The Hollow Men

There are certain films that gain resonance beyond their initial birth. Films that seem more relevant in a contemporary frame than when they were originally presented to the world.
Apocalypse Now is one of those films.
Seen in the light of the current fiasco in Iraq, the film contains thoughts and ideas that have more bite than they did in the relatively calm times of 1979.
A French soldier tells Martin Sheen's American soldier, "We fight because this is our land. You fight . . . for nothing."
The Heart of Darkness tale orginally seemed to be Francis Ford Coppola's folly when it was released in 1979. He had the time, the money, and coming off the double header of Godfather 1 and 2, artistic respect. He could really make any film he wanted.
An initial viewing of the film about the border between good and evil, sanity and insanity, compells the viewer to believe that Coppola was indeed insane, or at the very least drowning in hubris.
One scene in particular is almost unfathomable in it's enormous scale and purpose. Older folks must remind themselves (and the jaded younger folks in tow) that the sequence was done BEFORE computer graphics. It's all real. Robert Duvall's surfing obsessed general launches over a dozen helicopters to destroy an entire village while blasting Wagner from loud speakers. Standing on the beach, oblivious to the fireworks and bombs exploding behind his back, Duvall marvels at the breaking waves and orders his men out to surf. When I first saw the sequence, my jaw was on the floor. Then a trio of jets napalmed the vast landscape of palm trees and village. It might be the largest explosive destruction I have ever seen on film. Good God, Coppola was insane! He blew up an entire island . . .
When The Beatles released Rubber Soul, they realized they were famous enough to not include their band name on the cover. Some thought it was arrogant, but it made some sense. There are no opening credits to Apocaplyse Now; a mark of vanity or a statement about the purity of film? The opening sequence is pure film to the soundtrack of The Doors' The End. An epic montage where art house film meets massive studio production. Who needs a title?
Sadly, this film marked the beginning of mockery towards Marlon Brando as a fat, crazed actor. However, contemporary viewing (and in light of his films that came later), he is in good health; striking a classic presence. His monologue is no longer a "kooky" performance, but a landmark of his brilliance as an actor. He calmly relates the irony of America's brutality in war while proclaiming superior morality. His calm reading of the classic Joseph Conrad line, "The horror. The horror," originally seemed uninspired. It now makes perfect sense. There is no need to scream the line in hyper theatrics. Simply, the horror. What other actor could have such control to refrain from overstatement?
Brando's performance, which anchors the climax and point of the film, can now be viewed as perfection. His character realizes it is yet another war born of choice where the enemy is willing to resort to extreme evils to win. Brando's character believes that the only way to overcome this evil is to embrace darkness and become more evil than the enemy. Is this a madman or a realist? Brando's calm performance places doubt in the viewer and Martin Sheen's character. A crazed performance would have negated the complexity of the film and given the viewer a simple answer.
This is a film about the heart of darkness found in a war that has no purpose. The ironic sting of sending our own men to kill an American because he might be talking sense. Then knowing the bitter realization that the only sense is madness.
Just as anyone who has fully appreciated the film Jaws knows it is not about a shark killing people on the beach but about three guys becoming friends on a boat - this film is, at it's heart, the story of five soldiers becoming friends on a boat. The viewer is given both the heart and the darkness of war. Coppola's mission was, after further review, completely accomplished. Apocalypse Now has more value today, in our insane climate with yet another war of choice and the dark heart of our intentions and of our enemy, than it did when it first made it's first bow in cinematic culture. Take the time to watch it again with fresh eyes. You will be rewarded.

On the morning of September 11th, I headed to school, in a sleepy daze I had become accustomed to.
First period, I had a student aid, a blonde cheerleader I had known since she was a freshmen, who went to work in my stock room. I had a little black and white TV that she would tune into Good Morning America while she cut paper or organized the glue.
I worked with my freshmen in the room, struggling with them to understand not all art "looks real."
My cheerleader came out of the back room to tell me a plane had hit a building. I went back with her and watched the footage. It was terrible. We looked at each other with a heavy sigh, and I returned to teaching art.
A few minutes later, my cheerleader came out to tell me that ANOTHER plane had hit a building.
I smiled kindly at her, and I told her it was just a replay of the first plane. Cheerleaders, they are cute, but sometimes a bit slow.
She looked at me, as only women can look at a man fully consumed with his own idiocy, and told me once again another plane had hit a building.
I told her, "silly girl," that it is impossible that two planes could possibly hit two buildings in the same day. I walked back to the store room and watched the footage. The cheerleader was correct. I was nervous.
I returned to my freshmen art students and smiled. Everything was OK. Everything was normal with world. Smile.
My cheerleader returned again from the backroom, in hushed tones she told me to come and watch the TV again. The Pentagon had been hit. I was now in a panic mode. I returned to my classroom, 39 faces looking at me with confusion.
I told them in the most basic and harmless way I could that several planes had crashed all at once. They looked at me with confusion and terror. I told them everything would be just fine. Smile. We went on with drawing and our schedule.
The day went on, with questions and worries of over a hundred students. I kept my smile solid on my face. Nothing to worry about.
I raced home as soon as the last bell rang. I arrived home before Becky and the children. I made myself a large martini, sat on the couch and turned on CNN.
I remember a CNN anchor announcing, with a choked voice, just how many firefighters were feared lost. For the first time that day, without my children, wife or students around, I began to cry. They began showing people jumping to their deaths from the higher floors before the towers collapsed.
I was free, for the first time that day, to let the fake smile go. The tears poured down my face freely and soaked my shirt. I watched the replay of the towers tumble, knowing just what had been lost.
I cried more that day than I had in a long time. Real tears of pain. Uncontrollable.
My children returned home, concerned about the vague news they had heard. I wiped my face dry and smiled again. The world is fine. Nothing to worry about.
I look back on the day where I was afraid anything else could happen. Who knew?

Accordians are Heavy

I played some songs tonight that I haven't played in 10 years.

That's a medal waiting to be awarded.
I hualed my 100 pound accordian over to Brian's birthday party. Brian is the guitar player from my old band, Tippy Elvis. Brian has been a bit down lately. I should have stayed home with the wife and kids, or gone to another party I was invited to, but I knew I had to be there for an old bandmate.
It's a band thing. Most folks don't understand. Watch The Blues Brothers, or Spinal Tap. Somehow, despite their silliness, those films managed to catch the strange family link of bandmates.
Early in the day, Brian and I fiddled around for a bit. Faked our way through some generic songs. It was amusing, but lacking.
The fabulous Lenadams was there, the "manager" of Tippy Elvis. While playing, I walked with the heavy weight of my accordian into the living room and thought he was sleeping on the couch. I looked down and saw his eyes wide open with the most fabulous grin on his face. He knew something was coming.
Then Ginger, the tuba player goddess from Tippy Elvis, showed up. She pulled out her glorious brass magic.
Suddenly the clouds parted, the sun shined down in the dark hours of night, and a 10 year old vaccuum of neglect vanished. It all clicked again. We played the old songs. We looked at each other and remembered why we did it all in the first place. For some unknown reason, we fit each other. Tuba, guitar and accordian. Two geeks and a chick.
Nobody would pick us in a lineup and decide we would somehow be the perfect match, but we are. Where one player is lacking, the other picks up. It was the sudden resurrection of vital organs of a long dead being, under a patio cover with cold beer. Imagine something you once thought permanently dead and gone, and it briefly comes to life.
We could have used Dayv singing, there was much "blah blah blah" going on. Joe's masterful drumming would have been sweet to keep us on track.
Still, for an hour or so, there was a heartbeat. Any parent can tell you how precious that heartbeat is. It is a relief, it is a joy. It is alive. The head might not be awake, and the feet may not be walking, but the vitals are good.
When I began the lead to "Cigarette," and Ginger's tuba fell in with Brian's guitar, even the people who had heard Brian and I noodling around earlier in the day suddenly sat up straight and had a look of appreciation on their face. Most of them have no idea who Tippy Elvis is, but they could tell that a miracle awakening had just happened.
I don't know if that moment could possibly heal the hurt that Brian has been feeling with his relationships. I can only hope that it was as wonderful a moment for him, at his birthday bash, as it was for me.
Brian said something between songs that resonated with me. He said he was tired of living in the past, and he wanted to start making it the now.
I'm with Brian. We had an opportunity in the past. We had a huge following. We all blew it because of egos and laziness. I'm tired of explaining to people what we "were." Before age makes us a passing joke, I'd like to make us what we are.