Flee Into the Arms of Art — The Horror, The Horror

When I hear about an interesting film during a busy time, I add the title to my reminders list. Then I might watch it weeks or months later. Too often, though, I will not remember who recommended or why. I should add these details to my reminders, I know, but I always think it will be unnecessary.

Last night I watched a French film from 2005 called Caché (or in English, “Hidden”). Now I’m wishing I could remember why. The film is terrific, spellbinding, thought provoking the day after. Where did I hear about this, though? Who recommended it? This has become a mystery behind a terrific cinematic mystery.

Central to the plot is a devious act committed by a child toward another child many years ago. The action changes the course of a young life, becomes a focus of regret decades later. The story is told skillfully, with tensions rising relentlessly to an intense implosion. Yet the lingering thoughts the day after seem dominated by that compelling theme of childhood regret. As children, most of us have done something selfish, something cruel, something we were perhaps fortunate didn’t significantly alter the lives of our victim. Or maybe it did. That’s the thought that may haunt you the day after viewing this fine film. What terrible things did I once do? What were the repercussions?

These fallen empire times have prompted my resurgent interest in art. I busted out my Anton Chekov short story collection yesterday morning and reread the classic The Lady with the Dog.

Then I went to my local theater to see a new film called Anora. 

Anora turned out to be an excellent work of art, as well. Three great pieces in one day felt, in one sense, like a wise way to cope with my mourning over the defeat of our nation. 

Unfortunately, Anora presented a jagged edge that chafed against my escapist desires. That film involves a love affair with the son of a wealthy Russian oligarch. An adventure of incredible luxury and indulgence turns dangerously dark, inevitably. This is not the world I wanted to sink into less than a week after losing my country to transnational crime efforts led by the Russian mob — just way too close to home. The entire film played out like a metaphor for America’s fall. A prostitute is lured by the unlimited cash of Russian mobsters into a marriage of opulence, only to have it become a dark tragicomedy of betrayal and exploitation. This is your fate, America. 

I’ll note one more insight from my day of art pursuits. Before Anora played, I was hit with six or seven trailers for upcoming films. Almost all of them were horror films, promises of wolf men, haunted monkeys, psychopathic hitmen, etc. I found myself thinking of the Internet memes made of Marlon Brando near the end of Apocalypse Now, anguishing with, “the horror, the horror.” This doesn’t seem like the art we need when the empire crumbles, but then we didn’t need the empire to crumble, either.

Who knows when we get what we need again?