ORIENTAL ELEGY (Sokurov 96): [4] / DOLCE (Sokurov 00): [5] / A HUMBLE LIFE (Sokurov 97): [3.5]

The lithe consistency of Alexandr Sokurov's filmography exerts a magnetic pull on me. From the opening of ORIENTAL ELEGY with its windy drafts and drifting fog, I feel immediately at home. Sokurov's searches for magic are a kind of poetry I've always hoped to find in cinema, because I think I knew instinctively that the medium was capable of this kind of mystical power. Tarkovsky and Ozu possessed a similar power, and Sokurov is as true a disciple of such singular artists as one could expect. He shares with Tarkovsky an interest in the atmospheric and the durational; with Ozu, a faith in the sometimes spiritual aspects of the mundane. It would be easy to describe ORIENTAL ELEGY as the closest intersection of those two styles, but despite its Japanese setting, this film shares quite little with Ozu's. Where Ozu cuts cleanly between images, Sokurov dissolves and layers his. Tarkovsky also tends towards discreteness in sequencing the images in his films, so Sokurov's insistent blending seems to be his own innovation. The blurred images and darkened corners of Sokurov's frames have an appealingly dream-like vagueness, though this is something he also seems to have developed on his own. So  while it's useful to examine Sokurov's antecedents, any appreciation of his incomparable films should acknowledge the bold new techniques he has made his own.

I have always been very attentive to sound, and so I feel a certain delight to watch the films of a filmmaker who obviously shares that sensibility. Sokurov liberally applies both orchestral and traditional music in ORIENTAL ELEGY to establish the tone of the film, trusting it to convey meaning in cooperation with his images. The lonely hum of a Japanese song weaves its way in and out of the film, and though it is never translated or given a visual source, it feels essential to the texture of Sokurov's world. The intensive use of natural sound helps in this regard as well, creating a diegesis that envelopes the people in Sokurov's films much as we are surrounded by sound in life. It's remarkable how natural this all feels when watching Sokurov's films, the knowledge of his extensive editing never disrupting the unique moods it produces.

Poetry in cinema, as in writing, is characterized by a careful balancing of craft and intuition. I've foregrounded Sokurov's craft to praise its distinctiveness, but I'd be remiss not to mention that his films are quite emotionally affecting as well. Sokurov has an innate sensitivity to mood that belies the traditional understanding of slow cinema's austerity. The length of his shots are meant to expand upon a feeling, not to deaden it. The shape-shifting perspectives and points of focus follow an intuitive logic that Sokurov seems to fully understand, though the results are always unpredictable.

It's difficult to guess how much of the film Sokurov visualizes in advance of making it, but whatever his process, each film gives the impression that he has discovered something he had not already expected to find. Something only cinema gives him the ability to perceive. In ORIENTAL ELEGY, Sokurov the man is looking for meaning in the experience of living. Well beyond the realm of everyday existence, he is free to travel across Japan and into heartfelt conversations with the people (spirits?) he finds there. He is a searcher, and so the film searches as well. It never settles, even as it halts for lengthy periods of time. And so Sokurov pushes onward through time and space, following a path he senses but cannot quite see. We follow him because we are searching too.

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DOLCE, the most impressive film I've seen in quite a while, misleads twice before getting to its true subject. First we see and hear Sokurov, as always pondering about the state of his soul. He begins to tell us of the life of Toshio Shimao, with voiceover narration overlaid upon images of Shimao's youth. We expect this film to be a biography of Shimao, as in Sokurov's previous (and excellent) DIALOGUES WITH SOLZHENITSYN. But, abruptly, Sokurov's narration informs us that Shimao passed away due to a stroke in 1986. Then the real story begins, that of his wife Miho. We'd followed Miho's story through the story of her husband's, but the narrative feint brings us closer in proximity to her than when she was merely partner to a renowned artist. It should be said that Sokurov is commendably adept at switching his focus between genders in all his films, that he has no fear of exploring the lives of women in addition to those of men. Miho begins her day, but as in many Sokurov films, this day will be spent exploring the deepest questions of self and soul.

Like ORIENTAL ELEGY before it, I am amazed at the emotional nakedness DOLCE draws from its Japanese subjects. Sokurov has always had a disarming talent for putting his participants at ease, freeing them to talk openly about the things that concern them most. This talent becomes all the more crucial in Sokurov's journey to Japan. Miho's remembrance of her immense grief after her mother's death is so overpowering that I was nearly unable to process it as it was happening. I couldn't believe such intense emotion was being offered willingly to a filmmaker, much less a foreign one. I don't want to overstate the national specificity of this particular situation, since I have after all noticed the uncommon openness of Sokurov's subjects before DOLCE. I can only marvel at what Sokurov has consistently managed to share with me in his travels. I have no question now that he is a consummate filmmaker, operating at the highest levels of his discipline. It's one thing to have an eye for filming landscapes and inanimate objects, and quite another entirely to coexist so genuinely with other human beings that they will open themselves fully to you and your camera. In terms of emotional truth captured by documentary form, DOLCE is among the best I've ever seen.

Remarkably, this isn't even the primary focal point of the film. With great difficulty, Miho's life continues on after her mother's death. She will go on to share with us her father's own immeasurable sadness. She recalls the decency and humanity of her parents, wondering how two people could be so unerringly good. She tells of her father's realization that his life had changed forever after his wife's passing, a transformation that compels him to banish Miho to Kobe. With great love and steely firmness, he warns her he will commit seppuku if she does not follow his wishes. Miho has no choice but to obey. The gravity of this moment in Miho's life contrasts her own gently distressed acceptance of fate, which she sees at work in many such difficult times. In the final segment of this triptych of filial pain and devotion, we are at last introduced to Miho's daughter, Maya, whose physiological development halted in her youth. She is mute, but she understands and can respond to Miho's tender proclamations of love and affection. Miho hugs her daughter and retreats to a private room of her own for spiritual comfort.

It is here, most plainly, that we can see the core of Sokurov's film. Miho, interestingly, is Catholic, though her altar has room for Japanese spiritual iconography as well. Miho prays and speaks again to the pain she has endured. In the prologue outlining her husband's life, we learned that Miho suffered bouts of madness after uncovering her husband's infidelities. Though he went so far as to live with Miho in her asylum ward, her own breach in sanity seems to have precipitated his, as well as the impairment of Maya. The story of this family is full of hurt and strife, but against all odds, Miho has carried on. Even she doesn't seem to understand how, as she remarks in this room of worship. It may appear that the worst is over, but it's apparent that Miho has not forgotten these many heartbreaks. She moves with air of someone who has endured great suffering, smiling rarely but sincerely, crestfallen but determined to continue living. In the face of such ongoing hardship, Miho's spirituality is the only way she can confront such devastating emotions and survive. The hugeness of faith gives space for these confrontations and offers solace after her trials and tribulations. A final brief encounter between curious Maya and mournful Miho informs us that Miho truly does find joy in caring for her daughter. Sokurov ends his film with Miho peacefully watching the hypnotic falling of rain outside her window. After traveling with Miho through the hardest times of her life, we fully appreciate this moment of peace.

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I found A HUMBLE LIFE to be (comparatively) the least exciting of the three films on this disc, although a pivot late in the film suggests perhaps I'd been underestimating it all along. Sokurov's subject, Hiroko, kneels upon a tatami mat and reads from a book of her poetry. Where before an hour of the film had passed observing Hiroko in almost total silence, now we are witnessing an interiority no longer locked away. And unsurprisingly, the elderly Hiroko reveals a life lived in fullness. Amidst lovely lines of observational poetry, she expresses undying "pain and bitterness" over a husband who had died a decade ago, as well as heartache for a married daughter who does not feel for her mother as her mother clearly feels for her. Hiroko graciously shares these ongoing disappointments as a gift to Sokurov before he leaves (with little probability of returning, according to him). Just as quietly as she brought out this vital record of her life, she closes it, stands up, and walks away.

It's unclear how Sokurov and Hiroko know one another. Sokurov's elliptical cinema frequently hides such expositions from us, and we are left to infer the nature of their relationship from what we are given onscreen. Sokurov addresses Hiroko quite warmly in his opening narration, but Hiroko remains impassive and inscrutable as she gains prominence in the film. A day spent sewing kimonos, greeting visiting monks, and eating food in her remote mountain house passes mostly without speaking. I suspect this is a comment on the solitude of her usual existence, without Sokurov or his camera as companions. To return to the Ozu reference from before, this film is the one most reminiscent of Ozu, if in aim more than execution. Sokurov's camera roams and varies its distance from Hiroko with a freedom Ozu disavowed in his mature period, and there are impressionistic touches one can't imagine Ozu allowing himself. A pan from Hiroko's head to her toes ends, mysteriously, with an image of drifting fog layered over Hiroko's feet. Ozu could never be mistaken for an invisible auteur, but his patterns and restraint induce a calmness even as he plays subtly with film grammar. Sokurov makes his presence obvious with these wistful authorial touches, imbuing Hiroko and her house with a certain mysticism.

As in ORIENTAL ELEGY and DOLCE, Sokurov repeats the spoken Japanese of his subjects in Russian. This seemed jarring initially, but I soon found it to be a pleasantly personal touch. Sokurov's odd style of mixing immersion and disruption allows for such intrusions. The effect comes to feel as if Sokurov is translating their words in his own head as he listens. Most documentaries attempt to marginalize their film crew in order to allow the illusion of unmanipulated access. By translating the words of his participants, Sokurov implicitly admits that they are speaking so that he may listen. This strategy is especially pertinent in the case of DOLCE, where it's clear that Miho would not be vocalizing her remembrances so eloquently if Sokurov were not with her. Sokurov does not feign objectivity, but instead inserts a minimal subjectivity to clarify his relationship with the participants. The complication it adds to our understanding of the subjects is little more complex than admitting that all people everywhere are affected by their interactions with others. Sokurov's style of documentary abandons the pretense of total objectivity in order to pursue such artistic and personal illustrations. In many ways, this is more truthful than the guise of disinterested observer.

On a closing note: I'm fairly sure A HUMBLE LIFE reused a shot previously used in ORIENTAL ELEGY, of a moth fluttering against a window. This seems like a strange choice, since it seems to be the only such recycled shot. It certainly ruptures the implicit sanctity of a documentary, in which every image is assumed to have been captured for only one story. I am not bothered, only curious why Sokurov found this shot so meaningful as to include in two fairly different films (albeit with a different sound effect each time, furthering shattering the autonomy of the shot). He is a mystifying artist indeed.

THE SIXTH SIDE OF THE PENTAGON (Marker/Reichenbach 67): [4] / THE EMBASSY (Marker 73): [4]

Unfinished

This post will be structured by the release of the Icarus Films DVD package of the short films named above. I don't want to trivialize these films, which add up to a brief but revelatory 47 minutes combined, as sovereign works of art, but I find it important to acknowledge the way in which they were viewed. Icarus Films appears quite proud to have released these and other Chris Marker films, and I appreciate their enthusiasm for such an important artist. It's no news that many film auteurs are under-represented in the realm of home viewing, but it seems particularly unfortunate that Marker's collected works are so difficult to come by (and not just because the democratization of film availability seems perfectly suited to Marker's democratic cinema). Marker's films could be labelled "challenging" in that they do not rely on historically familiar filmic structures to elicit viewer response. Leave behind those conditioned responses, though, and most will find that their intuitive leaps of fancy can be followed by honest interaction with the films' guiding intelligence(s). The Criterion Collection's landmark release of SANS SOLEIL / LA JETÉE set the standard for widespread Marker film availability, and indeed these two fan favorites are among Marker's most stunning achievements. But with Criterion's valuable attention directed elsewhere for the moment, it's fallen on Icarus Films to handle the remaining and lesser-known filmography. That filmography's slow but ongoing penetration into the outer world is a cause for celebration, and in this sense it feels symbolically significant that a cinephile in southeastern Pennsylvania was able to view them so easily. I don't know how Marker's films will be seen in a more technologically advanced future, but while DVDs and distribution companies remain important factors in the availability of marginalized cinema, it feels worthwhile to make a note of my own good fortune in being able to see these films at all.

THE EMBASSY, made by Marker in 1973, is a rueful commentary on Chile's recent political catastrophe. Six short years after the comparatively optimistic THE SIXTH SIDE OF THE PENTAGON, Marker seems all too aware that the global left was under vicious attack. It was no longer enough to patiently observe as the left worked out its own contradictions. As such, THE EMBASSY takes as its subject the aftermath of a political coup. Refugees gather and take shelter, and a voiceover haltingly informs us of the rapes and executions occurring outside the sanctuary. We learn the names and brief histories of the embassy's inhabitants. They have arrived as exiles fleeing a rising fascism, but this fragile community is soon disrupted by differences in political opinion.

Intriguingly, this is not a documentary. Marker has instead fictionalized what perhaps was beyond his scope of understanding. While Patricio Guzman and company meticulously documented the fall of Chile under Marker's sponsorship, Marker himself took the specificity of Chile's disaster and used fiction to diagnose a pernicious leftist failure. By taking for granted the triumph of fascism, by now less a political bogeyman than a real consequence of reactionary reprisal, Marker looks backward instead of forward for answers. How could fascism seize a country so decisively when politics were thought to have moved beyond its near-primitive brute force? For Chile there are real answers based in its unique situation, but in the abstract political ruin depicted in THE EMBASSY, we see a left unable to control its warring impulses even as atrocities occur outside its very windows. If this is our left, Marker seems to be saying, what were we to expect?

As ever, Marker's eye for film form is sharp and discerning. Even with no diegetic sound and an affectless narrator, the constructed nature of this fiction soon assumes a life of its own. The actors exist comfortably in their shared space, and the imposition of commentary begins to convey an interiority to their actions. As the situation worsens, the dynamic between the actors registers as credibly similar to that of real world leftists. Acquarello aptly points out that Marker is drawing a parallel here between the May '68 student riots and the leftist failure THE EMBASSY fictionalizes. This is the unique power of Marker's film. By creating associations between two historical events with fictional connective tissue, we can see the problems of the past reappearing in the present. Though I have not yet seen it, I understand that Lizzie Borden's BORN IN FLAMES attempts this style of fictionalized documentary to explore political conflict (Acquarello cites Peter Watkins as another maker of "docufiction" in this vein). BORN IN FLAMES also concerns the struggle of leftist organizing after a coup, though in that film the coup is a socialist-feminist one rather than fascist. This type of docufiction strikes me as an effective means of interrogating leftism's ability to respond to the challenges it's meant to address. Since leftism is often a reaction against existing conditions, fiction serves equally well as an arena in which leftism can be put to the test.

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THE SIXTH SIDE OF THE PENTAGON is a title worthy of Marker's irreverent intelligence. As a Zen proverb informs us shortly after a rapid succession of credits, the best way to attack an impenetrable pentagon is to target its sixth side. In this case, it is the metonymic US Department of Defense Pentagon to which the film refers. Here we have a riddle that, like many others Marker introduces across his filmography, seems to promise answers while simultaneously occluding them. The association is drawn, so now what? In the next 26 minutes, we will see plenty of anti-war attempts to infiltrate the Pentagon, both metaphorically and literally. By this opening criterion, have they been successful? Are Marker and Reichenbach (his co-director) even expecting success? Judging by the prominence given to the 15-year-old girl who claims it was she herself who had changed in the course of the Pentagon demonstrations, this may be the most we can reasonably expect in the face of such stern opposition. Does that make us the sixth side?

I would be inclined to say so, but my own interpretation runs up against the film's somewhat dispassionate presentation of the protesters. Marker and Reichenbach have no problem filming too close for master shots, cutting off speeches midway, or even laying non-diegetical narration over the students speaking directly to the camera. No person rises to the forefront of the movement, and even big name attendees such as Peter, Paul, and Mary appear only briefly. This seems in keeping with the ideology behind such pointedly collective demonstrations. It's also unlikely that any one soundbite or participant could clarify the situation any more than what we and the directors already know. No one perspective can truly claim ownership, after all. How, then, to reconcile the poetic conclusion which posits us, not the literal or symbolic Pentagon, as the ones who will change through political action?

The interior lives of the participants, at least in this film, remain a mystery to us. But Marker and Reichenbach achieve an effect reminiscent of another documentary I adore, the Maysles' GIMME SHELTER. Both that film and this one seem to give full voice to the ideas behind Direct Cinema. The affective strangeness and non-authoritative perspectives of these two films communicate something I might precariously label as the "energy" behind social movements. Not to be mistaken with whatever a zeitgeist might be, the energy behind social phenomena is less sociological than experiential. We can exhaustively compile the intersecting chronologies that lead up to an event, but cinema is uniquely suited to capture, without troublesome claims of omniscience, each second as it passes in the midst of an event. The camera simply records, even as its presence and the presence of its operators cause ripples in the ontology of a given space.

If there's a cultural or historical reason for the Pentagon demonstrations taking place, Marker and Reichenbach have not explained it to us in this film. It is enough to simply watch, sometimes from privileged spectatorial positions and sometimes amidst roiling crowds, what happens on this day in history. In fact, our own viewership mirrors that of the protesters'. If the protesters are changed through the act of witnessing, are we not also witnessing and, therefore, also changing? If simply showing up is enough to produce change in a person, then it follows that we, by "showing up" to this capturing of the Pentagon demonstrations, might end up changing as well. It may be a mediated experience, but if cinema is to exist at all, we as viewers are required to have a certain faith in the belief that even a secondhand act of witnessing can lead to such change. Marker and Reichenbach seem to have a double confidence in that faith: first in the idea that the protesters will experience a change; and, second, in the idea that cinema can meaningfully impart to us the event as it was experienced by its participants so many decades ago. We are free to believe or disbelieve as we choose. And more than most, Marker makes me want to believe.

ATLANTIC CITY (Malle 80): [4]

Less a lion than shambling tomcat in winter, Burt Lancaster delivers to us in ATLANTIC CITY a truth no less ugly for its familiarity: aging makes fools of us all. It would be wrong to attribute this film's expansive knowingness solely to Lancaster's unsettling creation, but there's an especially sharp eye trained on the deteriorating human body in this late Malle film, and I'm not sure who we should thank for that. Certainly we can assume the ruptured grace of Lou, Lancaster’s character, drew on that slow horror of seeing one’s beauty siphoned off into celluloid yesteryears. After all, who other than an actor has so many opportunities to watch and measure the incremental creepings of mortality? Malle, who would go on to direct another seven films, nevertheless must also have been noticing the shadows of death creeping in. I suspect a wordless connection between these two ageing artists, who knew all too well that a nude lemon wash in a hotel window would draw the worst out of any crumpled would-be alpha male.

And it's significant that Malle begins his film this way, because there's only the barest erotic pull to this act of voyeurism. Sally (Susan Sarandon) looks the image of youthful beauty, but her softly lit body is refracted by the lusting, impotent stare of Lou. The male gaze is made pathetic, capable of seizing onto its favored sex objects but separated from them by age and distance. It's only memory of past patriarchal power that even allows Lou such a transgression anymore. Ownership of the female body is fantasy now, despite their neighborly proximity. There's nothing left to see here. And though Lou will go on to assert his virility in increasingly desperate ways, this is not the drama Malle intends us to follow. Early on, the sight of the collapsing Traymore Hotel clues us in to the fate of Lou's self-willed resurrection. Atlantic City — and ATLANTIC CITY — has no time for the past, not when there's money to be made in the future (a process I’ve witnessed myself, having serendipitously made a romantic trip there myself only a few days ago). Time and capital sweep our dreams briskly aside.

As the verdict solidifies on our annual state of the Woodman address, ATLANTIC CITY seems all the more unlikely for denying us the comforts of silver fox mythology. The film even pretends at first there may be redemption for Lou in contrasting him against the craven Dave Matthews (Robert Joy). Lou's tales of the old days, not yet revealed as falsehoods, have all the glamour of movie star gangsterism. We also metatextually expect a certain amount of mystique from the great Burt Lancaster, exuding charisma even before his plot strand comes to dominate the narrative. This all changes, however, when the loose partnership ends in Dave's murder. Lou can no longer revel in being the surrogate father to the new kid on the block, and so he picks up the reins of their dummy drug business and gains the confidence to begin seducing Sally. His eventual success should be titillating, but instead it ends up further embarrassing a deluded man too lonely to admit his own irrelevance. Brief flickers of attraction between Lou and Sally cannot undo the fundamental mismatch between them. Perhaps the most telling moment comes before Lou has fully conquered Sally, when another peeping Tom session leads him to act out his lust upon an equally aged and pathetic hotel occupant.

ATLANTIC CITY may understand well the power plays of masculinity, but it does not ignore its female characters to shed unflattering light on the male ones. Indeed, Malle locates his tragedy in what becomes of the women these men pick up and let go. Grace, Lou's benefactor and occasional partner, clings to the fantasy of her bygone glory days. She invests so much meaning in being the trophy wife of another slain gangster that the squalor of her current life seems barely to register. Similarly, Chrissie seems oblivious to the betrayal enacted upon her sister by Dave, so caught up is she in a New Age dream that Dave entertained only until something better came along. For all her high-minded spirituality, she cannot escape the single motherhood to which Dave's death condemns her. Sally seems the most well-equipped to move redefine her circumstances, escaping from Canada and Dave's jilting with the dream of becoming a Monte Carlo blackjack dealer. But just as Dave was once able to seduce her with promises of love and a better life, Lou comes along and reenacts the same destructive dynamic.

If the people in this film are crushed by the weight of their pasts, capitalism, in contrast, marches unreflectively onward around them. Blessedly freed of consciousness, it is free to move toward the glory of a promising future without doubt or nagging memory. Malle allows this subtext to surface organically by surveying the entropic environment his drama inhabits. Billboards, crumbling hotels, and roving machinery seem to be characters just as much as the people they exist alongside. The elevated garage where Dave is murdered by the gangsters he conned continues its cyclical motion, consigning him to irrelevance in the face of economics both criminal and legitimate. Even the city's grand old hotels are shown little mercy, they stand only as obstacles to future profit, irrespective of the histories they contain. Their onscreen demolition bluntly confronts us with our own impermanence.

Odd, then, that Malle's film feels so warm. With such an abundance of human misery, painted onto an equally unpleasant canvas, you’d think this a thoroughly dour film. But by the time Lou and Grace sell the last of their illegitimate fortune and exit their longtime home together, even that insistent wrecking ball at work on the hotel behind them doesn't cast quite the shadow you'd expect. Sally exits the film driving away from it all, in thrall to a radio program about French wine. Her life's sadness is the most unfair after all she's done to escape it, but Malle doesn't deny her the possibility of happiness  that she has been denied her until now. Even Chrissie comes off more endearingly beleaguered than a truly lost soul. If life ahead for her will be torturous, we have no indication of that in this film's diegesis. There's a tenderness to Malle's depiction of his characters which prevents his film's weighty themes from outright smothering them. Lou, our avatar of shameful old age, may be the least redeemable of this cast of lost dreamers, but the amount of time we spend with him at least lets us know he's afraid, not malevolent. His mistakes are the mistakes of someone who doesn't know how he’s supposed to start disappearing. Masculinity's bravado serves him no better than the women around him are by femininity’s enforced submissiveness. Age knows no gender binary. If our fate is to slip away from life as capitalism's machinery obstinately endures, better to do it by meeting our fellow humans on an equal plane without artificial divisions.

SPECIAL POST: Video Games, Part II

I do believe there's a vacuum for meaningful success in America, because most American success comes with unwanted drawbacks nobody warns you about (again, maybe we're better attuned to those drawbacks as a culture because of how frequently we hear stories of "the dark side of success"?) [+ whether the success might be worth the drawbacks is something comparatively under-analyzed, not to mention fairly unpredictable on an individual basis]. So what we find ourselves with is a growing number of young people smart enough to see through the uncritical cultural vision of the American Dream while simultaneously craving the sense of fulfillment it offers while also fearing the attendant difficulties that might take the place of the historically unprecedented comfort of modern living they enjoy. They want the safety of now, the success of someday, and the consequences of neither. So it's not difficult to see why many have forsaken the idea of socially approved success, but it's a little harder to understand how video games, of all things, have come to fill that hole. I'm not very interested in talking about video games as a medium. It's the cultural function they serve that I find myself thinking about a lot.

There's an article by Stephanie Coontz that I don't know if I can find that talks about (among other things) the standardization of teenage experience in America. Teenagers have slowly been corralled up and marketized as a demographic. Forever the outsiders in a world sharply delineated between Child and Adult/Man and Woman/Black and White/Gay and Straight, the emergence of the concept of adolescence has brought with it an anxiety over what exactly to do with teenagers. We want to shape their indeterminate identities, but we're weirdly incapable of offering ways to do so beyond giving them market power to do it themselves. From an entertainment and marketing point of view, this obviously includes the hugely profitable PG-13 superhero movies and YA fiction and other usual suspects. Less obviously it involves the erosion of public lives they once had access to, creating a nostalgia for youthful wanderlust you can glimpse in movies like ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA (aptly titled!) and in books like Stuart Dybek's Coasts of Chicago. Where neighborhoods were once a vast playground to meet all kinds of new people, now shopping malls are the domain of the teenager and their pre-selected friends. Public parks no longer hold much intrinsic interest in the age of consumer media, particularly toward those less athletically inclined in the first place. The world has indeed shrunk, but more importantly, it seems to have also withered away. The escapism of video games, then, is a compelling force upon teenagers in need of excitement (I'd also wager that the emergence of party culture is more due to enticingly easy access to drugs + alcohol rather than any inherently criminal teenage nature).

There are a number of broader sociological factors that have furthered this process of atomization and social disintegration. Class boundaries have solidified (suburbs vs. inner city vs. housing projects), racial boundaries remain mostly untouched, and gender essentialism keeps kids everywhere constantly seeking to boost their masculine/feminine credentials. The shift from an industrial economy to a service-based economy, as Coontz detailed in her article somewhere, left young people without any real opportunity for upward mobility in entry level positions. Years of work at an automobile factory gave you skills and prestige, whereas the entry level positions specially created for teenagers now are cashier, retail service provider, and supermarket worker. I'll go ahead and throw in my own experience here: it's depressing as hell seeing the same few demographically similar faces all the time and knowing that there are only minimum wage time-killing jobs available to you. And it occurs to me now that this is probably an unacknowledged motivator behind increasing college enrollment, the desire to just get away from the dead-end world of adolescence. Unfortunately, the proliferation of college attendees doesn't seem to have led to a population of happy, satisfied adults. For now I'll chalk that up to still living inside a patriarchal white supremacist society under the dictates of late capitalism and Big Finance, and maybe I'll take a closer look at that situation later when I understand it better myself.

As for video games qua video games, what is there left to say? Surely this culture war is mostly over by now. For all my disdain for television, video games are indisputably the more repulsive medium. Sporadic cases of innovation suffocate under the hegemony of interchangeable first-person shooters and role-playing games. The hero's journey seems to be the only journey, unless puzzle games are more your style. Even as someone who enjoys postmodern culture slumming, for me there's something too flatly repellent about video games. That you're meant to spend days working through them to extract marginal enjoyment out of them doesn't help. People sometimes ask me how I can watch so many movies, and I do find myself having to acknowledge that you need a special tolerance for medium-specific mediocrity to obsessively explore a medium. Pick your own poison and all. I can watch disposable blockbusters all day in the hopes of catching something subversive or aesthetically interesting, but I can almost feel my soul crumbling as I play a video game. From ages 8-16, give or take, I was immune to the depressive monotony of gaming. Until one day I suddenly wasn't. At the time it was quite a disappointment, but now I feel glad that it gave me the chance to really explore high art and human relationships. I haven't hardly looked back.

Except I suppose I have. I've been shaped by the unspeakable aloneness of the Metroid series' alien planets, so comforting for an introverted child whose peopled world never truly registered as real. I wistfully remember playing Super Smash Brothers Melee with my little sister years ago, us giggling at the absurd character model contortions, the childish meta-rules for gameplay we created together. Today I played Mario Party 5 with my two little stepsisters, and the gleeful attentiveness to our game's competitive dynamics was a welcome reminder that it is possible to enjoy a video game. What allows me to participate in that game with them, despite totally shunning the lone gamer experience, is the unresolvable tension between the playfulness of young minds and the linearity of many video games. Without our chaotic switching of paper-thin allegiances, the dismay and the relief of shifting in-game ranks, the little humiliations and big commiserations, the game would not held our attention. Here we have the fine tradition of repurposing mass media garbage for personal and social purposes. My own nostalgia for the comforts of a lonely electronic childhood provides enough of a bridge for me to connect with this next generation, who get their fix of numbing busyness through their smartphones instead of consoles. Hyper-capitalism is our unreality, so we do our best to be receptive to what goes on inside us with the dubious help of its detritus. We are united in our uncertain engagement with the weird world around us.

And I asked myself months ago, as I lounged to TOKiMONSTA's track "Sweet Williams" while my littlest stepsister sat next to me playing Puzzles & Dragons on some device or other: is there even more to life than this? Isn't it enough that we peaceably inhabit the same room and pursue our own interests freely? Why should I be expecting every moment to be a stepping stone on the way to existential purpose, hers or mine? My experience of our time together was untainted by the presence of a trashy video game, just as my distant memories of video game love have little to do with the actual games I was playing. I look back on my childhood and wish I'd had the confidence to explore the world around me, but I'm not even so different these days, I still tuck away into corners with my obsessions of choice. Art films and novels have replaced video games and sci-fi programmers, but I don't feel any more at ease with life as it's lived. The world's still mostly baffling to me, and I can't imagine it makes much more sense to anyone else, least of all children. Increasingly since gaining stepsiblings, I wish video games weren't preying on children with clipped wings. And at the same time I mourn my own bygone youth, too hemmed in by invisible-but-deeply-felt pressures to freely enjoy much of anything beyond endless Pokemon expeditions. Those constraints still exist. They still affect me, even as I myself have changed. If children today seem ensnared by games that have evolved to be ever more immersive, addictive, and narcotizing, remember that video games are the symptom, not the cause. The cause is whatever robbed us of our public lives as children and people. The cause is a world that doesn't want anything from us except our various forms of capital. The cause is the privatization of free space, social engagement, personal happiness. So forget video games. They're just one of too many distractions. Look for what caused them, what created them. And I don't mean Shigeru Miyamoto. I mean whatever took an inquisitive child like him and funneled his youthful enthusiasm into content creation. Any guesses what that might be?

NO DIRECTION HOME (Scorsese 05): [3]

Since this post is about to cover NO DIRECTION HOME, I feel amused to point out that there was never a whole lot of reason for me to watch this film. I first mentioned it to my dad, who'd seen through e-mail that I was getting it shipped to me. I floated the idea of watching it with him, which would have been nice but he didn't bite, since Bob Dylan was a bit before his time and not really his style. What's my dad's style? I'm not sure what it would be called, but after watching this documentary and learning a bit about where Bob came from musically, it seems that the folk thing is not my dad's style. Which makes sense now, because he was always a big fan of Rush and I guess Kiss (KISS?) too. Folk seems too mild-mannered and stripped down in comparison to the bombast of those old favorites of his. Even though he does like Cat Stevens quite a bit. Anyhow we ended up watching together, variously: HEAT, THE GODFATHER: PART II, WHEN HARRY MET SALLY, ABOUT LAST NIGHT, WAR OF THE WORLDS, and INDIANA JONES AND THE LAST CRUSADE. We certainly had a dad day, so I don't feel that I missed much by not watching this one with him.

So again then, if I don't have a dad who cares about Bob Dylan and I sure don't know much about him either, what other than dogged completism would get me to watch a documentary like this? I'll re-up on Scorsese here for a moment: WOLF OF WALL STREET is a supreme and troubling work of American art. I watched it first as farce, alone in a theater except for two teenagers who seemed only to have come for McConaughey's chest-thumping, and then as something pretty near to a tragedy the second time. Does Marx have any words for that? Well, whatever Scorsese did to deepen his demented comedy (and it is, first and foremost, a comedy!) into something primal and horrific, it worked, and so I remain a fan. In the pantheon of safely canonized white male auteurs, Scorsese consistently surprises and innovates (big fan of HUGO too!), he has the way of a true artist about him in his eclecticism and assured experiments. NO DIRECTION HOME won't tell you much about that wily intelligence but it will tell you a lot about Bob Dylan, for which I suppose we should give Scorsese credit as an artist. Documentaries don't just build themselves, after all.

I'll confess to coming really close to disengaging right away, because hearing Dylan singing what I now know to be Like a Rolling Stone at the beginning was disorienting to me. His voice and vocal style seemed like a sharp dive over the edge of emotive rock singing, which at this point I still assumed was what Bob Dylan does. But then we take a look at Dylan's tiny childhood, and tiny is certainly the appropriate word in relation to the outsized mythical American titan Dylan grew up to become. You listen to him recount his days as a kid on the outskirts of small town America and watch the corresponding images and wonder where exactly does artistic ability come from? What on earth was there that could have created a mystic folk singer out of Robert Zimmerman? I can only conclude that Dylan's talents resided in him, ineffably, from the start. This will forever be a mystery to me, in the sense that there can be no true answer to what exactly separates artists from their peers. That there is a difference is indisputable. We can only look back in awe as unpromising beginnings lead to a great future. The elder Dylan flatly recounts his inspirations and influences, and then as we begin to get our first recorded images of the young Dylan in motion, a synchronicity emerges through what seems to be a lifetime of oddball charisma viewed, with hindsight, at opposite poles of the human lifespan. A unified Dylan eternally revealing himself throughout the ages. Which is to say that Dylan just is, and always has been. The present day interviews show him to be a bit less prickly than he was in his youth, but it still seems monumentally hard for Scorsese and co. to draw any substantial introspection out of him. He cooperates, but with a bare minimum of affect. I'M NOT THERE didn't leave much of an impact on me when I watched it a few years ago, but I certainly can see the rationale behind Todd Haynes' postmodern fragmentation when getting the actual man in a room with you doesn't tell you much more than his songs do. 

And that's what everyone wants, it seems. And now would be a good time to say that my most direct engagement with this film was as a predictor of the Tricky dilemma three decades later. I can't say I have any kind of ear for classic rock, which I know wasn't what Dylan really was but you know what I mean, and though I did go on to find myself fairly engaged by Dylan's singing, my heart ultimately belongs to Tricky and his own musical styles (though I now think, thanks to this documentary, that Dylan and Pete Seeger would be a good primer to mid-century folk if I end up developing an interest in it years later). I've been developing thoughts lately on what social subjugation does to the way artists express themselves, and Dylan ended up serving as the negative image of what I'm coming to see in marginal art. People who grow up unsure of themselves and their place in their world are much more sensitive to failure and disapproval and misunderstanding, which we can surmise leads to many potential female/black/LGBT/mentally ill/poor artists never even becoming artists in the first place. It also creates unique reactions in socially marginal people who do become artists (Dave Chappelle, Lil Kim, Azealia Banks) as they find themselves facing an uncomprehending outside world. Despite being noticeably sensitive to the world around him, Dylan presents as basically unflappable. In the film there are a number of Dylan's very transparent emotional reactions to the general weirdness of people that I found pretty striking, but every time you think you've got him nailed to the floor, he seems to just completely reassemble and become a different Bob Dylan. His fragmented identity seems adaptively resistant to the trappings of fame (though in Dylan's case it comes from a position of social power rather than subordination). NO DIRECTION HOME touches on this several times but really I think I'M NOT THERE does a better job of trying to cinematically visualize the multiple Dylans, since that was its explicit focus after all. NO DIRECTION HOME is an attempt to document these shifts as they happened inside the historical Dylan, and the archival access Scorsese had does a pretty fair job of retroactively smoothing out what must have seemed inexplicable in the moment. Listening to the people who knew him, it seems the meta-narrative of Dylan the shapeshifter helped everyone look back and at least understand Dylan's constant slithering out of reach, if not quite accept it. I ended up feeling pretty bad for Joan Baez especially, who seemed to want nothing more than the Dylan behind the public charade and ended up iced out by his chilly evasion.

Dylan's preternatural coolness definitely reaches its most unfortunate iteration in hearing Baez recount her hurt feelings upon being ignored by him, but this shambling independence is something I think Dylan was socially enabled to do. Contrast Mavis Staples' impassioned account of her father's social marginality due to blackness and Dylan's respectful but somewhat glib nods to the earlier blues which shaped his music, and you start to get an idea of how Dylan seemed to just drift into national popularity without serious setbacks. With socially dominant confidence (/indifference?) comes the freedom to do whatever you want, and Bob Dylan certainly has always done whatever he wanted. Navigating the frenzy of national attention catches many gifted artists off guard, unless they can shrug it off as ably as Dylan. There's, of course, no doubt Dylan really believed in his music, but this film seems to suggest that it was his very belief that brought him such widespread admiration in the first place. He willed his soul into the world and found an audience looking for exactly such a gesture. That's all very flattering/inspiring/affirming if you buy into the cherished folk belief that people just want real authentic music played by real authentic musicians man, but Dylan's ease in transitioning from acoustic folk to LOUDD rock n' roll suggests that he bought that story less than most. Not to mention his own bemusement at the series of lucky breaks that guided him through his early years. You can see the specter of rockism animating the confused but disapproving reactions of fans and musicians alike as Dylan went electric (sample dialogue: "fake," "hypocrite," "sell-out," "commercial"), a sign that this phenomenon was as ideological as it was personal for many fans. Dylan's dismissal of the assumptions behind genre led to his shrugging disavowal of folk's purity, which for all the anger it provoked might as well have been an infidelity to a lover. Music superfans have a conservative clannishness to them, and the walls that everyone erected around Dylan seemed only to further tempt him into knocking them over. There is an element of self-made man mythology to Dylan's defiant career path, even as his natural humility reads more as understandable discomfort than pointed rage against the fame machine.

I can't help but think, then, how easy Dylan had it, in that he did not have any of the social status confusions that Tricky did when he become famous. I see now that Dylan really was one of a kind, and that the failure to understand him was almost inevitable when journalists could seem only to ask him questions such as "Do you prefer songs with an obvious message or a subtle one?" So I respect Scorsese's more or less authoritative account of Dylan's rise to superstardom and his gradual recession from it. I do wonder what we're supposed to do now that we know there are some people who are just mysteries. Tricky is a mystery to me still after two years of love and devotion, and he's only an artist I like. The people I see day to day are mysteries to me too, and I actually have to talk to them! So now that we're pretty sure we know who Bob Dylan isn't, what about who he is? And what about who Tricky is? If we can't rely on them to tell us, what are we supposed to do when faced with them? I'll beat the drum for Tricky all my life, but it's hard to see someone clearly when they don't even see themselves clearly. I imagine Scorsese enjoyed untangling the myth of Dylan in sturdy (though rather lifeless) documentary form, but Dylan doesn't seem to have any idea of what makes him tick anymore than we do. It's futile to think I can listen to a discography, even one as extensive as Dylan's, and see into someone like him. We make this mistake with our great artists over and over again, even the ones who aren't as unknowable as Bob Dylan and Tricky. Recognizing the ardor and artistry in art only tells us everything about the people who made it. Assumptions and projections are normal, expected even, but it sure gets annoying to realize that imposed celebrity only obscures our views of people who just want to share their art with us. My opinion of Dylan and his art is pretty favorable now after watching this documentary, and I thought I had no interest in this artist and time period based on all the breathless retrospective coverage. Turns out I didn't even know Dylan at all, oops.

SPECIAL POST: Video Games, Part I

In what could be considered a defining conflict in my life, I find myself wanting to watch and write about movies but feel too hampered by shame to do so. It's a particularly ridiculous feeling when you consider the amount of time I'll gladly sink into scrolling through Twitter, listening to music, or hanging out with friends. My life at the moment is dominated by necessary work of all kinds, and those distracting activities exist at its margins. There's something easier about saying "I'll just [scroll/listen/hang] for a bit" and letting time escape you than actually committing to something that you know ahead of time will require time management. The surrender of being caught up in a slipstream of time is less uncomfortable in the short term than consciously choosing to devote hours to something you want to do. This is a curious little paradox. Obviously the irresponsibility of wasting untold hours on those micro-activities is more damaging than the several defined hours it would take to watch a movie and write about it. And of course the procrastination does me no good, no matter how fulfilling scrolling/listening/hanging can occasionally be. The obvious choice would be to watch a movie and write about it, both for the amount of pleasure that process gives me and the set amount of time I can confine it to, but somehow I feel safer giving up management of my own time and allowing my whims to take me where they may. Why?

As a psychology major, I'm sure there's an answer to that question. But I'll figure that out at some later date, probably once I've cognitively restructured myself into favoring movie watching/writing over throwing myself into distractions. The hindsight will tell me what my current immersion in aimlessness can't. This does remind me of a discussion I ambled through with a friend recently, about mindful and mindless hedonism. It seems very mindlessly hedonistic to just "do whatever" as opposed to scheduling and working through a pleasurable experience. Perhaps I still buy the liberal individualist myth that anything I want to do is valid, and what I want to do is do nothing? Deep down, I suspect so. So maybe all I need is to create a system where I limit my small daily indulgences to filling space between the larger time blocks of doing what I want to do. And then maybe eventually I won't even need to backslide into mindless hedonism at all because mindful hedonism is so much more gratifying. I suspect that's how "Type A personalities" feel, and I think a variation on that could work for me too.

I put "Type A personalities" in quotes because I'm not so sure there's an innate drive to succeed, or at least not to the extent that it's a salient trait in the complex ecosystem of a person's brain. What seems more likely to me is that people who could be described as "Type A" truly feel there is value in the rewards of hard work, and so they feel that it is the most satisfying way to utilize their time. To them, distractions would feel like exactly what they are: distractions. And why not? The successful, the driven, the hard workers are hyper-visible in American culture. Steve Jobs is a national hero. Barack Obama was the child of a single mother. YouTube celebrities regularly build a nationwide following on nothing but creativity and relentless personal branding. Success is everywhere. It's becoming more and more democratic. All you need to do is be "you," as long as the "you" you are is okay with throwing most aspects of your personal life under the bus chasing that success. And there's a lot to be said about how people whose lives revolve around success and dedication to goals have a uniquely vehement hatred of the less certain and less successful, but I don't particularly want to look into that right now. I'm more interested in why, if success is so readily available, most people aren't all that successful.

The first answer is simple: luck. For every Steve Jobs, there are a thousand Silicon Valley aspirants with game-changing ideas who never attend the right meeting or meet the right sponsors. For every Barack Obama, there are hundreds of thousands of aspiring politicians building grassroots campaigns that, for one reason or another, will not win them the presidency. And for every Laci Green, every Kevin Wu, every Shane Dawson, there are millions of kids in their basements recording videos for audiences of close friends and parents (and the occasional classmate). Success is elusive, more elusive than we can even realize when we look back on how our icons acquired their cultural capital. We see the steps that led them to where they are, but we don't see all the moments when they almost became another nobody.

"Another nobody" is also a phrase that probably deserves scare quotes, because what really is so bad about being nobody? The phrase has a negative connotation, but it's a fate most people are destined for. I, too, was ambitious once. I have wanted to be all kinds of famous and famously successful at various points in my life: a famous chef, famous paleontologist, astronaut, author, journalist, filmmaker, beatmaker, etc. Every now and then I still want to be famous. But I know I can't be, at least not the way I am now. I don't have the inspiration, the work ethic, or the delusional self-confidence to push through repeated failure. Blogging here is just about right for me: low stakes enough to not feel like I depend on each blog post to sustain fickle and precarious fame (or living standards), but also challenging enough to force me to improve as a writer. And that's something I care about, even if I don't plan to marketize it. That's my individualized ambition. Tied into it are vague aspirations to craft visual media experiments or run musical sideprojects, but I'm not in a huge hurry to realize those. If one day I feel an urgent need to film/photograph something or to program a beat, maybe it will happen. Maybe some people will like it. That would be nice, and I would appreciate that. The endeavor is enough for me, though. This is a private space, made public only because I like to share with other people. I don't rely on success-based approval to keep me going, and I think that might be a big part of why I am not a globally ambitious person.

This too is worth exploring, because there are all kinds of reasons a person may not be ambitious. In my case, I always felt sheepish asking for attention and approval. I doubted my own creations, even when other people praised them. You can read all kinds of psychoanalytics into that if you'd like. But mostly I never felt success in and of itself was something valuable. I never saw it as a self-generating engine of happiness (maybe I absorbed too many rise-and-fall narratives of disillusioned artists?). The American understanding of success presupposes the moral correctness of those who attain it, and that's something I always found rather creepy. Not just because there are so many obvious examples of people undeserving of success, but more because I worried about how much of yourself you have to sacrifice in chasing success. Success is a very conditional thing in most cases, reliant on your ability to adapt to the standards of your chosen goal. Which is why I imagine Amanda Palmer and Lou Reed and others like them are so widely revered. They get the best of both worlds, success without self-annihilation. The idea of annihilating the self has become increasingly intolerable to Americans, which is why things like pop music and church-going have slowly fallen out of fashion. It's also why we praise the ordinariness of Jennifer Lawrence tripping on stairs or Obama cracking jokes with Zach Galifianakis. It's the facade we don't like, the mask we have to wear in order to appeal to everyone. Of course we want everyone to like us, but not if it involves being "fake." If everyone can learn to like us just the way we are, that then is a fame worth pursuing. You, too, can have it all.

Again, though, we run into the idea that success is antithetical to the commonplace. Better to be Shlomo than another anonymous beatmaker, better to be Anne Rice than another local YA paranormal romance writer. And again: why? This is what really bothers me, and what I find almost scary in a way. Is it not enough to be liked by our friends? To have our parents be proud of us? To do good work in a community? Do we need to be in total control of our own public persona at all times, and by extension our own destiny? Do we need to move ever upward, garnering ever more fans and followers? Is there any room for error or uncertainty if we have a position of influence to defend against irrelevance and scorn? I mainly want to be loved by my loved ones, with maybe a dab of respect here and there from fellow artists who like my art. That, to me, is success, and it's a success fairly out of step with a country that insists your success must be continuous and worldwide.

American success is individualistic, hierarchical, and capitalistic. Competitions and personal showcases of talent are the treadmills on which we train muscles that will one day power us to unqualified success. We encourage children to practice achievement through sports, student councils, religious advocacy, military enlistment, musical instruments, entrepreneurship. I have never liked any of those things, even as I unconsciously endorsed the value behind them in my younger years. So for years I felt that the culture was right and that I was wrong, that the success I deserved was out of reach due to my need (and preference) for love and acceptance, for quiet times and lazy times, and for time to figure myself out as a confused, fearful child. I feel now that I better understand my aversion to this dominant model of success, though not without considerable harm to myself along the way as I pursued the reactionary route of deliberate underachievement. It's something I'm going to have a hard time breaking out of, as I suspect it will be for many other slackers vaguely dissatisfied with the economic logic that extracts market value from our daily lives. Performance is everything in capitalism, and even those who cannot or do not want to perform feel that they should. As such, "doing whatever" seems radical in a culture that valorizes "doing something," and doing nothing feels appropriately dismissive of the constant exhortation to do anything and everything. Because if anything and everything can make you successful, then doing nothing is the only way to keep you safe from success you don't want or can't reach.

THE BATTLE OF CHILE: THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE (Guzmán 79): [4]

After a tune pitched somewhere between fond and doleful (are those feelings maybe the two halves of nostalgia?), THE BATTLE OF CHILE: THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE opens in the middle of a crowd declaring their loyalty to the left. We look into the admiring faces of the people and watch as the military enforces a boundary. Narration begins, and then, suddenly, Salvador Allende appears, gazing down solemnly from his platform of the parade. It's a magnificent feint in many ways. First and foremost, the mostly linear chronology of the film sequence is shattered with this doubling back. We followed Allende's last stand in the preceding film and felt our hearts sink as Pinochet supplanted the brave socialist president. Guzmán, however, has no interest in showing us any more of Augusto Pinochet. Pinochet's ascension to power was the punctuation to the long, bitter death of Chilean socialism, and as such it was the appropriate end to a film entitled THE COUP D'ÉTAT. This film's title is THE POWER OF THE PEOPLE, and Guzmán intends to show us exactly that. Salvador Allende will ultimately play only a distant role in this film's narrative. He floats, phantom-like, on the platform carrying him, and we know there is no going back to the promise of his first months in office. He is more symbol than man at this point, no matter how deeply human he was to us in the preceding two films. His time, sadly, is over. Now come the people.

Guzmán and company are interested in something unwieldy here. It's a topic only broached once or twice directly, but one that structures the entire arc of the worker uprising. What role do workers play in changing a capitalist government to a socialist one? Is it enough to simply follow the orders of a reformist government, or do the workers bear a personality responsibility as well? In the case of Chile, the workers are forced to play their hand. The first half of the film gives us preliminary measures in counteracting the opposition's sabotage. Workers arrange transportation for each other and for resources when private companies refuse to cooperate. They take ownership of the factories when the bosses abandon them and make plans of their own for continuing production. Food is rationed out at stalls according to ration cards given out to families. We know from the last two films that political turmoil rages outside these communal sites, but Guzmán rarely gives us a glimpse of the outside world. Instead we watch as the workers slowly, imperceptibly even, begin to feel a larger stake in ensuring the success of socialism. Survival and maintenance evolve into activism, and soon the workers are questioning if they are now the true agents of change in this messy transition.

Again, for Chile, this is almost inevitable. As one speaker notes in an argument for worker autonomy, the government only has a 44% share of the parliamentary process. A 60% majority is impossible. The workers cannot reasonably expect government assistance as the nationalization program spurs the opposition on to greater and deadlier acts of protest. Through narration we know that the truckers' strike has the financial support of the United States. So it makes sense that the workers would take note of this state of affairs and mount their own defense against socialist collapse. But somewhere along the line, the social dynamic shifts. The workers retain faith in Allende and Popular Unity even as they increasingly feel the need to take matters into their own hands. They support Allende by supporting themselves and each other. The emergency measures solidify into business as usual, and once the workers declare their grassroots independence and establish a degree of autonomy, the momentum keeps on building.

And to all appearances, this seems to work. It seems almost beside the point to ask whether or not leftist intellectuals should question this kind of worker mobilization. Allende was responsible for the nationalization mandate, and top-down policies are an effective way of converting popular will into real, broad-ranging change. We can, with hindsight, see that it was the middlemen who blocked Allende's initiatives from truly changing the nature of business in Chile. And yet here are the workers, straining and nearly succeeding to meet Allende halfway as their management abdicates responsibility for a smooth transition. One wonders what might have happened if the opposition weren't so violent in its resistance. If the bureaucrats had simply backed off and waited out the reforms, they might have been surprised to see an economy adapting to their absence.

It would never have been simple, of course. The scarcity of food and supplies, along with 16-hour work days, should do well to cut short any romanticizing of the Chilean workers' struggles. Disagreements spring up from questions of management and process, ones that maybe not every worker or union is equipped to handle. It's no easy task to pool the efforts of all kinds of people and direct them toward a common goal. Still, the sense of competence remains. When confronted with problems, the workers seem quite capable of handling them on their own. Their collective understanding of the factory gives them the confidence to move from day-laborers to active participants in the organization's welfare. Together they're able to diagnose the problems and work toward breaking what they call the "capitalist structures" of their labor organization with little need for outside help. The filmmakers themselves seem surprised that the Christian Democrat workers hold no special loyalty to their party (illustrated amusingly when an interviewer asks a man twice where his loyalties lie and is told "with the workers" despite his presumable Christian Democrat affiliation). There is little external reward for this group unity in the moment, and all this complexity is exactly what administrators would argue people need bureaucratic leadership to handle for them. Through observation and interview, Guzmán cannily provides us with a different notion. People, the film suggests, only need to feel their time and effort are being valued and leading to a greater good.

One gets the sense that this engine of determination is what libertarians seek to activate when they attempt to rally individuals into taking charge of their own destinies. But I suspect they're vastly underestimating the mutually reinforcing power of group collaborators. Individualist paranoia of cooperation (or 'groupthink,' as they'd have it) seems to have dissuaded libertarians that any meaningful change can happen between people, that change only comes from among them. If enough individuals believe the same thing, the legend seems to go, they can each demand it on their own and prevent outsiders from influencing their opinions. To me, this seems more like groupthink than discussion, debate, and agreement among disparate groups do. I believe empathy and understanding (broadly speaking) are what enable us to grasp what benefits the larger public as a whole rather than just you and me and some like-minded friends. There's mutual reinforcement among libertarians too, but it takes the form of encouraging indiscriminate skepticism and delusional self-reliance. The reactionary thought process can be easily stimulated and distorted by exaggerated threats to selfhood, but an educated, motivated group's resilience not only resists psychic sabotage, it also sustains its own energy. The libertarian's raging belief in the power of the self is a sustained high quickly followed by the low of realizing how little a difference one individual can make. The solution is not to provoke many other individuals into thinking and feeling as you do, but to gather people and rely on their innate desire to help each other. This way, one individual's failure or doubt doesn't diminish the strength of the group. The group contains the goodwill of all involved, and it is more than the sum of its parts. Libertarianism can only ever be the sum of its parts, and when the pressure of massive social/political/economic change gets to be too much for any one participant, as it undoubtedly will, the individual will flounder and submit to despair, lost without the support of caring others that gently persuades people to keep trying against all outside odds.

We can see this at work in socialist Chile, and I suspect the opposition's campaign was built on stoking individualist fears of loss and uncertainty in more prosperous Chileans. This is actually quite an effective tactic, in contrast to libertarian grassroots change, because existential uncertainty in the privileged is a motivator all its own (and because resisting change is always easier than creating it). Agitate that dread, reveal it in the faces of your compatriots, build up a roving, faceless crowd of scapegoats and group action all but prompts itself. The hysteria of the bourgeois is a defense against the pragmatism of the workers, and screaming and lashing out through violence are the tactics of a campaign of intimidation. Spread enough chaos this way and you will eventually enable a Pinochet to gather up weapons, launch an offensive and restore 'order.' The bourgeoisie doesn't actually have to do anything but embrace and project its fear long enough for someone to notice and take action into their own hands. Uncharitably, this is little more than the wailing of a baby when it craves attention and entertainment. When this attitude exists in a sizable majority of adults with a sizable amount of power, though, the implications are far graver.

And so Chile fails to implement its socialist imperative, and it is punished for 17 brutal years afterward. This could be viewed as a warning against any similar sort of actions (the US certainly intended for it to be, and conservatives would be glad to remind you), but Guzmán wisely picks out the beginnings of a true revolution stirring just beneath the chaos into which his country was thrown. Detailing the Pinochet administration's descent into bloodthirsty dictatorship would only remind us of the consequences of daring to hope for a better life, but Guzmán has not given us that story. Instead, he shows us how beautifully proactive people can be when they fight against the inertia of capitalism. Salvador Allende may have failed to change Chile singlehandedly, but it was never his battle to fight alone. He always had the people there to support him. They are the ones who sacrificed their comfort, their security, and their safety to push their country forward. They took charge when the government was selfishly handicapped and kept the socialist dream alive. And they were the ones who stood to lose the most if the opposition rose up and cracked down, as it did, but they knew it was worth the risk. Allende may be the man on the platform, but it was the anonymous men and women of the cheering crowds that brought Chile closer than most countries have ever been to true equality. To Patricio Guzmán and company: for remembering them, and for showing us their power, we are most grateful.

(photo credit: www.patricioguzman.com)