Proof that Orson Welles was a genius (as if that was ever in doubt)

The following is a clip from his unfinished Don Quixote movie (a cursed project that has defied filmmakers for years; see Terry Gilliam's Lost in La Mancha for further proof). A silent picture that takes Sancho Panza and Don Quixote into modern times. This clip is absolutely wonderful, and full of meaty discussion topics.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jt-8btq7kt8

NOTE: A Welles biographer gives the intro for about three or four minutes.

arrested development referance and language?! tsk. tsk. tsk.

Beth walked into a corridor filled with cold metal bars and soul-sucking fluorescents which lined the cream colored ceiling. She walked past a few large empty cells until she got to a solitary one that seemed determined to suppress the scant light present in that dingy corner. Inside the cell was a solitary figure sitting deathly still on the sparse bench. His face was covered by shadow, but Beth recognized the figure as her husband.

“Ten minutes. Stay away from the bars, no touching, no raising your voice, no passing anything into the cell,” continued the heavy-set guard who waddled a few paces back to appear less obtrusive.

Beth sat on the obscenely orange plastic chair provided for her. She didn’t speak, she had too many things to say but she couldn’t verbalize them. Instead she sat there in the cold plastic and watched her husband’s hand clench the other.

I had better say something, she thought, just let him know you still love him, or at the very least you don’t hate him. “Ben, I…” She felt a tap on her shoulder. She looked up to see the girth of the guard staring her in the face.

“All right lady, time’s up,” said the guard.

“I’ll be back when I can,” she finally stammered out before she left with the guard.

Beth dropped Jordan off at her mother’s house and after a brief and obtuse explanation, drove home. She sat in the living room with only the slight ambiance from the streetlights to keep her company. She mulled the events of the day over and over in her head until she wasn’t sure what was true, or what was in her imagination. She re-invisioned her "conversation" with Ben in the prison over and over. She envisioned scenarios where she had burst into tears and blubbered out how much she still loved him, and still others where she reamed him out for doing this at a time when they were finally getting ahead. She tried to get up and get a glass of wine, but was too tired to do it. She sat alone until her thoughts became darker and more surreal. She began to see Ben beating the man senseless. She was haunted by that still image of the man her husband had killed. Slowly, the thoughts became dreams, and the dreams; nightmares.

Beth woke drenched in sweat. She looked around frantically for a second to recover her bearings. Slowly, reality made its presence known. She meandered wearily up to her room and promptly drew a bath. She looked at the clock and the dial read 3:56. The full impact of the time hit her full force. She decided against the bath and collapsed on the bed. Lying there exhausted but unable to sleep, she could not forget her dream. She tossed and turned but that horrid image refused to leave her psyche. She finally sat up and turned on the lamp, and her eyes focused on a clunky olive colored box in the corner of the room. Ben had kept all his old army documents in there, and refused to let anyone see them. It was probably nothing, but Beth couldn’t combat the encroaching feeling that she needed to check the box’s contents. She kneeled by the drab cube and saw the small combination lock. She didn’t know the combination and the prospect of wasting away the few hours of sleep she had left by figuring out a combination seemed less than appealing.

“Well, I’ll give it one try,” she spoke to the air. She was surprised to hear a click when she tried the handle; Ben never left it unlocked. She opened the case and saw a stack of papers, some various odds and ends, and some sort of metallic pin. Among the myriad of papers, she found nothing useful. She almost closed it until she came across a notebook wedged in the very back. It was a small but dense notebook, heavily discolored and water marked from years of harsh conditions. She had picked it up for a song some years ago and had given it to Ben before he left for the war. She told him to put her picture in it, so she would always be with him. She had forgotten about it. She opened it and began to skim through the entries. Ben had drawn little illustrations of what looked like birds, other animals, and various portraits. Beth smiled as a tear rolled down her cheek. Ben had always fancied himself an artist, but he was never any good. Beth never had the heart to tell him how poorly he drew. She kept reading, but the journals were singularly uneventful. Suddenly, the journal ended. A block of time encompassing who knows how may days in the span of a page. The journal resumed on the next page, but these pages were crudely penciled and unsettlingly peculiar; Ben’s sentences clipped and bitter. His illustrations grew darker and more grotesque; one in particular caught her eye. It was a picture of a man holding a dead boy, red ink was splotched liberally over the page and the words, “My Fucking Fault” were scrawled all over. Then Beth saw the dragon. The swirling mass of red and black began to take shape in a faint but unmistakable serpentine pattern. The arms and legs and wove themselves into the boy’s wounds and the soldiers own face replaced the draconic figure.

Beth shot awake, sweat beading on her forehead. She had fallen asleep, again. As reality filtered back in, the dream became fainter and fainter. Beth labouringly got to her feet to turn off the light when her eye focused on the open journal. She made it to the sink before she vomited. She stayed by the sink for several minutes looking down at the stained porcelain, watching the foul mixture snake its way down the drain. The picture wasn’t a dream. She made her way downstairs; her steps heavy and labored. She half-heartedly fixed herself a glass of grocery store chardonnay, resisting the urge to continue reading. Three empty glasses later, as the sky went from black to a hazy grey, she re-opened the book. She found that Ben had continued writing since his seizure. The entries were hidden away after several pages of emphatic emptiness. Beth stared at the words on the last written page; her face registering her shock. Beth had studied literature in college, but Ben never understood why she loved books so much. He used to make fun of her for liking characters more than real people.

“Characters are less messy,” she would quip back as she fixed his hair. Beth didn’t consider herself an academic, but she did retain her reading well. After a decade of intellectually flaccid suburban life, she still remembered reading “Beowulf.” She remembered the mail Ben received from one of his army buddies, addressed to Ben “Beowulf” Olson. Even more frighteningly, she recalled the words Ben spoke at the hospital. Here on the last entry, Ben’s words gave Beth irrefutable proof of the severity of Ben's condition.

SIP under construction

had a new idea, and am currently re-working the ending...stay tuned for more!

SIP part three!

*****

Beth sat in the hospital room surrounded by the drone of heavy, expensive machinery beeping at regular intervals. She was reading an article about some new fashion trend or other, but she couldn’t really concentrate. Ben had been sleeping for seven hours now. He kept saying strange things in his sleep, things that didn’t make sense, but it still shook her up to hear them. She gave the magazine another shot:

Want to get that chic wet-boot look for less money? Buying a pair of those groovy wet-look shoes and a pair of same colored wet-look socks will give you the look you want, with less money, and more clothes in your closet!

She looked up from her magazine and saw Ben staring at the ceiling with his eyelids peeled back into his skull. She rushed over to him, and put a hand on his. Ben jerked his hand back and let out a scream that almost knocked her back. She stood dumb for a moment before returning to her husband’s side.

“Hey honey, everything’s fine,” she said in the most soothing voice she could muster. Ben’s gaze didn’t alter.

“You’re ok, honey. We’re at the Hospital. The doctor said you’re going to be just fine. You’re ok, you passed out, that’s all.” Beth had talked to the doctor, and Ben was not okay. He had had a massive seizure, but from what Beth didn’t know. He had never had one before, and the doctors were stumped as well. They chalked it up to “acute emotional distress” or “shell shock,” but Beth saw on their faces that they were unsure too. Ben’s eyes closed and his breathing became more regular. Before he succumbed to sleep, he uttered one word that Beth didn’t quite catch.

Ben came home from the hospital the next day, and seemed to be in better spirits than he had been in for quite a while. Beth helped him up to bed, and helped him undress. She turned to go, but Ben grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let go. He gently pulled her towards him and into the bed. She, with mild puzzlement lay down beside him and rested her head on his chest.

She woke a few hours later and Ben was not next to her. She panicked momentarily and looked round the room feverishly, but couldn’t find Ben. She ran down the carpeted stairs, but her heel slipped on the edge of one of the steps and she slid the rest of the way down. At the bottom of the steps she looked up and saw her son Jordan looking at her quizzically.

“Did you fall, mommy?” asked Jordan with one finger digging ferociously in his left nostril.

“Where’s Daddy, Jordan?” asked Beth, still concerned with the whereabouts of her sick husband.

“He’s outside, we were playing swordfight!” exclaimed Jordan, who having forgot his mother’s fall, used his previously occupied finger as a sword to excitedly illustrate the finer points of the game.

“Oh,” she replied as she picked herself off of the floor. She heard the back door shut and Ben walked into the room moments later. Jordan immediately rushed back at his father and valiantly tried to plunge his finger into Ben, but Ben picked him up and held him close. Beth watched as her husband sniffed Jordan’s hair and his countenance changed. He stared off into the wallpaper, looking at some distant point undiscernable to the human eye. Jordan began to wriggle like a snake in his father’s arms and demanded that Ben, “Cut it out!” Ben set his son down, and Jordan giggled with delight as he ran up to his room to find a better weapon.

“How are you?” tested Beth-Anne.

“Like you said, Dear, I’m fine.”

*****

It had been four weeks since the seizure, and Ben was making good on his prognosis. He no longer spent sleepless nights downstairs and was even beginning to show signs of affection again. One morning, when Beth had overslept, she was shocked to find Ben in the kitchen making breakfast for Jordan. He burnt the bacon, the eggs were runny, and the coffee was horrible, but there he was, doing something. He also brought out the old weight bench from the garage and started using it again. He had always been big, but Beth couldn’t believe just how large he had gotten; he looked more than human. She swore he had gotten taller. He would wrestle with Jordan after school, and Jordan would grab on to his father’s wrist and anchor himself to the ground with a look of determination so intense that it made Beth burst into fits of uncontrollable laughter. With no effort, Ben lifted his arm, chubby six year old and all, into the air. After school, Ben and Jordan would pick up sticks in the backyard and fight until Jordan was too dizzy to stand up.

Ben didn’t really have any marketable skills, but he managed to secure a job as a security guard at a department store. He seemed to really enjoy it. He would come home from work and peel himself out of his little VW Rabbit. He would scoop Beth up in one arm and kiss her. Sometimes he would hand her a little plastic bag filled with perfume and make-up samples the ladies at the counter had given him. Ben no longer slumped, or looked broken, but walked with assurance. Ben’s recovery was so complete that Beth never bothered to finish their previous conversation. Things were solved as far as she was concerned; Ben was better now. Besides, whenever she mentioned anything having to do with the war, he simply gave her a look like she was speaking another language altogether.

It was early December. It had been several months since the seizure, and Beth was enjoying the normalcy of their life again. One Friday afternoon, Beth was cooking before Ben came home. She spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen preparing dinner; Ben had insisted the family eat all meals together. She stood over the steaming pan of Hamburger Helper, thinking about nothing in particular (which was a nice change from constant worrying). The doorbell rang, and Beth-Anne’s heart jumped slightly. Maybe it was Ben. She knew she was being silly, a grown woman shouldn’t feel like that anymore, but she did. She briefly stopped to look in the mirror to check her appearance, and then answered the door with a sultry “hello?”

“Mrs. Beth Olson?” was the unexpected response. It wasn’t Ben, but rather a tall gaunt stranger with salt and pepper stubble over his tired face.

“Oh…uh, yes. Yes, I’m Mrs. Olson,” she said.

“My name is detective Kieslowski; I work for the Cook County Police Department.”

“Oh, good afternoon officer, can I help you?” Beth-Anne feared the worst.

“Detective,” corrected Kieslowski, “Mrs. Olson, we need to ask you a few routine questions.”

“Why, is something wrong?” That was a stupid question, she thought.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more right now, other than there was a robbery at your husband’s place of work,” said Kieslowski, hinting that the situation was far from routine.

“Is Ben all right?” Beth nearly jumped down his throat.

“Please, just come with us to the station,” Kieslowski uttered with a plastic smile.

“Just let me, um. Sorry, I was in the middle of cooking dinner, just let me grab my son.”

“I’ll wait. Please, take your time.”

Beth took the food off the burner, and grabbed her keys and purse. She found Jordan outside stabbing a stick into the ground, and she grabbed hold of his hand.

“Come on, sweetie,” she said as she peeled the stick from his muddy fingers. Jordan put up a little resistance, but mother and child emerged from the house moments later. Jordan pouted the whole way to the police station.

*****

Beth was surprised how efficiently she was issued through the labyrinthine passageways of the police station. Someone had taken Jordan off to the day care facility, and she was none too happy about that, but the officers did not seem to be interested in her maternal protestations.

She was brought into a room by Lieutenant Kieslowski and offered a seat.

“I’d prefer to stand, thank you,” she said, having reached the last reservoirs of her patience.

“Fine, whatever you wish,” said Kieslowski in another feeble attempt to appear personable. He sat down at his desk and rummaged through a mountain of manila folders scattered on his otherwise well-kept desk.

“Can I see my husband now?” Beth asked with a barb of reproach at his pre-occupation.

“Not at this moment…,” Lieutenant Kieslowski started.

“Well, aren’t you going to tell me what in the Hell is going on with Ben?” She had too many questions that needed answering, and if lieutenant what’s-his-face couldn’t keep up, that was his problem. “Is he under arrest?”

“Not at this time,” Kieslowski managed to blurt out.

“What do you mean ‘not at this time?’ Is he under arrest or isn’t he?” Beth nearly threatened.

“He isn’t currently under arrest, no,” finished Kieslowski.

“So, he’s not going to be arrested,” she said still annoyed that Kieslowski was not keeping up with her.

“But he is being held in a containment cell,” said Kieslowski stoically.

“Then what am I doing here, what is he still doing here? What happened, is he okay?”

“Your husband subdued a man who tried to rob the Dillard’s in the Town Centre shopping complex,” Kieslowski said without any color.

“And?!” Beth bludgeoned.

“Well, Mrs. Olson, the amount of force your husband used to subdue the criminal might be deemed excessive in some circles,” Kieslowski replied diplomatically.

“He didn’t kill him, did he?” Beth’s demeanor changed considerably.

“Mrs. Olson,” Kieslowski’s brows furrowed significantly, “your husband will most likely be investigated because of the severity of force he used in the altercation. The man succumbed to his injuries at the hospital.”

Beth just stared. She had no words, she didn’t feel anything; she thought she should, but nothing came. Ben couldn’t have done that; he was too gentle. She hadn’t even thought he would have made a very good soldier. No, he couldn’t have done that.

“What?” she responded vacantly.

“Yes, I’m afraid the man sustained heavy brain trauma from the beating…”

“Beating?” Beth-Anne seized the word.

“Mrs. Olson, on top of the excessive force your husband used, he said some…um.”

“He said what?” she said in exhausted exasperation.

“Well, just some things that we were unclear about, some things that just seemed odd for the context of the situation. This really isn’t my place, but I was wondering if your husband had any...”

The phone rang and Kieslowski took the call. After a few pregnant “Uh-huh’s” and “I see’s,” he excused himself momentarily.

Beth perched precariously on her chair. She sat in stunned silence. If she felt anything at all, it was indignation at Kieslowski’s indifferent treatment. She needed answers. Looking around to see if anybody was watching, she opened up the file with her husband’s name on it and was assaulted with a single image. It was a man lying on the ground with a face swollen-up like he had plunged his face into a beehive. Several of his teeth were missing, and blood came from a tremendous gash in his forehead. His arm was bent at the forearm. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She stared for several moments in morbid shock, before having to look away. She flipped the page and saw the attached report of the incident. The report was in simple calculated phraseology that lacked any emotional coloring:

On the afternoon of December 12th, 2:00 P.M. one, John Roberts, walked into the Dillard’s department store in the Town Centre Shopping Plaza in Chicago, Il…walked up to a cashier, produced a .45 caliber handgun…fired several shots in the air and yelled for the cashier to, “Hurry up.” At approximately 2:05 P.M., Benjamin Olson, a security guard employed at the store attacked Roberts.… Medical reports indicate that the blow shattered Robert’s forearm. According to eyewitnesses, Olson began shouting at Roberts…Olson proceeded to thrust Robert’s head into the counter multiple times before dropping him onto the floor. Roberts was airlifted to Sacred Heart after police and paramedics arrived, where he later succumbed to his injuries due to significant brain trauma. Questions about Mr. Olson’s mental stability should be…

She read the last phrase twice trying to understand it when she heard the door click, and Kieslowski muttering something to another officer outside the door. Beth hastily shut the file and shoved it back into the pile.

“I’m sorry, where were we?” said Kieslowski.

Beth sat in the chair and listened to Kieslowski drone on, but her mind was already working through its own conundrum. Surely Ben couldn’t have done this. No, no he did his job. This man was threatening people, and Ben was doing his job. He could have killed Ben! He could have killed Ben. It had never dawned on Beth before that her husband might have been killed. She was afraid during the war, but that fear was more abstract. Other people’s husbands died, but Ben wouldn’t; he couldn’t. The concept had never solidified in her head. Sure the thoughts came in the cold and empty hours of the early morning when she lay there alone, but they never stayed long. Not until he came home after being in an Army hospital for a year did the thought first take root. He got better, physically at least, and she stifled the fear. He was too strong for something as common as death, she thought.

She had a dream once while Ben was away. Ben was fighting something dark with fiery eyes, and she was helpless to look on as Ben was burned over and over until she hardly recognized him. She screamed and thrashed, but Ben just stood there letting the fire burn him away. She had woken up, and after a moment or two went back to sleep and just disregarded it as one does with unpleasant dreams. Only now, as she stood looking at the report did that image come back, and she was afraid for Ben. He was not okay.

“Well, do you have anything to add?” Kieslowski said with a bite of annoyance at her unresponsiveness.

Beth sat in the chair, under the oppressive hum of fluorescent lighting. The whole room looked sickly, drained, and sterile.

“No, Officer. I mean, Ben has been incredibly stressed recently. He hasn’t been sleeping well, and we’ve been having some financial trouble,” she said on the verge of eruption.

“So, nothing out of the ordinary, no odd mannerisms, no unnatural displays of aggression, or no signs of mental instability that you have witnessed?”

“Well, he…” Beth recovered, “he, um, has been kind of moody, but I think that’s understandable.”

“Mrs. Olson, is your husband a reader?”

The question caught Beth-Anne off guard.

“A reader?”

“Does he like to read?”

“Oh! Um, not really, he’s more of an action flick guy.”

“Does the word “Beowulf” mean something to you, Mrs. Olson?”

Beth thought back to the night Ben had the seizure. He had muttered all kinds of strange things in his sleep, but she had explained it away as just a bad dream. He had said some things that were downright bizarre. Maybe she should tell Kieslowski? No, she couldn’t do that, she had to protect Ben. He was sick; she couldn’t help him if he was in prison. He could get worse! He wasn’t dangerous, she knew that.

“Oh!” Beth burst out, and tried to reign herself in, “That was his nickname in the army, he kind of looks like a Viking, I suppose.” Her thumb began to quiver involuntarily.

There was a long, dreadful silence, but Beth’s mind was screaming.

“Mrs. Olson, are you worried about your husband?” asked Kieslowski after several weighted seconds.

“Yes! I’m worried about my husband!” She exploded, “He stopped a man from robbing and possibly killing a whole bunch of innocent people!” she had to protect Ben from Kieslwoski, “He could have been killed, he’s a hero! And you want to arrest him for doing his duty?” If they found out how sick Ben was, they would lock him away from her forever. “I’m sorry that man died, but as far as I am concerned Ben is healthy!” She ended her tirade feverishly.

“Healthy?” inquired Kieslowski

“Alive, I mean. He could have been shot! You people don’t seem to appreciate that; I could have lost my husband today! I don’t know what I would do if I lost Ben, and now you want to take him away from me? How dare you.”

“Ok, ok Mrs. Olson,” Kieslowski tried to placate her, “Don’t get hysterical. Please. You’re right, this has probably come as a big shock to you, and no charges have been pressed yet. I’ll call you if I have any more questions.”

Frankly, Kieslowski was tired of dealing with hysterical wives, daughters, and mothers. He had had his fill today, and besides, he did slightly agree with this lady. This Roberts guy was probably just trying to get quick cash for his next drug fix, and now there was one less junkie to waste tax money on.

“Can I see him now?” Beth asked with a hint of exhaustion.

“Of course, I’ll send for someone to take you.”

SIP part 2 (read previous post first)

*****

“Damn it,” Ben blanched at the idea of patrolling the village. He had gone into plenty of villages before with little incident, and they had actually been to this particular one on several occasions. The Vietnamese there didn’t seem to mind their presence - they just carried on with their normal routines. Why this sudden fear? Ben had woken up that morning and was keenly aware of everything. He noticed a discoloration on his right thumb that looked surprisingly like a sickle when he bent it at the knuckle. “How long has that been there?” he thought. This morning was the first time he could distinguish one bird call from another. He spat out his coffee in disgust even though he had had the same nasty brew day in and day out for the past year.

When his orders came, Ben Olson read them as if it was the final draft of his own will. The encroaching dread culminated in a sudden shower of bad eggs and coffee.

“Hey, Beowulf, you all right?” a tall, bookish soldier whispered to him as Ben wiped his mouth. The soldier was Mort Jenkins, a born bookworm if there ever was one. What he was doing halfway across the world with an assault rifle in his hands was lost on everyone except Mort. He had been studying literature for his undergrad, but jumped at the chance to “be a hero.” Typical academic. To Mort, war was an intellectual exercise, purely mental. He had dubbed Ben, whom he had taken a liking to, “Beowulf” after his favorite old-English hero. Ben’s likeness to the epic hero was undeniable, and the fact that Ben’s initials were B.E.O. seemed only to solidify the nickname. As much as Ben and the other men made fun of “Book,” as they called him, his marathon recitations of classic literature did at least provide some measure of distraction from the cold, the ants, and the always lurking horror.

“What, is the mighty Beowulf afraid?” Book not only called Ben by this heroic moniker, he also treated him as if he was the Geatish lord himself.

“That’s funny, Book,” Ben said as he removed his leaden head from between his knees, “I don’t remember reading any stories about your exploits. I always seem to come out of your stories okay. Intellect and recitation won’t save you out here, you better be watching your own ass instead.” Ben spoke with a cocky grin, trying not to let on that yes, he was afraid. He was more afraid than he had been since his arrival. Something had gripped hold of his nerve and refused to let go.

The heat and humidity weighed heavily on the small patrol. Hours later they arrived at the village, a shoddy little conglomeration of crudely roofed huts and fences that looked like they might have sprouted out of the ground. An old lady with more fingers than teeth was weaving a hat out of straw, happy, filthy children were running half-naked in the streets chasing chickens. Everything was normal, but with each step Ben’s panic grew until he was dripping with perspiration. He clicked the safety off his rifle.

“You all right, sir?” asked Jimmy Mitchell, a pale, freckly private who emphatically claimed that he was eighteen. Ben didn’t answer, but took off his helmet and cleared his forehead. Ben swore as the fear began to seep through his last reserve of resistance. Everything became heavy, he felt every ounce of his helmet. Holding his rifle made his arms ache, he could no longer carry it, let alone shoot it.

Ben reluctantly shouldered his rifle and donned the helmet again. He felt like his head would cave in under the weight. They continued to walk through the village, but each sudden movement, each loud noise arrested all of Ben’s attention. A Vietnamese Fireback trilled from the nearby jungle, and Ben felt all the blood rush to his head as his hand found his pistol.

“Those birds are noisy as hell,” Ben said as he tried to shake off the encroaching terror. Claustrophobia set in, and he had to stop, close his eyes, and kneel to regain his equilibrium. He dropped his helmet to the earthen floor and used his shirt to wick the sweat away from his face. The patrol stopped, but Ben waved for them continued ahead of him. “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” he repeated to himself. He slowly opened his eyes, and his focus returned. Not one hundred yards away from him, someone was running at full speed out of the dense jungle toward the rest of his patrol. He tried to yell for the person to stop, but choked on his words. He couldn’t get out a warning to the rest of his men either. The heaviness vanished as he instinctively drew his pistol and fired two shots in the direction of the running figure. One met its target square in the chest. It was an exceptional shot, especially from that distance. The impact caused the person to snap back like he was dropped from the gallows. Ben couldn’t hear anything now, save his now steady breathing and the ringing from the percussion. His vision focused solely on the limp body seventy yards in front of him. Ben got to his feet and ran, only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the grisly scene of his making.

It was a child, no older than eight or ten. He lay on the ground covered in an ever increasing amount of blood. He had no shirt on, and Ben could see the little boy’s heart and lungs pulsating through his thin chest. Ben had seen bullet wounds before, and had always been surprised at how small they looked. He had always imagined that bullets would leave big ragged holes, not the small symmetrical ones actually left by the hot metal. Not here though, O God, not here. On this little child, the hole was gaping and hideous. The boy began to cry, his cries caused more blood to throb out of the wound as his heart worked even harder to compensate for the growing loss of blood. The child had no explosives. The VC often had children walk around with explosives strapped to their little tan bodies. They would approach a group of Americans and detonate, taking the soldiers with them. This child was not one of them. The child had no explosives.

Ben fell to his knees and grabbed the trembling body in his own steady arms. His hand grasped the exit wound in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. The child’s slight body shook violently as blood gurgled forth from his cracked mouth. He clutched at Ben in an effort to keep his life from slipping away. his eyes bore into Ben’s own, looking for some trace of comfort. Soon the trembling stopped. Ben sat, still clutching the little child. Another bird chirped in the jungle. Ben stared into the eyes of the boy, as he gently laid him down. The look on the boy’s face was one of terror, his faced contorted into a grotesque monument of his last moments. Ben looked down at the boy’s hand and noticed it was tightly grasping a small metallic ring. Ben grasped his vest, feeling for the grenade that was missing its pin. He half-heartedly fumbled with his vest, waiting, almost hoping, for the inevitable explosion. He somehow managed to drop his grenade vest behind him and lay next to the fallen boy. He closed his eyes as the flash of light and the nauseating smell of phosphorus and scorched flesh filled his nostrils.

By Demand from my Covenant Friends...SIP part 1

Friendly Fire

“We’re out of milk, Ben I’m going to need you to go down to Ingles and pick some up.” As she stepped out of the shower, Beth Olson shivered as her foot touched cold tile.

“Honey, did you hear me?” she called as she vigorously toweled off. There was no reply. She opened the door to her bedroom, and was momentarily jarred by the swirling, red wallpaper. For a few minutes every morning, the sun would creep into the window and ignite the harsh decor into a vibrant display of gold and red. Beth looked out into the center of the golden inferno; she looked at her husband Ben. The sunlight played off his frame, unable to penetrate the mass of muscle, bone, and beginnings of middle-age girth. The sunlight searched for a way through, not content to merely silhouette, and burned through the thin flesh of his ears. Beth had always liked his ears.

When they first started dating she thought Ben an imposing figure. Looking more akin to Heimdall than an all-American Joe, Beth didn’t like him. She hated unbridled machismo in all its forms, and Ben certainly fit the description. He had the brute strength you would expect in a football player, but none of the grace. She had a sneaking suspicion Ben had suffered some brain damage when his elephantine head got caught in the birth canal. She couldn’t prove it, of course, but she had her suspicions. She sat behind him in class and noticed how small his ears were, pitiably small. He got under her skin, as only a latent attraction can.

She was shocked when he first attempted to ask her, with all the verbal grace of a raven, on a date. She said yes, out of boredom - of course. That was twenty years ago, they had been married for fifteen, and she now found his ears endearing. Ben remained sitting on the bed looking out the window. She traced the outline of his shoulder-blades till they faded into the prominent scar on his back. Ben slowly turned around and saw his wife standing there looking at him, half exposed, half hidden behind the bathroom door. He mustered a weak smile and turned back towards the window.

“Ben, honey, I really need you to pick up some milk,” she tried again.

“Of course, dear,” Ben responded placidly.

“You don’t have to go straight there to get it,” Beth busied herself with primping, “I’m taking Jordan to school this morning; he’s going to miss the bus; again. Why don’t you go see a movie or something first. I talked to Gloria and she went to go see that new space movie with Mike, and they said they thought you of you when they saw it; Planet Battle…or something like that.”

Her only response was the whir of the blow drier.

“You haven’t been out of the house in a while; it’ll do you some good,” she tried again in an affectedly chipper manner.

“Of course, dear.”

“Well, it’s just that you have to start getting up and doing things again; you can’t spend all day sitting staring at the sun…it’s…uh, bad for your eyes.” Beth flitted around the bathroom, but her mind remained focused on that scar. She hated that scar. The white lines that snaked along his back looked like some sickly claw had grabbed hold of his body and refused to let go. Looking at it made her feel sick, and she hated herself for thinking it.

What was wrong with Ben? Maybe it was her? She looked at herself in the mirror. True, she didn’t look as good as she did when they first met. Her hips had widened and her belly was rounder than it used to be, but altogether she didn’t look bad. She sucked in her stomach and felt for the muscle which had been there in years past. It was still there, just a little more hidden. She didn’t look bad at all. That couldn’t be it, yet he hadn’t touched her in seven months. She had tried everything a woman growing up in the sexual revolution could think of, but he was never interested. His silence would overwhelm her, and she felt stifled by it.

“Ben. What happened?”

Ben’s silence shrunk, and she felt free to breathe again.

“Honey, I love you, but I can’t help you when I don’t know where you are. I hardly recognize you anymore. It’s not that we don’t talk anymore; it’s that you never talk. Not about the war, not about dinner, Hell, you never talk about anything! You used to talk passionately about how the Cubs need a new third base coach, or how the Bears will never make it into the post season because of such and such. I hate sports, Ben, but I’d give up Heaven itself to hear you talk about anything like that again.” Beth knew she couldn’t stop herself; she saw herself lurching inevitably forward. Tears began to flow from her eyes, not out of sadness, but from the sheer exertion of silencing the voices inside telling her to stop.

“Jordan wants his father back; I want you back,” she said as she moved her hand across her face to wipe the tears that were beginning to fall from her dark eyes. “Jordan asked me why you never kiss him goodnight anymore.” Her breath was coming in short staccato bursts. “He thinks he did something wrong. I told him that it wasn’t his fault, you still loved us, but you were just very sad right now. Ben did I lie to him…?”

Beth stood alone in the bedroom, Ben, who remained staring out the window, might as well have been a ghost.

Beth no longer saw her husband; she saw a procession of nights, increasing in frequency. Nights where he would placate her by lying in bed with his eyes closed for a few hours, then wandering downstairs when he thought she was asleep; nights where she would gently sob as the warmth of the empty bed cooled; the night when she found the pistol, dog tags, and kerosene lying on the coffee table.

“You’ll leave me,” said Ben. As he stood up and put on a white t-shirt, she watched the scar slither and flow over his pale skin.

Beth stopped short. That was the closest thing she had received to an answer in months, but her curiosity would not be so easily quenched.

“Honey, what happened to your back?” She was shocked to hear herself actually ask the question. She had avoided it ever since her loving fingers caressed it. As soon as her fingers touched the scar, Ben violently sat up and left the room. As he left, Beth could still see the scar as it hovered in the darkness like some kind of spectre.

“Answer me Damnit!” she wailed, shocked at her own violent insistence, “what happened to your back?!” Her voice was getting shrill, and the tears began to flow freely. She felt terrified that she might push away what little intimacy they had left.

“Ben, don’t you dare walk away from me!” she cried through her tears. “Please,” she whispered under her breath.

Ben stopped, and with a ferocity she had not seen since his football days, he plunged his fist into the door frame. The very air seemed to reverberate with the violence of the contact. He turned and looked at her; his eyes seemed like smoldering coals begging to be re-lit. Tears fell from his stubbly cheek like ash. Suddenly, Ben’s glance eased and lost its focus. His eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he collapsed on the floor.

Fitter, Happier, More Productive...

Radiohead shocked the music world when they released "In Rainbows" Wednesday (You can't release an album on Wednesday, you can only do that on Tuesdays! Radiohead, you are so rebelious!), allowing devoted fans to pay however much they wanted for the downloadable album. I admit, I had my doubts about the album.
"What if it's a big let down and I waste fifteen dollars?!" I would think.
"What if it's amazing and I didn't pay anything?!" I would correct.

I decided on paying five dollars because I desperately want a hard copy when it becomes available (sorry, didn't have forty quid to drop on the box set).

I downloaded it and listened to it on the way to school Thursday morning. I turned off my car, got out, took five steps toward the school, and stopped. I had the sudden feeling that I had just experianced something monumental, and it all sank in at once.

This possibly final album (read the lyrics to Videotape) caps off a career that should serve as an example to every artisan. Each song is perfectly paced, distributed, and executed throughout the entire album. Its one thing when an album is genius, it is another when the genius is so understated it almost feels offhand.

The album does not hit a flat note. Fitting somewhere between OK Computer and a Godspeed You! Black Emperor! album, to divide up the songs would do the album a disservice. It showcases a mellower, less antagonistic, more weary Radiohead, and I mean all of the above in the absolute, most complimentary way. The album's feel is the equivalent of the five or so minutes of wakefulness before you finally drift off to sleep; pleasant, thoughtful,melancholy, and content.

The ending song, Videotape, is taken from a Japanese film called After Life. When you die, you can choose one moment, THE moment, the moment where you were happiest, most fulfilled, etc. That moment is recorded on a videotape where you can watch it (and only that moment) for the rest of eternity. If this is Radiohead's final curtain, what a great memory to choose.

Coming this fall...

...if you live near a really big city, that is. This winter is going to be one of the best in years for film. Unfortunately, most of those films are limited release, and most of us (the viewing public) won't get an opportunity to see them until the DVD is released.

P.T. Anderson's "There Will be Blood," is already garnering comparisons to "Citizen Kane" in terms of brilliance. Added incentive, The composer for the soundtrack is Johnny Greenwood of Radiohead fame.

The Coen Bros. "No Country for Old Men," has been called "Perfect" by Roger Ebert. (eventually it will get a wide release, but it will take a few weeks)

"Atonement." From the guy who brought a surprisingly good rendition of the "done to death" Jane Austin novel, Pride and Prejudice, comes Atonement which is already garnering Oscar talk.

The brilliant, or brilliantly flawed (depending on who you talk to), "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, is also limited.

Wes Anderson's latest outing, "The Darjeeling Limited" is also limited release.

Tim Burton's "Sweeney Todd" will also test the waters rather than jump in full force.

"Grace is Gone," i.e. the film that will hopefully save John Cusack's career...also limited.

The highly anticipated festival favourite, "Wristcutters: a love story," will also be limited.

finally, Wong Kar Wai's first english language film, "My Blueberry Nights," does not have a US release date pinned down yet.

I suppose I can't complain, but I am going to anyway.

EDIT*

add Noah Baumbach's "Margot at the Wedding," and Sydney Lumet's "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead" to the list.

Bergman's Wisdom

People ask what are my intentions with my films — my aims. It is a difficult and dangerous question, and I usually give an evasive answer: I try to tell the truth about the human condition, the truth as I see it. This answer seems to satisfy everyone, but it is not quite correct. I prefer to describe what I would like my aim to be. There is an old story of how the cathedral of Chartres was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. Then thousands of people came from all points of the compass, like a giant procession of ants, and together they began to rebuild the cathedral on its old site. They worked until the building was completed — master builders, artists, labourers, clowns, noblemen, priests, burghers. But they all remained anonymous, and no one knows to this day who built the cathedral of Chartres.
Regardless of my own beliefs and my own doubts, which are unimportant in this connection, it is my opinion that art lost its basic creative drive the moment it was separated from worship. It severed an umbilical cord and now lives its own sterile life, generating and degenerating itself. In former days the artist remained unknown and his work was to the glory of God. He lived and died without being more or less important than other artisans; 'eternal values,' 'immortality' and 'masterpiece' were terms not applicable in his case. The ability to create was a gift. In such a world flourished invulnerable assurance and natural humility. Today the individual has become the highest form and the greatest bane of artistic creation.
The smallest wound or pain of the ego is examined under a microscope as if it were of eternal importance. The artist considers his isolation, his subjectivity, his individualism almost holy. Thus we finally gather in one large pen, where we stand and bleat about our loneliness without listening to each other and without realizing that we are smothering each other to death. The individualists stare into each other's eyes and yet deny the existence of each other.
We walk in circles, so limited by our own anxieties that we can no longer distinguish between true and false, between the gangster's whim and the purest ideal. Thus if I am asked what I would like the general purpose of my films to be, I would reply that I want to be one of the artists in the cathedral on the great plain. I want to make a dragon's head, an angel, a devil — or perhaps a saint — out of stone. It does not matter which; it is the sense of satisfaction that counts.
Regardless of whether I believe or not, whether I am a Christian or not, I would play my part in the collective building of the cathedral.

-Ingmar Bergman

Hotel Chevalier

Radiohead and Bergman

Two of my favourite things!

Radiohead just announced last night their new album, In Rainbow, is being released in nine, count them, nine days. True to form, Radiohead is not playing by the rules. Their album is only available for download from their website for however much you want to pay for it (that's right, if you want it for free, its free, if you want to pay fifty grand, you pay fifty grand). A physical copy will be released for eighty three dollars which includes the album on vinyl and cd, a bonus vinyl and cd, a book of art and photography, and a whole bunch of goodies. Way to surprise guys.

Finally bit the bullet and shelled out sixty clams for MGM's Bergman box set. I have seen most of the Criterion treatments of Bergman's films, but have not seen these. Should make for hours of depressing existential angst and overbearing bleakness. Hooray for Bergman!