2009.05.26 (Tuesday) – 3:24 am
Almost everyone has succumbed to emotions earned by a film. And some know the next step, when a piece of art moves us not for a moment, but permanently, ever profound, forever changing an aspect of our lives.
Apocalypse Now struck me dumb, unable to speak. Over a quarter century later, I stumble to encompass how to express why …. relentless imagery, changes inflicted on personalities. Only two other films left me initially speechless, then thoughtful for days after–both sharing the same tragedy: a woman’s personality destroyed, to apparently thrive in her new life. So in my life, I’ve been profoundly moved by only three films. Even decades after first exposure, I must be careful when I watch these films, lest I inflict my moodiness on others in the following days.
Memorial Day started with me, awake alone, mid-stride a six-hour marathon of a particular TV show. The show’s first 13 episodes had been a somewhat fluffy experience, scary and action-packed, with occasional moving scenes of familial love or a great loss. (That I had seven unwatched episodes shows the measure of my previous indifference.) So picture almost six hours achieving only occasional wry laughter, 30 minutes of fear that the monster was outside _my_ dark windows, and perhaps 3 minutes of cemetery grief caused by a father for son.
Then consider I found myself emotionally eviscerated, as the final ten seconds had me weeping uncontrollably, biting my sleeve to quiet the moans.
Writer Harlan Ellison often has a character put one fist into his or her mouth while crying; I had never understood, never known that blocking my mouth could stand between myself and disintegration. I had never found myself trying to stuff more cloth of my sleeve into my mouth, stifling odd whimpers coming out while my body was weeping as without end.
Abruptly I found the mind floating, sort of befuddled at the emotion, “Ah, so this’s what it’s like.” It was an hour before I could settle enough to move to my bed, even longer before I stopped being wracked by sobs. I was afraid I’d waken my wife beside me. All the while, the mind was floating above, congratulating the TV writers and visual artists who put me into this state.
The show ended the season with the main character looking out a window. The camera pulls back to reveal she’s within an intact World Trade Center tower, gazing upon the other one. Fade to black.
In less than a second, with no dialogue, every viewer on earth knew Dorothy wasn’t in Kansas any more, she was in the alternate universe previously unproven.
No single symbol in western civilization could substitute so effectively. They implemented the perfect icon, a unique symbol able to affect every viewer. Even in review, the memory forces me to pause for composure. Without any sentimentality, they had me crying; it was a punch line that knocked my fucking lights out. I learned–with clarity I never dreamed possible–that I have unexpressed grief, that I yet mourn for the world that died with the towers.
Is this an archetype being born?
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