The Color of Paradise (1999)

Majid Majidi’s “The Color of Paradise” (1999) is an Iranian film about a blind boy named Mohammed who searches with his fingertips for the love of God (what a loaded statement!) But more accurately, it is the story of how Mohammed learns to experience the life and color around him through his touch, taste, smell, and hearing in order to uncover that even though he is blind, God loves him still and has provided him a different way of seeing the world.

I suppose the easiest way to approach the theme of love in this film is through that of familial love. Mohammed’s father Hashem forsakes his son while he seeks the approval of his fiance’s family. Fearing they would take his son’s blindness as a bad omen, Hashem sends Mohammed away, much to the anguish of Mohammed’s grandmother, who eventually dies from the illness incurred in her misery. This death is what ultimately calls off the wedding (ironically because it is taken as a bad omen). Meanwhile, Mohammed spends his time with a blind carpenter and asserts that he believes God doesn’t love him because he made him blind. Later, Hashem, full of regret, goes back to get his son again but a bridge collapses underneath them as they cross a river and Mohammed appears to drown. When Hashem finds Mohammed on the beach later, he appears dead, but as the film closes we realize he is reaching out as if “reading” nature with his fingertips, wherein he discovers the beauty all around him and that God indeed does love him for providing him this gift.

In this film, the love of God becomes essential to Mohammed because of the lack thereof from everyone else around him. Almost as a last-ditch effort to find love, he begins wondering about the complexity of God’s love, how far it stretches, and indeed if it reaches him. This type of blind-faith-love is really interesting, especially since the boy searching for it is indeed actually blind (ha!). But how is anyone to really know if “God” loves them? How would one ever be able to prove the extent of that love? I believe Majid Majidi came just about as close to proof as you can possibly get.

Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000)

Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) explores the complexity of love, especially that of forbidden love. Instead of delving into the complexities of the plot of this movie, I wish to address the ultimate message of the film: love endures even in the face of disapproval, despite societal pressures and nuances of culture. The principal story arch that supports this is that of Li Mu Bai and Yu Shu Lien. Because they are both Wudang warriors, it is against societal customs for the two of them to be together romantically, so they instead choose to remain platonic friends while each separately longs for the other. The tender moments of their friendship is amplified by this hidden desire and it is not until Li dies (at the end of the film) that they are able to truly admit their admiration for one another. This unrequited love amplifies the emotional impact of Li's death, and we as an audience feel Yu's pain in the final moments of Li's life. It's truly heartwrenching to think about never getting to say "I love you" to the person you've wanted all your life, therefore this scene plays out like a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief even in the face of death. Despite losing him, Yu finds solace in having admitted her love, in having it reciprocated for even a moment, and I believe this is the true breadth of how it feels to truly love someone.

On the other side, Jen (the daughter of Governor Yu) forsakes her love of her admirer Lo (after he chases her across the desert) in order to prove herself as a noble warrior. It is only after seeing the love Yu and Li share (even in Li's final moments) that she returns to the Wudang training grounds to be with her beloved for one more night. The next day, she stands on the edge of a mountain with him, asks him to make a wish (he wishes for them to be together as they were, in the desert), then jumps off the cliff as per an old legend of unrequited love. This "leap of faith" indicates the extreme measures it would have taken for them to be successfully together (because class and rank both work against them). It's tragically beautiful, this sacrifice, because even in her death, we can see that Jen loved Lo.

In either side of the story, Ang Lee accurately captures the hardships of love in Feudal Japan. It endures, though, even in the darkest of circumstances, proving love's enduring quality, it's ability to transcend time and space and the expectations a society places upon the individual. Love is possible, in all things.

72 Hours

Our assignment was to write a letter to someone (anyone) addressing what affairs we would wrap up, what we hold important in our lives, given that we only had 72 hours left to live. I'm not going to do this as the very concept goes against my belief in nowness, in the importance of every moment, in not taunting death by expecting it but instead embracing its inevitability as I carry forward with optimism and ultimately a love for all I have been granted in this life.

Sure, I could break it down and say I would want to spend time with the people I love, make sure they are all okay — my family, my roommate and friend Shianne, the extended family of friends I've accrued here in Brooklyn, the man I love in San Francisco. I could say I would take back bad things I've said or do things I hadn't yet done, but that wouldn't be true.

If I were given 72 hours to live, I'd continue just as I am: experiencing life until its sudden end. That's how I live, that's how I operate. I evaluate each moment as it comes and leave it behind after it's passed. The now is just important to me if I only had 72 hours left as it would if I had 172, 1072, 1 million 72 hours left to live. Sure, there are mistakes I've made, am making, in life but those are what makes each human's existence unique and wonderful. Knowing death was coming would not pressure me to remedy my faults, fix my mistakes, mend friendships and broken bridges, or confess my undying love of my family and friends. I've worked very hard in life to live without regret. And I have none. Death would be welcome, even if I thought "it's not my time" or "I've got more living left to do." I've lived a good life, and I plan to continue doing so. I know with confidence those important in my life already know I love them, I remind them all the time. I know with confidence I have done what I can and made a difference in the lives I've touched (be they good or bad), because I know with confidence that everyone I have met has made a difference for me.

Life is about the simple thrill of waking up, that morning walk to school or work or around the block with your kids, your dog. It's about enjoyment and being a part of the world, a human part with human thoughts and human flaws and human blessings. I give what I can and accept what I need (want, too). And although I appreciate the gambit of emotions the film Biutiful brought to mind, I don't feel as though I can relate to the plight of the protagonist because I'm a different person, who doesn't feel as though I've done something wrong with my wife or kids, that my family might forget me.

I am remembered, I am acknowledged, I am loved by those I hold dear and I remember, acknowledge, and love each and every one of them the same in return. If I were to die in 72 hours, with or without warning, I would die the same: happy to have lived at all.

Biutiful

Biutiful, by Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu, is a circular piece that is as much a film about life as it is death, particularly that of the protagonist, Uxbal, who we discover has terminal cancer within the first twenty minutes. The plot centers around Uxbal's impending death, leading the viewer through a series of short scenes revolving around Uxbal's two children, his bi-polar wife, a family of African illegal immigrants, and two Chinese businessmen with a warehouse full of illegal Chinese workers. We come to discover the profoundly important role Uxbal plays in keeping all of these people's lives from ruin even as his cancer worsens.

This film truly is Biutiful (which we learn is the way his daughter attempts to spell Beautiful on a picture she colored), and profoundly poignant, as are most of Iñárritu's films (i.e. Babel, 21 Grams). This time, though, the central focus is on death, on the impact one man's life has on the lives of others around him. Ever-present, the fear of death propels the protagonist to ensure the safety of his children and Chinese business partners, the mental welfare of his wife, and the quality of his African friend's family. Per typical Iñárritu style, shit hits the fan. New heaters Uxbal buys for the Chinese workers' warehouse suffocate all of them in their sleep and the resulting police investigation cause the two Chinese men in charge, former lovers, to turn against each other, until one ultimately murders the other after one last sexual encounter. The African immigrant family loses its father when he's arrested for street vending illegal, knock-off purses. Uxbal's alcoholic, bi-polar wife continues her volatile self-desctructive behavior, forcing Uxbal to look for a different caretaker of his children, whom he finds in the African immigrant Ekweme's wife, Ige. Life is never easy to leave, it seems. Even in death there is immense suffering.

However, also in true Iñárritu fashion, the film's saving grace comes in the beauty between the chaos. Perhaps the most poignant symbol in the film comes from stones Uxbal gives to both of his children for protection, to remember him by. This idea of memory stems from a deep understanding the writer had of Uxbal's character — he lost his father when very young and cannot recall a single memory of him, and thus Uxbal does not want the same for his children. He is a good father, a good provider, a good friend, and he wishes his legacy of this would remain in his young kids' minds, continue to influence the way in which they develop. Above all, he holds beauty, trust, friendship, love — giving and caring for his fellow man. He tells his daughter, in the second to last scene, "Look into my eyes, look at my face. Remember me, please. Don't forget me, Ana." THis idea of memory balances the loss of death, gives it hope, redemption.

The circular nature of the film helps in this redemption of theme. The film opens with a shot of Uxbal's arm stretched up into the darkness above his bed, his wife's hand playing gently with his ring as Uxbal tells her about fearing the sound of the ocean when he was young. In a flash of white, the scene transitions to Uxbal, looking stronger and healthier than any other point in the film, stands in a snow-cover forest. A man emerges from the trees and looks directly at him, they smoke a cigarette, exit the screen. These scenes replay at the end of the film, now in context we understand that man to be his father, the little hand to be his wife's. Uxbal gives his ring to her, as it had once belonged to his father before him, another token. We assume he then dies to join his father in that snowy forest, finally at peace.



Ultimately I found the theme of life/death in the film to be its strongest point. The eloquence in which Alejandro González Iñárritu conveys the beauty of both, even in the face of the worst situations, left me with a sense of hope. And though I was immediately depressed by the content, by the movement of the piece, days later as I think about it, I can't help but feel blessed with my own life, happy even in my miseries because in everything there exists beauty, everything can be biutiful.

Lady Chatterly

Upon further examination of the French film Lady Chatterly, I realized the importance of the soundscape of the film. Because of the advanced web of subtleties it takes to truly portray (and indeed embody) a romantic affair, especially when it comes to the forbidden, secret relationship of Lady Chatterly and the handsome groundskeeper. The director utilizes silences, the sounds of nature, soft music, and the full spectrum of volume to emphasize the complexities of the character's emotions, especially in relation to one another.

Take the scene at the bottom of the hill after Lady Chatterly and her husband argue about the value of the lower class. Lord Chatterly, in an attempt to prove his ability to take care of himself, tries to wheel himself up the steep hill without his wife's help. No music plays, instead we hear the soft stir of wind through the grass, a few quiet birds, a stillness in the air, and most pointedly the wheezing of Lord Chatterly's chair. When the gardener comes into the scene the fruitless spluttering of the engine cuts through the tension between characters, allowing the audience a bit of comic relief from the obviously painful moment wherein it is proven to Lady Chatterky that her husband is weak in mind and body while her new lover proves his capability in all aspects, including patience and grace. When the engine inevitably gives out each time, the only sounds left are the disturbed quietness of nature (wind, fewer birds) and the increasingly exastperated breaths of Mr. Chatterly. This, along with sparse, choppy dialogue of the characters, clearly portrays the real-life feel of a woman forced to interact with both her husband and lover. The audience ultimately experiences this because of the true-to-life soundscape of the scene.

I also realized through our discussion in class that th issues brought up in the film's content could be viewed through the lens of love. Bu this I mean specifically the place of women in different societies, especially in an earlier time of our history and in other parts of the world. How do women in, say, India view love when some of their marraiges are still arranged? How does a woman, trying to fit into an aristocratic 18th century society, view what it is to love when her true desire would doom her to a peasant's life? Ultimately, from a writer's standpoint, I noted that society has everything to do with how a character comes at a love affair. The gardener essentially could lose his job, but could easily get another like it, while Lady Chatterly would face public shame and the stern hand of her husband, ultimately ruining her life of luxury. These consequences aren't really mentioned but instead are inherent in the actions and facial expressions of the characters.

Week Two: Lady Chatterly

Film: Lady Chatterly (2007), Pascale Ferran

In the French adaptation of Lady Chatterly's Lover by D.H. Lawrence, the emotional awakening of Constance Chatterly by a younger, less-well-off suitor became the central theme of a story originally centering more on the differences in class. Beautifully so, might I add. The relationship truly follows the course of what some would describe as a "real life affair." In a review of the film, Edward Lee said, " Their first coupling is awkward -- paced as though it was plucked from reality -- with mylady clearly not quite knowing what to do, what to think, or what to make of the experience while Parkin remains -- at all times -- largely servant-like. Afterwards, neither take a moment to bask in the awakening, per se; largely, they both desire to return to their lives, and it isn't until a few days later that they experience the real emotional awakening that comes from their attachment. "

It's no small wonder that Constance (Connie) was taken by her gardener, Parkin's, charm. She basically lived an imprisoned life, what with her husband crippled and unable to really give her what she desires, and the break in monotony that this man brings was relief. Even with Parkin being so unforgivably unromantic (going so far as to say "what the point in talking" before sex), he fulfilled in Connie a desire that her husband could not. She fell for him quickly because of this, and he in turn fell in love with her because of her persistence. This plot then was expected, if not to a cliched degree, but I enjoyed it nonetheless, mostly because of the side-plot of the maid Mrs Bolton's relationship with Mr. Chatterly. The scene where she shaves him held infinite more intrigue for me than the simplistic love affair of the main characters. Even the ending is to be expected: Connie can't leave her husband for fear of insecurity (financial instability), Parkin can't be so ignoble as to steal another man's wife, and Mr. Chatterly can't walk so he didn't get much choice in the matter, anyway. In this though, there is truth, and truth is hard to come by.

In an interview with the New York Times in April of 2006, the director said, “The book is no longer scandalous today, but its view of sexuality is still in the extreme minority. It’s on the side of joy and the flourishing of the body. It considers sexuality without guilt, which is completely opposite to the puritanism of Lawrence’s time and also to the neo-puritanism, so to speak, of our time." In this, I think the film succeeds. There is a definite spur of joy and pleasure and carnal fulfillment that's really a cornerstone of the new bohemia of modern society. Free love, as they said in the 60's, is coming back, and it's made apparent in this film.

As far as an adaptation goes, this felt very French. The love and lust and desire aspects were elevated, placing the class imbalance as more of an obstacle to overcome (and eventually succumb to) than a criticism of the imbalance itself, as seen in the book. It's odd though because this story seems to be one that has been told before: woman falls in love with gardener because her marriage sucks. How Desperate Housewives, really. I think the films saving grace in this sense was the awkwardness of those first moments of sexuality between Connie and Parkin. There was legitimacy in each moment of tenderness and especially in those moments of carnal desire unleashed. The quietness of Mrs. Bolton's desire echoes the rambunctiousness of Lady Chatterly's affair, creating an air of romance to the piece that could only be described as French.

Week One: La Jetée

Film: La Jetée(1962), Chris MarkerI am often awed by the power of memory, especially in relation to love. The idea that a single image, once remembered, can push a man through the boundaries of space and time intrigued me. As I watched the images flip by like snapshots of a person's life and listened to the dark narration of this time-traveling lover over the rhythmic beating of his heart, I felt tied to his pilgrimage, swept up in his longing for this woman he saw once at the end of a pier. La Jetee excellently captures the thrill of a romance, from the breathtaking moment when the protagonist first sees the girl of his dreams standing there at the end of la jetée, to the last painstaking second of his life, which a bullet ends right in front of his long-lost love on the pier where they first met.

The unfolding of their potential relationship, which exists only outside of time, only landmarked by the things they experienced together, was beautifully melancholic. Having experienced the heartbreak of separation, long-distance as it were, this plotline struck particularly close to home. Their relationship was akin to this, but more desperately so. Each fleeting moment could very well have been the last or at least the last for a long while, each moment was therefor spent fully enraptured in the other. It was a heartbreaking sequence to watch, especially with the interruption of the scientists back in the "present" who were clearly sending this man through time with ill intent.

The one moment of the film that struck me was its only moment of animation: the girl opening her eyes whilst laying on a bed assumably in front of the narrator. In the blur of stationary pictures, this one moment of real movement acts as a seductive center to the film's storyline. In this, not only do we see the narrator getting seduced, we ourselves are seduced, pulled into his plight so that when the end comes, we long for them to be together. And it is through this scene also that we get a break from the rhythmic motion of still images, propelling us further from a conscious state into a similar one to that of the protagonist. Johnathan Romney points out the correlation between this lack of consciousness and the strings of images in his article La Jetee: Unchained Melody. In it, he says, "This sounds at once like an ideal romantic state and a deathly condition, beyond desire or even consciousness. However, Jean Ravel’s subtly rhythmic editing restores a fluid energy to the film’s succession of frozen moments."

I was stunned by this film, and thusly have high hopes for the rest to be viewed in our class. The exploration of love, it seems, can be infinitely meaningful, and infinitely attributed to different meanings. Here we saw one of those: love as a powerful force that could make the protagonist choose to go back to when love could flourish, even in the face of a future utopia, even in the face of death. I'm anxious to further explore the meanings of love.