review of the documentary "Act of Killing"

so this is a "documentary" or creative non-fiction film in which a director goes to indonesia to make a movie about the massive slaughter of indonesian communists in the mid-sixties but unsurprisingly discovers that people are little reluctant to discuss that subject matter and the government is none too thrilled with the topic either. what's a poor filmmaker to do? he discovers that the gangsters, who collaborated with the right wing government on this genocidal project, are actually quite glib & boastful about their exploits in the sixties, so he films them telling their stories about how they killed all these innocent people & films them making their own "documentary" about how they committed these war crimes, though as one of them qualifies, it's not war crimes if you win. needless to say, these reenactments bring up some difficult memories for the people who lived through those experiences and lost loved ones. the film is disturbing on all sorts of levels. apparently, telling it from the gangster's point of view was the only way they could get the film made at all & also avoid government censorship, and the gangsters are much more interested in showing off rather than giving an accurate, well-rounded view of the history. as i watched the various political rallies where the main gangster organization frequently spoke & shared the stage with government officials, i was struck by how much the style of their rhetoric (they liked to say that the word gangster originally meant "free men") resembled our own right wing politicians here in the united states. it's easy to make fun of these people but they are quite serious in their lust to acquire & maintain power and are unencumbered by any sense of empathy or ethics. i was also frequently struck by how frequently they mentioned watching hollywood movies and borrowing ideas for torture & murder from them, particularly the gangster genre, of course. i have to quibble with the cute gothy woman at movie madness who recommended the director's cut to me. i've had an ongoing issue about the length of movies. i am not at all opposed to long movies and do frequently watch them as the type of films i tend to gravitate toward, foreign films, documentaries, and the arty, creatively financed low budget indies, frequently indulge in extra long running time. however, i disagree with the storytelling impulse. i think movies have a better future in letting television do the episodic storytelling, which i think it's good at, and concentrating on the ability of the medium to create dream-like atmospheres. in a sense, they are trying, and in my opinion, failing too often to tell stories when they could be seducing us into strange dreams that hew to the compressive demands of the poem.  

what blossoms in the valley of death

tear burst bright 
the softest, most 
fragile thing you 
could possibly 
stumble upon 
in the closest 
approximation 
of hell we have- 

somehow, for 
some reason, 

blossoms
blossoms
blossoms

pictures courtesy of death valley national park



 http://www.nps.gov/deva/

review of the documentary La Camioneta

last saturday i finally watched a documentary i'd been waiting for almost a year to see called La Camioneta, which follows the journey & transformation of an american school bus that is auctioned to some guatemalans who transform them into colorfully majestic vehicles used for public transportation, including chickens. (chickens apparently ride in style down in latin america!) it's impressive what they do to these vehicles and makes me wonder why our own are so boring. i was struck by something one of the guys who drives the recently bought buses back to guatemala said, that he felt that if you mind your business in the states, people will pretty much leave you alone, but he knew once he crossed the border into mexico, anything can happen. the drivers talked about what they paid in extortion money to the various gangs and, in one scene, you see the bombed bus of a driver who refused to pay, who was murdered along with six passengers. i was reminded of something i've heard some people in portland say, that they long to live somewhere tougher, less politically correct, where people are willing to settle things by force. i grew up in a place like that (ironically, my neighbors were themselves latin americans fleeing repressive regimes, such as in chile) and spent my childhood constantly running from gangs & occasionally getting caught. civilization is such a thin barrier, and in some places in america, and for some people in particular, there is no protection. this documentary gives you glimpse of the daily anxiety these people live with just to make what is in some ways (but not all, not spiritually, and definitely not socially) a very meager living.

http://www.lacamionetafilm.com/

from page to glass & back

there is a spot on the window i cannot rub off. i grip my pen too hard and push its ink too deep, page needled with my failed attempts to think. outside, i watch two obedient dogs receive exactly two treats each. there is a single decrepit bike locked up at the last rack outside the yarn bombed rainbow. a young woman enters & exits wearing aquamarine shoes and i think that may be the only encounter i will have this winter with that color. and then the man from miami walks in & sits down at the other end of the counter, his outfit alternating purple with red. just as i think the street's deserted, it is not. i notice three young adults waiting at the bus stop, each holding a bright white to go cup as they board the white bus beneath the sky's stacks of pillowed clouds. sharp cold cuts the canvas hard, frisks the world down until its solid. not much roams in the breeze and not much is released by its breath except any warmth you might have been carrying. we always say breath taken, but why not swapped? a serious man suddenly appears, but i do not admit his gruff gaze. a young man wearing a mauve backpack ambles up the hill as a young woman in a long, leopard print coat walks past with her gesticulating boyfriend who carries a coal black guitar case slung on his back. head down, pushing my pen across the page, i can feel her curiosity caress me as i look up and exchange warm smiles through the cool glass. sometimes these windows keep us apart and sometimes they allow a gentle glimpse. it suddenly strikes me how strange it must seem to sit here summoning words by a window, allowing both the glass & the page to clasp my inner world with the rest.

skipping inside the sparkle

almost home after walking in the almost rain. stepped into the convenient glow of the corner store for some sweet cold cream. the young man behind the counter said hi as i was walked in, said hi to everyone who entered this normally frosty space. he was playing some peculiar music instead of the usual rap, pop, metal or nothing. i'm not ever there long enough for anything to bother me so i don't care much beyond the usual anthropological curiosity. i asked him what he was playing and he said it was the soundtrack to the artist, a contemporary silent film i've heard of but haven't seen. interesting, i think, but what the hell is he doing working there? i walk out and across the demure lot. the young woman in front of me inside is waiting for the light. she glances back and starts to cross, walking fast. there is a car waiting to turn left, pressing forward. i realize she's putting too much space between us,  tempting him to turn, so i walk faster to close the temptation. she glances nervously at me as i land on the other corner, her face is round & pale, her lips are small & red, her eyes small & sharp. it's only early evening but the dark is already deep. the street is wet and bright and busy with traffic. something about the way she looked at me, how eager she was for the light change. i pause when we get the walk sign, trying to be an angel, apparently looking like the devil. my glow misread, i continue home, skipping inside the sparkle. 

struck twice

older, unfashionably bearded, knit capped, trench coated. he set a black duffel bag on the counter and began to unzip. i squatted down to pick up something i dropped when i heard a weird ping of metal and something flew past my head and landed on the floor. it took a moment to process the experience & edit out the profanity before i went live with the exclamation, what was that? i saw something shiny & metallic on the floor, some sort of serrated metal pocket tool. i handed it to him, still confused about how that sharp piece of metal flew like a ninja star across the counter, almost hitting me in the face. he did not apologize. another older man at the next cash register who appeared to be his friend stared without expression and flatly stated:

it was a christmas present.
it was a christmas present.

i stood there, still stunned, feeling like i'd been struck twice.