were other stands of trees, mostly around the lake, and there was no hint of onerous premonitions when the hatchet was taken to those stands.

Still, it was pretty evident to the settlers back then that the land was haunted. There were secrets that were buried in those wide open spaces, and not only in the hills or hiding in the trees. It was a feeling that the land had been marked in some way, and that invisible energies were at play, evident in the way that small metal objects, when they fell to the ground, seemed to point to the forest, or in the way that people could walk over stretched of land and suddenly hear a cry, as well as a sense of foreboding that was like a heaviness that reached up out of the ground to claim them. There were also stories of trees that talked, although only a few words were intelligible, for the voices of trees are raspy and scratchy voices, and the trees out in the plains are quite fickle. And, this was evident in the way that the clocks and anything electronic would malfunction regularly, as if an invisible hand had washed over them and reset or stopped them. Some of the newer people who had moved in, enticed by the austere beauty of the land and by the wry culture of the people, tended to be people of a more artistic sensibility, and they were quick to pick up on these strange happenings, a sign of little mysteries at hidden forces at play. One inhabitant, a retired schoolteacher from the south, had actually written a book about the spirits of Lagunas county, after having spent the preceding ten years gaining the trust of a few of the elders of the region and having extracted numerous stories that were deemed colorful but also haunting. The book, The Ghosts of the Land, had been a minor sensation, and had done much to cement the reputation of this area as a place of folkloric superstitions, but perhaps it would have gone otherwise unnoticed but for the fact that the author died in a somewhat sensational fashion, having drowned in the lake at night while trying to verify the presence of mysterious lights deep below the waters. A sensationalized death apparently does wonders for book sales.

But that had been over sixty years ago. Now, all the original informants had long ago died, and the old ones of the present were loath to trust any outsiders by sharing their lore. But the fact remained that there was an unsettling air in this land, as if some unsettled conflict were still at play. Among some of the oldtimers, they likened it to a curse, but if they said so, they only spoke about this among themselves. Walking stone, a little boy of eleven, only heard about it by accident, because he was bored and because he had taken to listening to the conversations between his grandfather and his friend, Jose Hard Rain. And the more he heard, the more he grew intrigued.

(January 25, 2014)

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014) 

The Echoing Woods (pt. 6)

Waiting

With each passing day the river grew deeper, stronger and faster. The trees grew greener, and they filled out with new growth. The birds were returning, and the fish would soon fill the crowded stream and provide a bounty for those who were waking up from the hard winter and were hungry.

With each passing day, it grew warmer and warmer, and more of the dwellers grew busier. This was the time of birth, and as such, it was a noisy time. There were bears and wildcats and other large animals that would return to the traditional patterns, to reclaiming their ranges and finding food for their young ones. Outside, it was no different. The big brown ones would return from the north, and would graze on the open lands. But lately, they had been growing fewer, and this was due to the work of the intruders and their loud sticks.

They knew about the power of those weapons, and they despised them. They brought death from a distance, and as such, they went against the natural order. That sort of death was wanton because it was too easy, and it made the wielder of such weapons greedy. They knew enough to fear those weapons, and they relied, as ever, on their craft and stealth.

The cubs would need much instruction and many sharp lessons. They were vulnerable, because they were young, and naturally curious. They were feared by most of the animals of the forest, for they were strong and crafty, and they hunted together in teams. No one could stand up to them, and even the bears made it a point to turn aside when approached by the white ones. But the cubs were foolish, and it was the lack of restraint and caution that had killed one of them last year, when it had wandered into a metal trap that had been laid on the edge of the forest. It was a hard but necessary lesson that was learned that day.

The white ones were always watchful, but lately, they had been stretched to their limits. They were the guardians of the deep, and they had been taxed over the winter. They had lost a few of the adults, but they had little time for mourning. The threat from outside was great, but the threat from inside was even greater, and they couldn’t afford to let down their watch.

Outside, things had settled down over the last five years. The intruders had retaken the land they had lost before, and had overpowered the slow ones who had dwelt on the land for thousands of years. The slow ones had fought back, but they simple had not been careful, and they had brought their defeat upon themselves by virtue of a lack of caution.

It was foolish to believe that the intruders would not return. It was foolish not to have joined together and led the intruders into traps. It was foolish to rely on the power of the hooved ones, as they had done, as a means of escape. They should have been wary, and they should have attacked the intruders from the south before they penetrated back into their lost lands.

The slow ones had seen their defeat coming, and a few of the younger ones had made a desperate appeal to the white ones to emerge from the forest and to help defeat them. They appealed to the memory of Sa, the one who they had spoken to several generations back, and who the white ones had invited to join them in the forest. But they were not Sa, and they refused to heed their pleas.

Of course they saw hunting everywhere, and they considered it inevitable. Of course the intruders would arrive once again, in their wagons, and of course they would begin to rebuild what they had lost before. They would bring their loud and stupid animals, and they would carve out enormous plots of land to grow foodstuffs, while paying no head to the way these scars disturbed the balance and led to great big clouds of dirt and debris that was lifted and spread far and wide when the winds arrived. They watched them burn the grasses of the plains, and deprive the wandering herds of the food they needed. They were killing all the game as well, and changing the color of the night. This would be noticed eventually inside the forest, and they knew that they would soon be forced to act.

They could be preemptive when they needed to be, but it wasn’t the right time yet. They needed help, for their burden was becoming more onerous, and they wouldn’t be able to spend another winter as they had this past one. The dark ones within were becoming more brazen and stronger, and the fires now did little to control them. They were strong, and more numerous, and in a way, they were also in the midst of retaking what had been theirs. The white ones knew that the balance was being upset.

Perhaps it would be best to use the intruders to fight against the dark ones. They would have to craft a strategy, for they knew that sooner or later the intruders would penetrate the forest. They had tried to do it in the past, generations ago, but their ancestors had been much stronger back then, and had easily discouraged and intimidated the intruders. Now this was not the case, for the intruders had returned in force as well.

Craft and stealth were necessary, and it was part of their nature. In Sa, they had recognized a kindred spirit, and they had told Sa secrets they had never told anyone else among the two-legged ones they called the slow ones. The had told Sa of their protectorship, and of their struggles. And they had done so revealing one of their most cherished secrets, which was that not only could they understand the speech of the slow ones, but could also use it if necessary.

They continued to hold watch inside, but they also ventured outside the forest when they needed to do so. There was no terrain that they couldn’t traverse when they needed to do so, in an invisible fashion. The noisy watchdogs of the settlers were no threat. Those dogs knew better than to give warning, because they recognized in the white ones their distant kin, more frightening by far than any other threat. Just a hint of the scent of the white ones, which they modified as well to convey complex chemical messages, was enough to make the noisy ones grow silent, and to curl their tails in terror and cringe. The watchdogs were no match for the wolves, and by this means, by roaming in the middle of the darkest nights, quiet as the distant stars, they kept of their surveillance of the settlers.

Soon the party of intruders would enter their domain. They had witnessed the many preparations, and knew of the arsenal of weapons they carried with them.  They would need to be as stealthy as they had ever been, in order to guide them to carry out their will and act, however unknowlingly, according to their plans. They had decided that they would allow the settlers to enter the forest, but would not reveal themselves openly to them. It was their intention to lead them to the caves deep within the forest, and to use them against the dark ones. The  overconfidence of the settlers would be a vulnerability they would exploit.

They waited, and made plans.

(January 18, 2014)

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014)

The Echoing Woods (pt. 5)

The Green Mirror

It was evening and she was running faster than she had ever run. She knew that she had to move in the direction of the tents, and that the tents were somewhere ahead of her, but somehow, they weren’t clear, obscured as if by a mist. There was a galloping noise behind her, and a clinking of metal upon metal, and horses neighing in a desperate symphony of sounded like branches of a burning tree snapping in the heat. There was a smell of fear, and she pushed faster.

She could hear the other kids talking, playing as they did late in the evening after having eaten, biding their time until they were called to shelter inside the huts. The kids were talking, and she recognized one, tall Buribank, he who loved to preen among the other children and hold himself above them, saying that the sun was sailing, and that the fish would soon come out, little white dots that followed the sun but were never able to catch it.

Darkness was spreading overhead like the flight of a giant crow sweeping overhead. She heard her mother call out, “Sanariki!”, a name she hadn’t been called in such a long time, and that meant little badger. It provoked a hopeless cry of anguish, because she had been hoping for a long time that she would see her mother again, but is she wasn’t fast enough, she might not reach her in time. She knew she had to warn her, for the clinking of metal sounded nearer, and if she didn’t get there in time, the moon would close its arms and would fall below the ground, where it wouldn’t be able to hug her anymore.

There were white shapes streaking next to her, and moving off to the side. She thought they might have been rabbits, but they had longer legs, as if they had grown bigger, and they darted off in one direction then the next. She was tempted to follow them, because the tents where nowhere to be found, and because she thought that if the white shapes had shown themselves to her, it was because they wanted her to do something. The moon had long thin arms, but those arms seemed to be streaked in red, and she saw the moon drop to the ground and disappear.

The air felt chilling. She circled round and round, for suddenly, she was up in the sky, and she was looking downward. The white shapes turned into swirls, and they receded as she flew, faster and faster. She wanted to continue watching the swirls, because they were so beautiful, and they were like small whirlwinds, they moved up and down then dissipated like sparks thrown up from a hearth fire as she and her little brother fanned it. Her brother was with her, next to her, and he called out, “Sana”, as he waved the fan faster and faster, but he always was too clumsy, and the sparks landed on the fan, and caught fire. He laughed, and she drew closer to him.

Something hard hit her from behind, and her mother screamed.

The flaps of the tent were drawn tight. She could see shadows outside, and she was holding onto something. It moved, and where she expected to see her brother, she now saw a small sleeping badger. She always did like the badgers, and had been named for one because she always did enjoy playing by the side of the river. The badger snuggled up next to her, and she held it tightly. She knew that she had to keep it still, she didn’t dare move. The flies made it even more difficult for her, because the tent was full of them, and there was no fire and no burning leaves to smoke them out.

The flies circled around with a purpose, and somehow, it didn’t surprise her to see them moving around in formations, called out to each other, waving small stick-like arms and pointing in one direction then another. They were looking for something, probably for her, and why they couldn’t find her she didn’t know. They buzzed repeatedly over her, again and again, and she wanted to whimper, and to hold the badger closer, but the badger was gone. That was when she noticed the ants, small red ants that were crawling up her arms and pricking her as they moved up to her chest and then to her neck. She brushed them off, desperately, and the flies started buzzing around more excitedly, but still they didn’t close in on her. She couldn’t stop from screaming when she felt one an ant crawl quickly up her cheek in a lightning raid, and poke her eye.

The water was cold, but it was also beautiful and misty blue. She knew she was in the water, looking up, and could see eagles circling overhead. The eagles swirled, and they were looking down but didn’t dare swoop, at least not yet. What they were watching, she didn’t know, but they seemed to be upset, and the tops of the trees seemed to be tinged by red.

There were many shiny red fish around her, a whole wall of fish that parted if she moved too close to them. She looked back, and saw the fish closing in behind her as she moved ahead. They were around her, and she was deep under water, but she could see clearly above, and saw clouds the color of ash floating overhead. She no longer saw the eagles.

It was getting dark again, but not under the water. The fish were glowing, and they seemed to be pointing the way, urging her to move forward. She heard one whisper next to her ear, “It’s not far, we can’t go with you, but you’re almost there.” Then the wall of fish disappeared, and she was in front of a shape that looked like tent, but it was made of dark brown branches in a lattice that was almost impenetrable. It was almost like a basket, but somehow she knew it has not been woven by her mother, or by any of the women of her tribe. It was very, very big, and she thought that someone must be inside. She looked for a way inside, but couldn’t find a flap or door.

She moved in one direction, then another, and the lattice work was seamless, and there seemed to be no opening. She started to grow frustrated, for usually there was a flap or opening, if only at the top, where the smoke would waft out when the fire had been lit inside. She needed to get inside, but didn’t know why, and in desperation, she reached out to touch the sticks. The first stick she touched wiggled, and then the other sticks started wiggling, and then they all suddenly exploded outward, and dispersed without a single one touching her. It was at this point that she looked down and wasn’t surprised that, where she had had arms and legs, she now had fins, and she was red like the fish who had guided her.

What she also noticed as the sticks moved away was that there was a small green stone stuck in the bottom of the river.  It glowed with a clear light, and she swam towards it. Hovering above it, she tried  to decide how to pick it up.  It was much too big, much bigger than she was, and besides, she no longer had arms, she had fins, and all she could do was swim around it. The feeling of urgency she had felt to enter what she had thought was the tent and to see what was inside was gone, and now, she felt she could hover there forever, in the soft green light. She was small, and growing smaller, and the stone was growing larger.

The stone was such a beautiful shade of green! It was purer than anything she had ever seen before,  and well-rounded. Her fish body also took on a green cast. She felt content, satisfied to swim above the light, and she took pleasure in the little snails all around her, floating by, thousands of snails, and not a single one touching her as they drifted past.

The water was so peaceful, and she could hardly remember she had lived in a tent, and had seen rabbits, and had had a little brother who had fanned the flames with her. It didn’t matter any longer. She looked once again into the green stone, and was bewildered to see her mother’s reflection, but with an expression of fright and torment, urging her to hide, to hurry, to get out of sight, and to go find a hole in which to hide.  Go! She jumped as hard as she could.

It took a long time to land on the earth again. She must have been flying again, but all she remembered was the fall, and the way the mud by the side of the river rushed up to hit her. The sky had a green cast to it, and she was far, far away, lonelier than she had ever been. She saw that her leg was bleeding, and one of her arms was bent backwards, but somehow, it didn’t hurt. She was just numb, and she didn’t feel anything when she that that standing in front of her was an enormous white wolf.  It seemed natural that it would have two great big green eyes. She wasn’t afraid, though.

The wolf touched her arm, and she felt it come off, like a sliver of meat.  Ahead, off to the side, other wolves were watching. They circled among themselves, then turned and suddenly disappeared into the trees. The white wolf moved closer, and it loomed above her face. The fur around its mouth was stained with red, and she knew instinctively that it was blood, but whether it was hers or the wolf’s, she didn’t know. The wolf didn’t open its jaws. It was bigger than she could have imagined, and she heard men yelling far away, but this didn’t seem to bother it. The men were shooting, and they were reflected in then green eyes of the wolf. But she and the wolf were hidden by the trees now, and nothing could find them.

The wolf stood still, then dipped its head down nudged her cheek. It burned, and then she knew that she had been colder than she had ever been, but now felt as if she could move again. The wolf told her something, and she relaxed. It was one phrase: “The moon has eaten again.” She woke up and felt a tear roll down her cheek.

(January 17, 2014)

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014) 

Crashing the Suburb in the Sky (Review of Elysium)

Dystopias are a mainstay of science fiction. It is hard to convey how much of a change this represents if we look back on the many works of this genre written during the late 19^th century. Of course, utopias were always a supreme product of the imagination, and the very etymology of the word refers clearly to this (utopia means no place). But with the optimism of the Victorian age, we saw works that arose to present us entrancing visions of the future, fables that seemed to project confidence and assurance and as such were very much a continuation of the narrative of Enlightenment rationalism. There were works, for example, such as 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, one of a series of Voyages Extraordinaires (there were over 50 novels published!) that were written by famed French science fiction writer Jules Verne, a popularizer of science who, it must be noted, also incorporated an element of escapism. (According to scholars of Verne, the author had expressed an early wish to become a sailor and see the world, a wish that was never fulfilled.)

There were also works that were more nuanced, those that presented, for example, social programs in visions that sought to reform and correct the excesses of the industrial age. These offered gentle visions of a less nationalistic age, the ultimate return to a new Eden. These works incorporated a utopian urge, evident in works such as William Morris’ Erewhon (“nowhere” spelled backward) and Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward. This was an innocence in these works that was seemingly at odds with the dynamics of the 19th century, a wish fulfillment that opted for visions of harmony and post-industrial social adaptation, and didn't consider that there might be nightmare scenarios that would be even more alarming than what was already present. This admonitory note would be mined most fruitfully in the enormously influential novels of H.G. Wells, staring with his The Time Machine.

Elysium is a film that was released in 2013, directed by the same person who directed the stimulating film from several years ago, District 9 (Neill Blomkamp). It details yet another dystopia, another scenario of environmental and social collapse, and as with all dystopias, these works tap into deep-seated fears in play currently, magnifying them through the act of accelerated time (the “flash forward” to a world that results if we don’t correct the problems we see currently). It also echoes many of the scenes and setup of the seminal 1982 film Bladerunner, where we had a band of renegades (replicants) who were programmed to die and who mount a desperate assault on an enclosed and restricted center of power in a bid to obtain a degree of equality and dignity. Elysium, however, lacks the stylish and evocative film noir depiction that characterized the Ridley Scot’s film.

It must be said at the outset that the film struck me as being very heavy-handed. It was very much one-dimensional, in the manner of a polemic that was fleshed out hurriedly and that made little effort to portray the complexity of these human characters. Perhaps this was always the intention, but as audience members we feel very little emotional involvement with the characters, and they instead strike one as stock figures in service to political scenarios. One may add, though, that as with all dystopias, there is a certain visual majesty in catastrophe, a grandeur that stimulates at the same time that it horrifies us. It is part of the intrinsic fascination that we all have when viewing the scene of an accident, a mangled car, bloodstains on the sidewalk, the crimes scenes pictured by the New York photographer Arthur Felig (WeeGee) in their dark black and white essence, and the grandeur of a ruined and smoking building. A landscape of death has a certain compelling quality to it, all the more so if we can afford to be spectators and not actual participants. Better that it was them and not us, even if we are headed in that direction.

(The crime photography of WeeGee)

The scenario is that of a ruined Earth 150 years in the future. Ecological devastation has inevitably resulted from the same voracious capitalism that has overtaken the Earth in the age of global capitalism, that age in which the market has taken a new and much more menacing visage. We have predatory companies that manifest many of the excesses we associate with the modern age, with exploitative conditions and with little margin for profit, while heavy investment is made in the security apparatus of the state. Justice is dispensed by robots (we have one that looks like a vague caricature of the Jack in the Box restaurant emblem who acts like a parole officer), and most people on Earth (not in space) have been reduced to living in slum-like conditions. It would seem to be an evocation of the worst gang-infested barrios of Los Angeles, with people reduced to sub-employment and forced to rely on the hope of riding illegal shuttles (the analogue to the trunks of modern cars where illegal immigrants were transported across the border) to reach Elysium. Decay and catastrophe, in this film, is one vast East LA, but a dark and distorted vision of the place, rougher, grimier, but not without a certain level of community consciousness.

The cityscape is vast and flat for the most part, except for the cluster of tall skyscrapers that are in states of advanced decay, with smoking debris. These vast and crumbling buildings can help but remind us almost of classical ruins, and in the short memory of the current age, of the devastation and tragedy of the Twin Towers and 911. There are vast bonfires that send immense plumes of smoke up into the contaminated air, and this couldn’t help but evoke a memory that placed me back in time. This was the same spectacle that we Angelinos experienced in 1992, when whole neighborhoods in Los Angeles went up in flames and when the smoke of rage pervaded the air like an avenging angel.

(The majestic decay of downtown Los Angeles in Elysium)

The exploitative nature of this future economy has apparently continued unabated. We see corporations acting as independent agents, vast agglomerations that wield power and that are answerable to almost no one except for ambitious politicians and those micro-managers who are charged with watching the bottom line. This is the case nowadays, and we understandably share this fear of corporate entities that are run like private fiefdoms, and that can so easily dominate the political class and wield public fear.

In the wake of the Citizens United decision of a few years ago by the US Supreme Court, these corporations flood the political landscape with what is termed “black” (secretive) money, funding the most conservative and laissez-faire, anti-regulation, anti-transparency and pro-tax break regulations possible. They also shamelessly blackmail cities and towns and governments with astounding ease, as witnessed recently by the threat issued by Boeing Corporation to move production of their new airliner to a more accommodating state if their union refused to back a list of demands that entailed a wholesale capitulation and curtailment of power and influence. Modern-day corporations do this again and again, citing as they do the supposed “lack of competitiveness” of certain locales and the threat of moving production to different states (or overseas) if they aren’t granted tax concessions and publicly-financed infrastructure benefits, as well as a more amenable workforce (thus motivating the enactment of legislation that restricts the power of unions to organize, all cynically termed “right to work” legislation). This movie echoes the criticism that these corporations are the new mode of mercenary agents that exploit institutional weaknesses and lurch from crisis to crisis, only to be bailed out, over and over again, by the public.

Now, it isn’t to be expected that these members of the mercenary and leisurely classes are forced to live in the same city or state or even planet as the majority of the exploited underclass. Now they can escape to that great big gleaming suburb in the sky, a space station known as Elysium. It is indeed a field for heroes, and these heroes are indeed gods who have achieved immortality, possessing astounding technology that allows them to live lives of gracious and lavish comfort, able as they are to escape the ravages of disease and age.

Thus, we have another parable of the two classes, those who live in abject poverty and those who, of course, in this stereotypical view that is conveyed by this film, come from various ethnic backgrounds (they are primarily Latino and African, but with some Asian members). The overwhelmingly white mercenary ruling class lives in the Beverly Hills of the sky, oblivious to what happens down below, and I suppose this would have to represent the natural progression of the idea of the suburb, the idea of retreat from the urban center and from the working classes. Human society has diverged, and this age-old exploitation continues apace, in a dark vision that underscores many of the processes we fear are so much in play nowadays. (Need I mention once again that this movie is a very obvious political fable?)

What I would have to quibble with is the way that the movie relies on all-too-obvious stereotypes to make its points. The poor are, overwhelmingly, of diverse ethnic backgrounds, and the slums and barrios that are pictured, where wrecked cars abound amidst decaying buildings and gangs of roving children, not to mention the Latino men wearing T-shirts and khaki pants and tattoos, seems to indicate a certain vindication of the shrill warnings of certain right-wing ideologues, ranging from Victor Davis Hanson to Samuel Huntington, who proclaim that Latinos will never fully assimilate, and will always exhibit social pathologies. It is very distressing that the movie continues to play on these ethnic stereotypes even as it proceeds to elaborate a fairy tale of the “great white savior” who will redeem humanity and save his ethnic brethren down below.

As mentioned before, the film comes across as fairly one-dimensional. There are no surprising plot twists, no unanticipated situations, no exploration of moral ambiguity and no conflict that can’t be resolved by force. The mercenary Kruger, who is the agent of the steely Secretary of Defense Delacourt  (played by the eternally frigid Jodie Foster, who in my opinion has never conveyed warmth in any of her roles), is a psychopath, and he embodies most clearly the morality of a world in which force and opportunism compounded by a healthy degree of savagery go a long way in assuring survival. These villains, as is the case with the corresponding victims (witness the plight of the protagonist himself, who receives a deadly dose of radiation in a callous workplace accident, or the little Latino girl who is dying of leukemia) offer a tableau of sheep and wolves. There is no subtlety, no vivid and compelling study of character. It is all about the political allegory.

(Matt Damon in Elysium)

In the end, the protagonist, Max Da Costa, played by a heavily muscled Matt Damon, will fulfill that one great task that was augured for him by the nuns who raised him. He will also redeem himself from a life of thievery, for Prometheus-like, he will steal the secret (in this case, the computer code that will reboot the mainframe on Elysium) that will allow him and his allies to offer “heaven” to all, an action that quite obviously has a religious quality. (The hero who brings eternal life to the poor and suffering masses who never lost their faith.)

There are, of course, numerous action sequences, but never a snippet of clever dialogue. Everything is one dimensional, like the blazing sunlight of Los Angeles, that pitiless sun that, in several visual sequences, can’t help but evoke, if in a vaguely nostalgic way, the stunning visual sequences in the opening of Bladerunner, those visages of a vast and mysterious cityscape at night, impregnated with a gothic feel of menace but also romance, painted in this case with blazing light and billowing smoke clouds, not with rain, not with darkness, nor with blond robots who scale the heights of the Tyrell Corporation building in search of a second chance.

(Tyrell Corporation in the movie Bladerunner: a futuristic ziggurat)

The ending is all too convenient, and always, as with any thriller, laced with suspense, far too many action sequences and a race against the clock. What the movie fails to consider is the much more nuanced question of whether man’s fundamental nature will change as a result of this sacrifice by the protagonist. History isn’t the playground of individuals, it is the expression of vast institutional forces at work, combined as it is with certain irrational and instinctive drives that are evolutionary in nature, and the fact is, we haven’t been able to resolve our fundamental conflictive nature.

Thus, this movie is inherently unsatisfying. It is difficulty to feel emotionally attached to any of the characters, and in that way, it is distancing. The movie could have benefited from more shadow, more edginess, more nuance and night, and less of the blistering light of an overt political allegory.

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014) 

The Echoing Woods (pt. 4)

The Hunter

Ramón Mendoza Duero felt the urge to check once again just to make sure. He was not a forgetful or nervous man, nor one who worried overmuch. Those were not the traits associated with his family, one that had endured many hardships in their journey from the old country to the new. He was a prudent and decisive man, and these qualities had saved his life many times before. 

He looked at the rifles once again. There were fifty odd weapons, joining another assortment of knives and guns and hooks that they would be carrying. Nothing too heavy, for in these types of expeditions it was best not to be encumbered by heavy weapons. It was best to rely on what was true and reliable, and these were all the same weapons that had been used by the soldiers five years ago, when they were completing their mission of pacifying the northern territories.

A well-made rifle when held gave pleasure. It was a source of comfort, and in these lands, so dangerous before, it was best not to leave it out of sight. These rifles were well-made, and while the Indios had also used guns and rifles that had by and large been stolen or seized by the first rebels thirty years ago, they had never learned to use them well, or even to maintain and care for them. The Indios were fearsome with horses, and with knives, and with ropes and rocks and axes, but they quickly ran out of ammunition, firing wildly in that first movement that had so surprised the colonist so long ago when they were overpowered and massacred, with few survivors able to return south.

Ramon was a man who knew the meaning of duty. He hardly gave much thought to the things that he found himself doing, never questioning the orders he received, and never failing to seize an opportunity that might provide an advantage. Ultimately, he had seen many other weak men fall, because they hesitated, or because they had qualms about what needed to be done in a time of war. But he had seen war for many years, and he knew that that it was something best performed blindly, with little thought given other than to strategy. He had been surrounded, he had been stabbed, and he had had his leg broken, but he had survived. And he trusted his rifle more than he did any prayer.

Ramon turned around to see the man who had just entered the storeroom. It was a sprightly and thin man who looked older than his years, but who was a familiar sight to Ramon. His name was Juanito, and he came carrying leather pouches that held ammunition destined for the rifles and guns. The man was dark and very wrinkled, and while he was apparently in his early to mid 40s, he had a look of a man who was oblivious to the passage of time. He was an Indio whose family had originally lived in the southern edges of the planos, and his family had joined with the colonos and fled with them to the south, when the rebellion broke out.

Juanito was missing several teeth, this gave his face a hollow look. He was quiet, and he spent most of his time with the other Cristian indios, with men like Lorenzo and Tino-maki, trustworthy soldiers but always a little diffident in their ways. They spoke Cristiano, but also, retained the knowledge of the Indian languages. They chose not to use them when among the other soldiers, for they seemed to be aware of the distrust they inspired in some of the other men, but nonetheless, it was a skill that was prized and useful for the army, for few colonos had bothered to learn the languages of the pagans.

Ramon greeted Juanito as he set the leather pouches next to the rifles, and he nodded his head and touched his chin, in a greeting he had learned was innate to many of the natives of the planos. If this mission was going to be successful, much was riding on the these men, they who were scheduled to join the regular group of colonos who had been conscripted into this newest venture. The wars had been fought and won, and the colonos were trickling back, but the land was still not spiritually pacified. In order to do this, it would be necessary to enter into the woods, and to search out the mysteries that lay within.

During the last few years of final pacification of the north, Ramón had seen and done many things that he was loathe to remember. That had long been his strength, his ability to forget, to lay things aside, to concentrate on what needed to be done and to justify them as duties that had been imposed on them. He prided himself on having a cold heart, and in war, brutality was a necessary tool. The land needed to be pacified once again, and he knew full well how other soldiers had fallen when giving in to moments of weakness or self-doubt. In the early years, the colonos had been brutally massacred, and it was said that this was in reprisal for offences against the natives that had long been endured but never acknowledged. Those natives had been deceitful, and if the those early colonos had failed, this was due to the fact that they hadn't been hard enough.

For a time, the northern territories were left abandoned to the natives. The central authorities had troubles enough, dealing as they did with other rebellions to the south, and there were little resources for sending armies to retake the lands that had been lost to the north. But when the time came, they would be retaken. There were men who would remember this rebellion, families that had been lost, and many resources at stake.

Ramon looked down at the rifle he was holding. He had cleaned his weapons many times before, and doing so somehow cleared his mind. Holding a weapon reminded him that he had power, that he could control his faith, and with a little intervention from above, he could do what needed to be done to carry out justice while fulfilling his mission. A rifle needed to be cleaned and oiled regularly, and with care, would last for a lifetime.

He prided himself on being an impeccable marksman, able to hit target from 300 feet away or more, and this had saved his life many times. This, and the fact the he always wore a medallion around his neck with an image of the Virgin. She had, undoubtedly, saved his life many times, even if she was forced to look at and remember many scenes that he would prefer not to have seen himself. In reality, the medallion reminded him of his mother, who had died many years ago, in his youth, in another act of savagery committed by bandits who had invaded his father's homestead, men who carried with them a need for blood. It felt as if this medallion was a memory that would cleanse him even as he did what needed to be done.

Riding hard for days on end on the open plains, enduring the heat and loneliness of long hot days, and the blistering cold of the fearsome winter nights, he himself had been cleansed and tempered by heat and cold. He had never found it easy to express his emotions, because he grew to be reticent, never giving more than he felt was right, but he was a reliable man, and fearless. He had killed bandits and runaway prisoners in his youth, as a member of officially-delegated security bands on the frontier lands, when it was a folly to think that the people of the frontier could rely on anyone other than themselves. They were a long way away from the fabled cities of the south, from the soft men with the arrogant voices. He didn't trust those men, those administrators, those priests, those who talked about the laws of books and not the law of blood.

There would be sixty men in all, most of them old and weathered soldiers, many of whom had settled into the northern frontier once it had been pacified, and many of whom had grown a little bit weary with the peace that had been imposed on the rebels. The days had grown quiet, and the last holdouts had been tracked down and, for the most part, disposed of in a way that served to signal a new type of regime. Ramon approved of this hard-nosed and swift justice, but he and the rest of the administrators and settlers noted how so many of the natives still seemed to hold out a hope of resistance that was centered on the woods that lay to the west of the plains, and that led up to the mountains. "El bosque encantado", as the earlier waves of colonists had baptized it, leaving it alone in a gesture that Ramon thought had invited the resistance that coalesced and took form thirty years ago.

Without a doubt the indios of the region held many superstitions. They were all superstitious, all a bit naïve, and all in need of a controlling voice and a firm gesture, as his ancestors had inculcated in him long ago. They were pagans, unwilling to listen to the dictates of a new order that was destined to take control of these lands, but it was his firm belief that they were also deceitful. In reality, he admired their resolution, once they took resolution, and their fighters were indeed to be respected. They killed and mutilated the corpses, sparing no one, not even children, and they were able to endure hardships that cristianos were unable to endure. Ramon had seen their fighters jumping from one horse to another while in full run, and had seen them wield lassoes with heave stones tied to the ends with deadly accuracy, dodging bullets and disabling men with crushing blows. But strength and vigor and agility were only part of the equation, and Ramon knew enough to know that stealth and craft compensated when he was otherwise outnumbered or otherwise disadvantaged. Stealth, craft, and his own brand of brutality.

These Indios were still haunted by the fact of their defeat, and seemed shell-shocked and listless. They moved about mechanically, and almost all of them had seen multiple family members killed. There were many orphans, some of who were adopted by the surviving Indio families, but many others were thrown to the mercy of the priests and their charity. They had been a nomadic peoples, but now, they were forbidden to ride horses, and they were forced to live in confinement in the settlements that sprang up in the runs of the former establishments that had cropped up decades ago and that had been burned and destroyed in the first rebellion.

Many of the Indios quite frankly had killed themselves when faced with the new circumstances that awaited them after their defeat. There were stories of entire families that had slashed themselves, bleeding to death, aided as they were undoubtedly by that pernicious weed that they termed "Paruntha", the sacred weed, that dulled their senses and prepared them to enter in to the next realm. Many grew withered and refused to eat, and when forced to work in the new fields that were planted, they wasted away. These were the stalwarts, the weak ones in the view of Ramon, who lacked any other resources and whose loss was not to be lamented, especially not by someone such as himself, an old soldier who had seen many of his comrades killed.

But there were others who shambled about and tried to move on. They grudgingly accepted the new order, and they began to dress once again as cristianos, and they began to attend church and to make a semblance of adapting themselves to the new order. The new authorities were careful to monitor them, and they were forbidden from congregating outside of church in groups bigger than 10 people. Slowly but surely they were picking up the language of the colonists, and they were quick to look away, never daring to meet the gaze of the colonists who shouldered by them, waiting for their turn to attend church services.

The forest, though, continued to loom large in their consciousness. It was a place of hidden hopes, a pristine territory that had not been retaken, a place where they seemed to believe they had left a part of their soul. It was evident to the authorities that this was an old superstition that was proving difficult to destroy, for it was a part of their most treasured lore. When questions about what was found within, they insisted that they themselves had never seen it with their own eyes, but that it was the domain of the wolves, the protectors, who prohibited anyone from entering. It was a place that was to remain sacred, and indeed it seemed to offer up an impenetrable wall that proved infuriating to the settlers who resolved to do what the first colonists had not done.

Plans were made to mount an expedition to enter and explore these woods. These woods could quite evidently be used as a resource for the settlers, who had need to rebuild their settlements, and who could use the woods as a place to establish a garrison, as well as a place for hunting. It was evident that the woods would need to be traversed in order to find a direct path to the mountains beyond, those mountains that undoubtedly held the promise of gold and other minerals that might be useful for the development of the frontier. In a place of conflict, one could not allow the woods to remain unexplored nor unutilized. But the problem remained, however, that the indios refused to join in the expedition that was being planned.

This resistance was met with severe punishment. Those that refused where subject to thirty lashes, and the work quota for their families was increased. And yet, they all refused. They had no will to venture into the forest, and they accepted their punishment with grim resignation. It became more urgent to find others who would join the expedition, and generous fiscal incentives were offered for those former soldiers who would be willing to join. There were promises of special recognition, and of honors to be shared by their families, and even, pardons for those who had been accused and found guilty of minor crimes.

And, to round out the expedition, they resorted to a practice that had been useful to the settlers and colonists from the very beginning. Since they would need to have some indios in the expedition, as people who might bring a special insight into what they saw and who might serve as go-betweens, and since a suicidal and fearful indio was not to be countenanced as a member of the expedition, they were forced to recruit Indios who were not local, but who came from further south. These were indios such as Juanito, Tino-maki or Genaro, the collaborators who had lived long enough among civilized people to be able to overcome their superstitions, or at least, realized that they needed to participate in this expedition if they were to conserve the precarious acceptance they had earned for themselves and their families in this colonist society. Ramón and his men had need of these indios, for he suspected that the expedition would find people within the forests, and he had no particular knowledge or ability in the learning of Indian languages, and thought it would be prudent to take other indios who might understand or be met with acceptance because of the similarity of their countenance.

They had been preparing themselves carefully during the past few months, making plans, as they waited for the long winter to end. During their weekly meetings the men would gather on cold nights to talk about tactics, and share stories about past encounters, stories that had been handed down from generation to generation by their own ancestors. It was a given that the men would have to stay together as much as possible, but they would also need scouts, those who were resourceful and could venture further faster. These were not to be their indios, but men that they could trust implicitely, for they couldn't run the risk of their indios, however much they had proved their loyalty in the past war of reconquest, might chose to conspire with any tribes they might encounter ahead, and set an ambush for them.

They would also take sundry items such as polished plates, beads and brightly dyed fabrics that they would offer as gifts. They also had with them images that had been printed, religious icons showing the magnificence of the saints and the royal authorities, as well as images of churches and other religious iconography. They would not offer metal items, of course, and would keep their weapons always by their sides. They did, however, contemplate, taking choice coins, of silver and gold, to convey through demonstration what they hoped to find up in the mountains.

Ramón was a veteran, in his forties, and his oldest son was now 18. His son would be left in charge of protecting his mother and his younger siblings, and however much he would have preferred to take his son Gonzalo with him, he dismissed this thought by reflecting that this would be an uncertain mission. He had little worry about leaving his son in charge, however, for he had trained him well in the use of weapons and in the appreciation that stealth and discipline was needed to wield them. Ramon trusted no one else to defend his family while he was gone, and however much Gonzalo might have wished to come with him, he put up no protest, and took the responsibility with a reassuring degree of seriousness.

If there was anything to criticize, it was the fact that Juanito and the other Indios who would be joining the expedition were so given to silence. There had to be no hint of dissension or disunity among the ranks, and the natural hierarchies that prevailed in the settlements must prevail within the expedition as well. These old indios, however, had the habit of sitting in a huddle away from the other soldiers, preferring to spend more time with their horses and pack animals and with each other than with the pureblood cristianos.

Ramon had observed how they traded quiet glances with each other from time to time. It was obvious that they shared a secret language, one based more on gestures than on words. Ramón had watched them for many years, and he noted how they always seemed to be aware that he was looking at them. He considered Juanito his particular friend, for they had been in combat together, and had saved each other several times, but there always seemed to be a level of distance between them, a wall that hadn't been scaled yet. He would have preferred to hear their indios speaking freely with the colonos, trading jibes, talking about their plans for their homesteads, and just laughing from time to time. That was it. They didn’t laugh. At least not among them.

They would be leaving in another week. The other colonos were on their way, and would bring with them many of their own supplies. The expedition was formed by experienced hunters and experienced lookouts, but they had a priest who, it must be said, was not his first choice. This priest was necessary, it had been decided by the governor of the newly reconquered planos, this this particular priest was a case of "worse is no one". Peor es nadie.

Father Diego was an earnest young man, but a bit soft, and altogether too lenient with indios of his parish, a parish in which he was one of three priests. He was a man who was suspect, because he seemed to have a hidden affinity for the indios and their ways.

He was fond, for example, of stories told by and about the indios. When he first arrived, he had antagonized many of the old soldiers by his reluctance to assume a stern visage with his indian charges, and instead, he made it a point to seek out their wise ones, their storytellers. He was known to visit them in their humble domain, and to spend many hours in their company, going so far as to learn a passable version of their language.

For the weekly masses, the fathers in the parish rotated confession duty. Father Gaspar, as the eldest, always preached, but the other two fathers assisted him in his duties. These regular masses had only recently resumed in the makeshift church that had been set up, but from the very beginning it was evident that Father Diego seemed to attract more devotion among the conquered indios, who would spend more than the ordinate amount of time in confession with him.

A colono might wait in line and faithfully discharge his Christian duty in ten minutes of confession, but the indios would last up to an hour, sometimes even more. Whether they were involved in conversations about things other than the obligatory recitation of sins was something that received much attention among the colonos, to the point that it was found necessary to always have two priests officiating confession, Father Diego for the indios, and one of the other two fathers for the colonos. The latter would finish in a few hours, while Father Diego would frequently be hearing confession all through the night. He would then be seen to discreetly meet with the authorities, proposing new reforms and new approaches that were meant to more fully incorporate the new brethren who had been welcomed to the fold.

But Father Diego was soon to learn about the difficulties that faced an expedition such as the one that was planned. Ramon had no doubt that once he had been in the woods for several weeks, and if they should come under attack, the Father would learn the folly of his lenient ways. In reality, he blamed the church authorities for having send a priest from the interior so far from home. The frontier had need of frontier priests, and Father Diego had been instructed in a seminary far to the south, farther south even than the real abode of the Viceroy, and he had no doubt that this must explain why he had no appreciation for reality. He would have to learn his place, thought Ramon, for otherwise the father might imperil this whole mission, and cause them unnecessary harm.

And, finally, he had need of a few more pack animals and a sturdy handler to take the load of supplies. The original handler who had been chosen had lost two of his animals, and was in a state of despair because he also had a sick wife who was due to give birth in a few weeks. He suspected that this arriero had done something to his animals, laming them in suspicious accident, as a way of avoiding joining the expedition. He had no way of proving this, and he had no wish to alienate the friends of this man, Pedro el Bizco, who had served the colonos well in the past. Thus, he had a decision to make.

The old man who had arrived last week, one by the name of Felipe, had no particular ties to this or any other settlement. He was old, it was true, but looked to be sturdy enough. He would have to be conscripted into joining the expedition, and this meant that he would have to make arrangements for the small child that Felipe had brought with him after his latest trip. Undoubtedly, this would mean placing the child with one of the local parish families.

This should be easy, for by Felipe's admission, she wasn’t his actual child, merely an orphan he had rescued from the wastes. There was no other choice. He needed a sturdy arriero, but this action would also give him a measure of mental relief, because there was something strange about this girl as well. It was hard to place, maybe it was a nightmare vision that came unbidden when he first glanced at her, a vision he would prefer to forget. She had looked at him with a look of fear and hate when he saw her in the plaza, but hid this by looking quickly away when he stared back at her.

The vision that came to Ramon was that of a burning Indian village, and of the pitiful cries of women and children, cries and wails that grew more piercing as his men proceeded to do what they needed to do, which was fulfill their duty and pacify this territory. Many things had been done, many people had been killed, and he himself had entered into many huts to be confronted by terrified women and children who huddled in the corner as he pointed his rifle at them and shouted at them to be quiet, to shut up, and to make their peace with the lord.

It was a vision from the recent past, and a memory that had been retained of a sparkling and terrified gaze that had met him during one of those long and deadly nights.

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014) 

The Elixir of Nostalgia: A Review of "From Up on Poppy Hill"

Nostalgia is a powerful elixir. I suppose I could say that it fulfills a need we all have to recapture a moment in our past to which we attribute a magnified significance, a coherence that would seem to escape us in our present which is filled with so many challenges. It is hindsight that is filtered through desire, and we fix on these moments precisely because they belong to the past, because they are wafting away like the pollen of a wildflower, scattered by the cool breezes of time. Were things ever the way we imagined them to have been? Of course not, we change and romanticize these episode in our lives, and no two people can come to an agreement about what they both experienced, but in this act of fiction we render them in a more beautiful light, one that intoxicates us.

Such is the case with the film From up on Poppy Hill, by the father and son team of Goro and Hayao Miyazaki. The father is well-known for his many animé films, and is a master of the genre. Working with Ghibli studios, he has produced films that frequently evoke a sense of innocence, many times with an element of sentimentality, but also, with an understanding for the hidden psychic energies that are always at play and that are characterized by our an adult sensibility. We aren’t talking about the energies of youth, the exuberance of the everyday, but instead, of the sense of loss what we as adults feel, and the conflicts that we have come to understand are intractable and are indicative of a more pervasive state of affairs. These films speak to us because they reflect the disappointment that we adults feel with the sense of stories that lack the sense of novelty, we who work chained in dreary cubicles or penned up in classrooms or by the relentless burden of what has become routine, living lives of incredible drudgery. Did we ever think we would end up this way? These Miyazaki films thus respond to a very real adult sensibility, a need we feel to recapture a sense that we associate with our childhoods, leaving aside all the other unpleasant aspects. We yearn for novelty, for first discoveries, for faraway places and open landscapes, for seas and cloudscapes and protagonists who fly through the air and who speak to magical creatures. We yearn for an age of open possibilities.

I have enjoyed these films produced by Studio Ghibli throughout the years, although I have to admit that I am a relative newcomer. I first heard about Miyazaki when his film Spirited Away was up for consideration for an Academy Award a few years ago. I had seen animé films before, and had thought that they were adept and visually enchanting films, known for their own formulas. The protagonists who always have big and round Caucasian eyes, and are always sleek and young, and who live in impossibly antiseptic landscapes, and who seem so innocent and earnest it would burst their hearts if not for the fact that this genre also reflects understated sexual energies that seem somewhat prurient, like the short dresses and the long legs of a Sailor Moon. Many of these animé films, after all, come from long-standing manga comic books that are omnipresent in Japan, and are required reading by old and young alike.

 

But the film Spirited Away convinced me that I was viewing the work of a master story-teller, one who was able furthermore to incorporate a commentary on social as well as moral issues. His work reminded me of a fairy-tale but with a modern edge, without the roughness of a Grimm fairytale and the exotic tortures that are experienced by characters, but instead, with an elegiac note that was furthermore enhanced with visual elements that had a magical and sweeping note. It is like a symphony that can carry one away, an element of grandeur.

Goro is the son, and as such, I understand he has not always met with the approval of his father. The son, for example, didn’t have the support of Hayao when he undertook to adapt Ursula K. Le Guin’s classic A Wizard of Earth Sea. This is a work that I prized very much from my childhood, and that is filled with poetic qualities. The father, Hayao, early in his career had approached Ursula to try to obtain her permission to film this work, but was evidently rebuffed. (Maybe Ursula had the same prejudice that I had about animé films, something that derived from the inexpensive cartoon series that were imported into this country in the 60s and 70s.) The son’s version was not exactly true to the author’s original work, and as a story, it seemed to deviate from the original story line and to introduce episodes that seemed, quite frankly, redundant. There were too many deviations, and a focus on action sequences and genre elements, and it lost much of the poetic quality I had seen in the original work. Apparently, the father had also thought that the son was not prepared to undertake this project, and in an open letter published on the web, the author, Ursula K. Le Guin, expressed her dissatisfaction.  

This film is the product of a later stage in the career of the son, and is collaboration with his father who, evidently, prepared the storyboards. It benefits from the strong storytelling that characterizes the work of Hayao Miyazaki. It is set in the port of Yokohama, in the year 1964, shortly before the start of the pivotal Olympics which were to be held in Japan. It is a time of reconstruction, one in which the Japanese economy has emerged from the ravages and destruction of war, and there is an air of optimism. The evocation of this period is tantamount to the suggestion of another golden spring, a period in which the plenitude of summer was awaiting, and the harbor that is visible from the hill of the title is filled with ships that are arriving and leaving with cargo. It captures as such the pride of the Japanese people during this episode, and of course we are treated with a vision of society that seems, at times, much too pristine and without any obvious jarring notes. It is, once again, the distillation of innocence and harmony, a simpler life, so to speak.
 

We have a young woman, Umi Matsuzaki, who is still attending school and yet is loaded with responsibility. She is yet another example of the typical Miyazaki protagonist, a young adolescent mature beyond her years, earnest and wistful, and able to project her incorruptibility in a way that enchants fellow characters as well as the audience. I am struck, over and over, by the fact that these characters seem so much alike. They haven’t been damaged by bitterness, they haven’t lost hope, they aren’t the sort of children who withdraw into the sustained effort to satisfy their appetites, nor lash out in destructive ways against their societies. They fundamentally share in the values of their culture, and they represent always an opportunity to preserve and refresh what we know is evidently in danger of being corrupted by the outside world, by war, by ecological damage, by a culture of consumerism, by greed and unbridled appetites. In short, by the wages of adulthood.

In this case, we get back to the economy. We are in a veritable building boom, and the hallowed hall that is a meeting ground for the picturesque society of diverse clubs is being threatened with destruction. The school needs a new building, and the forces of progress entail what would seem to be a necessary destruction razing of the old and the construction of a new idol, the building of the future. Change is in the air, and it is unsettling.

This creates one source of conflict, but as with almost all Miyazaki films, there is also another source, one which is more internal. There is also a story of first love, in this case, with an enterprising student journalist. He is a brave and forthright young man, Shun Kazuma, a "prince" from a working class background, but one who also perhaps too innocent to be believed (from what I recall, they don't even use contractions when they speak!). This is, at the heart of it, one of the qualities I find most appealing about Miyazaki films, that seem to be guided by fantasy. No children are truly as well-behaved and innocent as these adolescents, nor as noble and valiant.

There are conflicts that intersect, and a complication that comes down to a question of parentage. But throughout it all, the two protagonists remain firm in their commitment to each other, and we have comical misunderstandings as well as pathos as it relates to the personal wishes of these characters. A sweet form of melodrama.

And throughout it all, we have the metaphor of messages that are sent out, of calls that are placed and that traverse immense psychic distances, of a need to reconnect with the past, with father figures, with a romantic boy with a sense of duty, and with a nation’s sense of continuity. Messages that are sent out and lost, at times, although they may be reimagined.

The emotional fragility at play in so many of these Miyazaki films has to do with this sense of a future that is looming threateningly, that like a tidal wave, or like time, will sweep away the past. Soon these adolescents will have to leave the refuge of their school and of an innocent life in Yokohama, and they will enter college and then start families and careers, and become the salary men (and women) who will fuel the Japanese economic miracle that will shock the world in the 80s, threatening to overtake the American economy, before it subsides into the doldrums of stasis, to give way to the new challenger, that posed by a rising China. And with these economic forces at play, can sentiments remain pure and innocent?

As adults we have been thought to cherish the myth of an innocence that has been lost. It underlies our notion of Adam and Eve, but I would venture to say that maybe it is a myth that is present throughout human culture, the idea that as we grow older, we lose something, and we spent the rest of our lives looking back wishing we could regain it. This is, once again, the power of nostalgia, and it has the ability to cleanse our memories as it constructs a narrative about a period in our lives that was much simpler and, yes, potent in symbolic power. It is certainly the case that in many of Miyazaki’s paens to innocence and adolescence we don’t see the vicious bullying and the rejection of prudence and tolerance that I remember so ruefully from my own childhood, having been bullied so mercilessly.

This movie is enchanting, precisely because it is a fantasy. It is a celebration of nostalgia, one that would seemingly heal the wounds of separation. I enjoyed as well the comical touches, and the presentation of a society of quirky adolescents who band together in clubs that don’t shoot as each other the way our modern gang do, but that instead pursue an earnest quest to belong to a unit and to dedicate themselves to something that will guarantee them recognition. Would that we had all had such quirky but ultimately amiable set of friends, and would that all our childhoods had all been characterized by a single-minded determination and the support of nurturing adult figures and not, as I suspect was the case with the overwhelming majority of us, an unknowable series of experiences that were puzzling, threatening, but that did have much of the magic that is evoked in these Miyazaki film.

 

OGRomero © 2014
(Copyrighted by OGRomero, 2014)