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Central Station, Not One Less, Children of Heaven, Autumn Spring, and Other Wonderful Movies….

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I just watched the award-winning 1998 Brazilian film, Central Station (about the importance of connecting, belonging, and giving.) Two desperate, appealing, and brilliantly acted characters in dire straits—one a recent orphan, the other a sad retiree—are thrown together, and reluctantly save one another. The story centers on a relationship that develops during a journey. This movie drives home in a touching and entertaining way, how important family, friends, and security are in life, and how fragile and easily lost they are in life’s changing circumstances, and through cynicism, defeatism, and self-isolation. This gripping, beautifully-directed movie is also a revealing snapshot of everyday lives in a variety of intriguing rural, suburban, and urban settings in today’s Brazil.

 

Among many other wonderful, critically-acclaimed foreign films I’ve seen recently through Netflix, the following are truly the best of the best….

 

For families with young children, and for every adult, these films have my highest recommendation, as entertaining, well-made, and, well…just plain wonderful. Like Central Station (above), each has great potential for discussion, for insight into different cultures and human values, and for just about every pleasure one can find in a really memorable, insightful movie:

 

Children of Heaven, a not-to-be-missed, touching slice-of-life story showcasing a child learning values while making difficult choices, is set in working-class Iran. Not One Less (the same, with an emphasis on perseverance, is set in rural China. Rabbit-Proof Fence, an Incredible Journey-sort of film, except that it’s set in historical Australia, is based on true events. The three sojourners are Aborigine children trying to return home….

 

These three movies are all gentle, touching stories of winning children/families living typical lives in far corners of the earth, all highly enjoyable for all ages. They will stay in your mind forever.

 

For teens and their families, or for any adult, I recommend The Road Home, a sweet love story set in mainland China, and the funny and moving Secrets and Lies, about a successful (black) daughter’s reunion with her troubled (white) birth mother/family, who gave her away before seeing her as an infant (set in London).

 

The Battle of Algiers is a well-made, sad, dark, and moving historical film about an Islamic uprising against French colonists. I recommend it only (but especially) for adults who, like me, are interested in politics and history. It compellingly sheds light on current Middle Eastern conflicts.

 

The Barbarian Invasions is an interesting story of a father-son reconciliation, as well as a marvelous depiction of what a “good death” might entail. You'll see some fascinating Canadian culture, strong direction, a funny, thought-provoking and touching script, and solid performances by a delightful cast … recommended for any adult who finds this synopsis appealing.

 

I not only found Autumn Spring (about a Czech retired couple) delightful; it also taught me something I had forgotten about men—that they need to feel free to be men or they’ll die inside. Right after seeing this movie, I encouraged my husband to buy the bike of his dreams, which he is simply thrilled with…. I’m so happy with his new happiness that I’m reminded, as I write this review, to keep listening for and supporting the rest of his dreams…as he does mine….

 

Finally, a sometimes slow-moving but memorable and powerful film for anyone interested in immigration, migration, and refugees in any country, including our own, is In This World, about two young Afghan cousins who undertake a secret/illegal, and very arduous journey to improve their lives in London.

 

I am so grateful to all the creative and brilliant film-industry workers who made these films, and also to Netflix, truly the bargain of the century for culture-lovers…. Thank you!

 

(Please click on “reviews” to see earlier outstanding movies I've reviewed….)

 

Please send your comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

The Best and the Dimmest

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The other day, changing clothes at the YMCA, I chatted with a delightful stranger, a twin in her fifties who apparently has never competed with her identical twin sister (and best friend) in anything. Not during their childhood, not as teenagers, not as wives and mothers, not even now since their kids had grown. I was flabbergasted.

 

In brutal contrast, I grew up in an extremely competitive household. My three sisters and I spent considerable youthful (and later, adult) energy attempting to best one another in every arena, whether trivial or significant. We carved our egos, our veriest identities, out of what shreds were left after thoroughly wrestling and wringing out every possible family title.

 

We gambled madly for the unpredictable prize of my parents’ attention and approval, and they thus unwittingly encouraged our many rivalries, although they also greatly wearied of our constant bickering. Probably they encouraged us to compete because they thought competition would make us strive for excellence. Or perhaps they generalized that, since competition in capitalism and on the athletic fields of battle was considered so wonderful, surely family competition must be good, too.

 

It isn’t.

 

Whether I “won” or “lost,” my sibling rivalries always left me feeling cold, mean, and alienated. When I triumphed over a sister in some area, I felt a little smug, and very guilty. When I came up short—much more often—I felt inadequate, resentful, defeatist, and again, lonely.

 

I’ve always been fascinated with twins and twin studies, so I peppered my new acquaintance with questions. I insisted that at the very least, she identify some little, unimportant area that she was now “better” at than her twin—some divergent hobby or lifetime interest, some skill so minor as baking a cake, for instance. No. She was adamant that she could think of no examples. None. Neither she nor her twin were superior in any achievements or endowments.

 

I concluded that either these twins had always eschewed comparisons as hurtful and unpleasant; or that their minds just didn’t work in these terms; or, perhaps, that competition was just not particularly interesting to them. Gwen ventured to guess that maybe it was a combination of all three. In any case, no, they had never competed, probably never would, she had never thought about it before, and had never been asked about it, to her knowledge.

 

Wow. In my family, identical twins, on exactly equal genetic starting lines, would have relished the challenge and competed at absolutely everything. I wonder how happily that would have turned out?

 

Either way, Gwen and Jackie’s delightfully mutually supportive and sharing relationship has to be preferable to whatever unfriendly rivalry we would have come up with in our family.

 

Now I’m wondering if perhaps all competition is a bad thing….

 

Having been reared in a family (and culture) which greatly values competition, I never really considered how harmful it might be for me, for my family of birth, my own children, or even for American citizens and other “competing” nations. I’ve never thought about how useless competition really is, especially considering its costs, considering what is lost. Yet few other cultures, many far more ancient, value competition in the way Americans do. Certainly, for that reason, if for no other, we should question the value of competition.

 

If I were raising my own children again now, I would frown on any hint of competitiveness “against” one another, and make sure they understood that friendly competition was a kind gift from someone else who was helping them in their struggle to better themselves. I would do my best to guide my kids to strive for their own personal bests, reserving their comparisons and judgments only for their own goals for self-improvement. I would try to help them see how harmful competition can be to relationships, and how it can also be mutually supportive (as when one encourages others in their striving for self-improvement) or really unkind and hurtful (“besting” or beating someone.)

 

I’ve even come around to wondering whether the loftily unassailable idea of competition-as-intrinsic-to-capitalism, is harmful. We must work hard to convey the message that the only moral competition is the friendly kind that is mutually supportive in helping one another strive for excellence, because the fruits of unfriendly competition are always sad ones—envy, anger, resentment, even for the “victor,” who must also contend with dangerous feelings of overreaching, pride, and arrogance.

 

Here’s what I’ve decided: whenever we compete “against” another, whether as individuals, groups, or nations, that competition works against our highest goals, ideals, and purposes. Any time we move away from simple, personal or cooperative effort, towards something as mean-spirited as hurtful competition, we move toward erasure of mankind’s highest ethical standard, the “golden rule”— treating others as we would like to be treated—and move instead toward “all’s fair in love and war,” a smarmy slogan which conveniently discards morality and ethics as low-priority whenever something newly urgent feels at stake.

 

If U.S. capitalism has worked well in the past, it’s not because of business competition, but because people with freedom and opportunities and resources have pursued excellence, which springs only from friendly competition, which springs from cooperative values such as caring, fairness, and honesty, and personal virtues like hard work and perseverance.

 

Abuse of the idea of competition provides us with a too-handy mask, an illusion of moral nobility or superiority, for the times when we want to feel good about running roughshod over someone else, to get what we want.

 

Our most amazing athletes and athletic competitions are so wonderful because unique individuals like Lance Armstrong and Michael Jordan and Tiger Woods surround themselves with other great athletes in order to challenge themselves—to continually strive for excellence, to achieve their own personal bests, their own highest standards—not to conquer or best someone else.

 

Since I’ve met the twins, I’ve withdrawn my support from any competitions—whether in families, sports, business, or politics, whether local or global—that divide, separate, or polarize relationships, organizations, or nations.

 

Because such unfriendly competition, apparently, has never improved anything—not a single relationship, not a single enterprise on this tiny, fragile, interconnected planet, where every thing we do impacts everyone else, where every thing we think touches every other mind, and where we share the very air we breathe and every drop we drink.

 

Please send comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

I Have Seen the Future of Latino Immigration—and It Is Good

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The hair on my arms stood up as I tuned in my car radio to the raucous enthusiasm of the immigrant protest rally aired recently on C-Span. It was “déjà vu all over again” as I recalled my own youthful experiences with immigrants and racism in the very hispanic city of San Antonio.

 

For I have seen the future of Latino immigration in America before, and it is good.

 

My military family moved to San Antonio during the late 1950’s, my middle school years. We had already moved eight times before, and I spent five of those years learning in overseas post schools along with a multiracial and multiethnic group of classmates all living middle-class lives. Transferring now into a San Antonio off-post public school situated in a sharply divided socioeconomic setting, I was surprised to be suddenly thrown in among a very large number of poor latinos, and shocked to see how unkindly they were treated by my anglo classmates.

 

My youthful ideals and sensibilities were greatly offended by such discrimination, but like many—perhaps most—youthful innocents, I was confused and easily led by the mean immoral majority, who quickly taught this eager new girl that “we” didn’t “like” “them”—and certainly didn’t mix with them.

 

My parents weren’t much help either. When I protested the injustice I saw so clearly at school, they lamely agreed with my moral indignation against racism, but also strongly registered their preference that I not choose to socialize with children who weren’t “like us”—i.e., clean, educated, privileged, advantaged.

 

A few of my teachers treated all students respectfully, but the general consensus about “meskins” in my school was a sweeping generalization that they were, as a race, all dirty, poor, immoral, violent, sneaky, and “too stupid” to know how to speak English. The convenient filter of race soon blurred my eyes to the many differences among these children, and eventually I clumped them all, even the occasional middle-class and native-English speaking exceptions, into the same rejected bunch I thought of as “mexican.”

 

Through whispered conversations, I soon “knew” what my schoolmates “knew”—that all these kids were children of “illegals” who had snuck across the river, and were now sneaking around in bushes and backrooms doing filthy jobs our parents wouldn't dream of doing, living in hovels, and probably stealing and breaking other laws too. We exchanged warnings about their poor side of town: don’t go near the San Antonio River unless you want to get knifed by a “mex”…. The wealthiest among my friends claimed to “own a ‘wet’ (‘wetback’) or two,” whom their parents kept hidden away on distant ranches in shacks stocked with sacks of beans, to chop cedar and clear brush in the searing sun, at the cost of pennies a day.

 

My classmates generally viewed the influx of Mexican immigrants with suspicion and disgust. Sometimes we sneered at them, even fought them as they grouped together defensively—but mostly we ignored them. I went, too quickly, from feeling righteously indignant, to apathy, to feeling more “in the know” about the “appropriate” way to feel and act—that is, prejudicially.

 

Of course, I knew nothing about how hard it can be to get ahead when you’re poor, or the immense barriers of linguistic disadvantage, or the challenges of a new life in a different culture, especially an illegal life. I saw without recognizing only the commonalities of poverty; indeed, many of my Latino classmates were very dirty, their clothes were smelly, they did seem ignorant, and they spoke English poorly.

 

I’m especially sad when I remember how kind many of the Latino children were to me when I first enrolled. Many seemed friendly, attractive, and fun to this lonely new girl. Too quickly, though, I “knew better” and pulled away from them, frightened by the strong social prohibition against socializing with “mexes.” I had already begun to make friends with some who were probably pleasantly surprised to be greeted initially with no prejudice; I’m sure my transformation and confused withdrawal hurt many feelings.

 

Fast-forward now forty years, to the year my family returned to San Antonio to care for my dying father. To my delight, I found San Antonio completely changed, a bright, working city ornamented by a proud Hispanic cultural heritage. During that difficult year of family losses, all of my childhood prejudices were firmly replaced with admiration and deep gratitude, as I worked my way through a long line of outstanding care-giving and service professionals, nearly all native-English speaking, educated, middle and upper-class Latinos.

 

From that ragtag bunch of schoolmates of yesteryear, no doubt themselves largely parented by penniless, ignorant laborers who dared their way across the border, had come this impressive line of smiling, capable, courteous, faith-driven professionals. Where “mexicans” had previously been relegated only to San Antonio’s lowest social classes, now they were the home-care aides who tenderly washed and fed my father, the capable nurses who treated him, the orderlies who gently attended him in hospital, the capable doctors who set his broken hip, the hospice workers who comforted us, the owners of the funeral home, and the directors who helped us plan his funeral.

Latinos now ably ran much of the city, blending in with the anglo minority attractively—and patriotically. As I hurried through busy days, helpful Latino faces sold me groceries and hardware, delivered our packages, repaired our dishwasher, patrolled the streets, and repaired phone wires. My father’s accountant was hispanic, as was his attorney.

 

I remember my childhood astonishment when I overheard comments about a local “mexican,” Henry B. Gonzalez, was became an influential national politician. Later, I learned that another “Chicano,” Henry Cisneros, had worked to transform the whole city for Hemisfair, refurbishing the San Antonio River Walk, which later became one of the world’s safest and most colorful international tourist draws. A multitude of Hispanic civic and political leaders followed in their footsteps. As an ignorant young girl, however, I found it all much too confusing. How could these apparently benevolent leaders possibly be drawn from that same lowly pool of apparent lowlifes which I had tragically learned to exclude from my own personal repertoire of “nice people”—or, perhaps, “human beings?”

 

The San Antonio of today is a multicultural treat, largely run by courteous, ambitious Latinos. All those I met during that painful year resembled, in their work ethic and attitude, our Attorney General Alberto Gonzales—genial, earnest, hard-working, well-intentioned, people of faith.

 

Welcome to the America of the future, and more power to it.

 

Immigrants break no law they ever had a chance to democratically vote upon. Immigrants are doing exactly what any of us would do for ourselves and for our families, were we faced with an impossible present and future—if only we could find the daring and the support necessary to pick up, move on, and start over.

 

No other country is spending billions to guard its borders from terrorists, although quite a few nations are presently scrambling to arm themselves against our American invasions. No expensive walls are being built to keep terrorists out of Canada, China, Norway, or Sweden? And why not? Each of these countries has a similarly long, porous border, like ours, but unlike the U.S.A., these countries have friendly, cooperative foreign policies—i.e., fewer enemies.

 

When our politicians decide to create fewer deadly enemies with unkind trade and foreign policies, and focus instead on offering generous, accepting policies which embrace the world’s problems as our own, we won’t waste so much money protecting our borders from terrorists. Maybe we’ll pour some of that money into a better life for ourselves and for the immigrants we need to help make this country great again.

 

When I turned off my radio, I said a prayer for all persistent immigrants, for their admirable struggle to make a better life, and for the America we will all work to build together. Because someday soon these adventurers will claim for themselves the same bright prize their audacious countrymen have claimed throughout our history, the grandest lottery ticket gamble of all, the chance to win U.S. citizenship.

 

Please send your comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

 

Transfixed by Lost in Translation

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Lost in Translation is my (all-time) favorite movie. With so many sad movies about sexual exploitation floating around, it’s a refresher to see two nice, interesting people exchange such powerful, passionate, platonic gifts during a brief, innocent time, without taking advantage of or hurting one another, and leaving one another happier and stronger.

 

Sofia Coppola’s complex, beautiful, diverse sensibilities drench each frame with implications… revelations… perturbations…. Like all perfect movies, this one is rich, deep, lavishly-textured, and gorgeously-layered. Coppola adds not a questionable jot nor extraneous tittle, and leaves out nothing necessary to her narrative or contemplation. She attends masterfully to imagery, editing, framing, character, dialogue, tension, narrative, symbol, improvisation, serendipity…a small sampling of her range of talents, may she live long and prosper in the movie-making business.

 

I lived for a few childhood years in Tokyo during the American post-war occupation, and took away beautiful, evanescent impressions, so perhaps I’m more susceptible to the delights of this movie than your typical movie-goer. Watching Lost in Translation, I'm enchanted both by remembered charms and recent technological innovations, as well as by the awkward Japanese embrace of things western.

 

Lost in Translation is perfectly titled, because Copolla shines her tragicomic vision on the challenges each of us, no matter how talented or well-intentioned, face in communicating, caring, and empathizing across the mile-high/-wide/-deep chasm of human individual differences. Copolla’s laser gaze scintillates not only cultural barriers such as language and custom, but universal obstacles as well—differences in gender, age, social class, lifestyle, goals, values, interests, backgrounds, personalities—and even the molehills and mountains of distance and time.

 

Lost in Translation is hilarious, even more-so for Japanophiles. I’ve seen it many times, and still am cajoled into explosive snorts. Like any great lover, Copolla brings knowledge, appreciation, honesty, and a creative, playful intimacy to the peculiar amusements and benefits of relating to the Japanese. Japanese culture has its many endearing and frustrating quirks, as do all cultures; Copolla chooses to laugh equally good-naturedly and respectfully at eastern and western pecadilloes.

 

I cannot imagine a soundtrack more thoughtfully selected or edited in support of the shifting impressions, emotions, and experiences Coppola develops in each new scene.

 

Bill Murray’s unique talents are all on glorious display, as are Scarlett Johannsen’s equally bounteous ones, which have an umplumbable feel to them. She defiantly withholds an illusive, precious, sensuous little secret—like Garbo’s, like Monroe’s—whose unveiling the world will breathlessly await forever. Casting Johannsen, like casting Gwyneth Paltrow, will elevate any movie. Only great direction can account for the consistent quality of all the other “smaller” performances.

 

The fact that anyone could enjoy this movie on the level of a simple, poignant, romantic comedy should not detract from its value as a multifaceted meditation upon the human challenges inherent in connecting with any “other”—whether in “translating” one’s self to another, or in meaningfully “translating” another’s mysterious mumblings and gestures in our own direction. Far too often, we are left feeling all alone in the world throughout most of our lives, feeling quite “lost in translation.”

 

Please send your comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Zzzipppiddee Doooo Daaahh….

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What a difference perspective makes…. Whenever I'm feeling blue or resisting something that just “is,”  I try to remember to ask God for another way of looking at the person or situation–and I always receive what I ask for (it helps to pay attention and be ready for the answer.) I drew this comic strip soon after one of those happy moments when I'd received such an answer to a prayer. I remember feeling resentful, feeling like an old ugly lonesome drudge, about some housework I had to do, and praying, as I looked out the window, for another way of seeing my present situation. Suddenly I focused on a bird “working” for her brood, but nothing could have been more natural, beautiful, purposeful, or right than that little brown bird doing her thing for her family. Renewed with my wonderful answer to my prayer, I went back to work–this time joyfully.

Please send comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

Finding Time For What's Most Important

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I have more time these days to…. I started to say, to do what I want to do, but everyone does what they want to do twenty-four hours a day, if you count wanting to go on living, wanting to eat, stay warm, take care of loved ones—in short, most everyday activities.

 

So, rephrasing…these days I have more time and money to choose activities beyond caring for the immediate needs of myself and loved ones—and I feel very lucky about that.

 

I’m surprised, though, to find that even people with “free time” can put themselves under a lot of self-inflicted pressure, feeling we should do more, better, or different with our new-found time. I’d hoped that all that rushing around would be behind me when I had more time.

 

Nope.

 

Now that I think about it, the world’s most influential people stay pretty busy—although they don’t act rushed. I guess they’ve mastered the art of living in the present moment (think Bill Clinton?), focusing on their most important agenda items, and taking satisfaction in what they can do.

 

My husband tells me “involvement” is the key for him. Whether he’s fixing a drain or paying a bill or working on job-related projects, he’s contented, so long as he feels “involved.” I know he makes seemingly boring tasks more interesting for himself by holding to high standards of excellence, focusing, and paying attention to detail. And of course he never gets his long list done either. But he’s pretty good at attending to his “big rocks” first, accomplishing them as well as he can in the time he has. (The “big rocks” theory says you can squeeze more rocks and pebbles and gravel and sand into a jar only when you put the big rocks in first.)

 

I used to put all my little pebbles in first—hoping to address them quickly so I could get on to all my big rocks—but then I would run out of energy and motivation, and never get around to my most important, if less urgent, goals. Now I’m learning to take care of my big rocks earlier, and to fit all the others in where I may. To my surprise, even a few minutes a day on my big rocks elates and energizes me, and I’m more, not less, likely to get to—and enjoy—my little rocks.

 

And which are my big rocks? That’s hard to figure out, too. My big rocks are those activities and goals which give me the greatest sense of meaning, usefulness, happiness, and contentment. Each person’s set of big rocks is quite different from any other persons’. I’ve also learned to identify what it is I value most, compared with the values of others’, by looking back on what I’ve chosen to do with my time in the past. (I’ve noticed, for instance, that I camped, backpacked, and hiked whenever I could manage it, even when I didn’t have much time and money, so I’ve recognized that being active in nature is very important to me…. These days, I garden.)

 

Another way to identify big rocks is to think about what I would do if I had unlimited money. International spiritual and activist treks always drew me, though other goals won out; nevertheless, here I sit at last, traveling the world through the internet, and writing my spiritual/activist blog.

 

It also helps me to think about all the famous people I admire–athletes, leaders, stars, writers, artists; all the things they're so good at are quite different from each others'–so they had to choose, too, and make hard trade-offs during their own twenty-four hour days.

 

Finding time for what’s most important to me also requires listening attentively to my intuition. Of course, I still keep good old reason-and-logic handy in my big bag of decision-making tricks, but nowadays they share equal space with my gut-feelings. In any case, I’m aware that I often use “reason” just to build a case for established preferences—so why not just pay attention to them to begin with? I also sometimes intuitively pick up a long-neglected activity because, “If I don’t do this now, it won’t ever get done.”

 

I’m more courageous now about letting go and trusting God to guide me toward what’s most important on each day—having lived enough of my life to know that, while life often feels chaotic while I’m living it, staying close to my own unique self, my sense of integrity, has been richly rewarding.

 

What’s most important to us—our own personal set of “big rocks”—is unique to each of us. While having good relationships is always valuable, many feel equally drawn to money-making, career, public service, art, travel, education, health, adventure, politics—the list goes on. No one can choose everything, at least not all at the same time; so we have to pick and choose among many competing options every day, every season, every decade. Configuring one’s own personal—and changing—sets of big rocks, weighing and prioritizing, balancing and selecting from among the infinite range of options, is a difficult thing to do.

 

Sometimes, when my big-rock choices are frustrating me, backfiring on me, or offering little short-term satisfaction, it helps to remember that every single choice, no matter how worthy and legitimate, is fraught with its own unique set of challenges, heartaches, and trade-offs. The hardest thing for me at such times is to turn my back on all those other delectable, competing “want to’s,” “have to’s,” “oughts,” and “shoulds.” It helps, at such moments to focus on the present and future joys and rewards of the goals I’ve chosen. Each tempting new rock and pebble may be very legitimately appealing and persuasive, but first things first; lifetimes hold a lot of hours.

 

During my crazy early days, when I blindly and not-so-patiently began weaving the first few strands of my own life’s tapestry, I certainly couldn’t see any underlying unique patterns or themes, any beauty, grace, or inspiration in it. I did cling fiercely, however, to a mole-like faith, that as long as I tried my best, led with my heart, and moved toward my passions, I would be all right. (And, to everyone’s surprise, I’m not dead yet.)

 

I know, in retrospect, that considering who I was, and considering what I knew back then, my life’s tapestry couldn’t have been woven any other way.

 

I used to envy a dear friend in faraway Idaho who sent me letters filled with such fascinating activities—travel, adventure, hobbies, classes, friendships, causes, achievement, nature, exercise, creativity—so many things I longed to do. I admired her so much (and still do) but felt like such a boring creature in comparison. What I wasn’t honoring at the time, as I provided day-care to babies, was my own choice to dedicate my own particular twenty-four hours a day (the same number everyone gets) to giving those babies (and my own) a good start. Looking back, I wish I had valued my own very reasonable “big rock” of that time as much as I did my friend’s equally well-chosen, wonderful ones. I wish I had appreciated and enjoyed the good work I was choosing, instead of putting negative energy into yearning for the other things I wanted to be doing simultaneously. Many of my temptations later turned into my big rocks of other years, each in their own time. And I know I’ll never regret any of the time I spent being home with my little girl.

 

My sister Sally, a devout Mormon mother of nine, once wrote a skit about time pressures and priorities, for her church’s women’s group. I thought her creativity so wonderful (she was wonderful) that I saved it, to re-read whenever I feel overwhelmed, envious, or unsure about my present priorities:

 

 

Skit for Relief Society Birthday Dinner

April 4, 1986

By Sally Jean Cole Andreason

 

 

Doll #1: “Sister W. always looks so great. The women in the church just seem to do well at everything. I don’t think I can live up to that. It would be so much simpler to stay home and play my dear piano.”

 

Doll #2: “Whew! Doing my aerobic exercises makes me feel great—and doesn’t hurt my looks, either! I wish I felt as enthusiastic about genealogy.”

 

Doll #3: “What a joy getting those names into the temple brings me! Talking to people who can talk back, like my teenager, is a lot harder. I could use some good ideas.”

 

Doll #4: “I love being able to talk with and be a friend to my daughter. But I wish I had the nerve to be a better missionary to her friend’s family.”

 

Doll #5: “She said ‘yes’! My friend at work said ‘yes’ to talking with the missionaries! If I start today, I might have the house in shape enough for them to give the discussions next Saturday. There goes the week!”

 

Doll #6: “I love to make my home a beautiful place for my family. I do wonder, sometimes, though, if I could transfer my homemaking skills to the job market if I needed to.”

 

Doll #7: “It surely feels good when I’ve worked hard on the job and really contributed. My boss knows he can count on me. I’d like to do something to help at my children’s school too. I just haven’t the time to be a room mother or a PTA officer.”

 

Doll #8: “I can really make a difference in our town. The school, the Little League, are really worth my efforts. But sometimes I wish I would make the time to learn to play the piano as beautifully as Sister K. Her talent must greatly add to her and her family’s enjoyment of life.”

 

Doll #1: “Really?!”

 

Doll #9: “The church and our Relief Society lessons take us as we are, and help us to grow. We all excel in different ways. We learn to appreciate and share our own talents and knowledge, and learn from our sisters’ examples and abilities too. One step at a time, everything in its season, each individual is unique. I’ve heard that a good woman is one who is trying. In the sisterhood of the Relief Society, we can help each other. The Relief Society is for every woman.”

 

There’s a gentle joke among Latter Day Saint women, that they sometimes try to take on too much—waking up an hour early to exercise, and then staying up an extra hour to pray, and then setting the alarm just one more hour earlier for inspirational reading, and then staying up just one more hour later to quilt/write/draw/whatever—‘til eventually they’re going to bed when it’s time to get up. (That was our Sally.) Sound familiar to any of you ambitious types? Sally packed a lot of joy and love and good work into her life, which I’m sure was exactly just long enough for whatever she and God most wanted and needed to do together.

 

God is bounteous, and provides richly for each of his beloved creatures whatever we need to live the life he expects of us. If we offer him our wholehearted best in doing whatever he gives us the inspiration, strength, and wisdom to do now, if we focus on our tasks and activities positively and passionately, one-by-one, I’m sure our lives will suit him, and us, just fine.

 

Please write your comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

 

 

 

Real Geisha, Real Women, Real Men, Real Relationships, Real Feminism

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In Memoirs of a Geisha, director Rob Marshall missed out on a real opportunity to be a useful iconoclast showing the west what’s so special about geisha: why men admire and want them, what esoteric knowledge they have about pleasing men, how they work their spells….

 

Instead, Marshall played out only the same-old-same-old standard, politically-correct, puritanical view that geisha (and other sex workers) are pitiable at best and contemptible at worst, either evil manipulators or miserable powerless victims exploited heartlessly by the self-serving animals they generously called men….

 

Marshall also chose to heavily reinforce the popular delusion that no real feminist could ever, in good conscience, put herself in service to a man.

 

To be sure, Marshall provided us with beautiful, talented actresses dressed up in gorgeous geisha outfits, and acting out a poignant variety of human emotions on arresting, historically and culturally accurate sets. But none of this display showed any hint of the range of talents and social skills displayed by truly accomplished professional geisha.

 

Marshall’s vision suggests that geisha's primarily physical services emerge from a secretive, machiavellian world of women who dislike and disrespect men, and who plot together to exploit men’s weaknesses.

 

Nearly all religious and philosophical traditions, not to mention leaders in every field, teach that selfless, caring, compassionate service to others is a powerful, transformative act (the golden rule, even.) Rob Marshall could have chosen to offer a sympathetic alternative view of geisha—one less politically-correct—as a select, prosperous, accomplished group of women who like and enjoy men and feel comfortable with physical intimacy, who have mastered the arcane arts of pleasing men, and who accept the limitations and dangers of their work—women with skills, beauty, and talent who choose this line of work over other career options, among them, marriage.

 

The important, tragic and unfeminist thing about sex work is not that it provides a service, but that it usually exploits people economically, just as, say, child labor and child trafficking and porn does, or just as any other poorly paid, undervalued, and underappreciated work does. Feminists are rightly concerned about the grossly inhumane contexts in which workers with no economic options must sell their bodies into undervalued servitude—or die. Sex workers at the low end, like all other unskilled laborers, are victims of indifferent societies that first casually produce and then abandon them.

 

Feminists are legitimately concerned with women (and men) who have few or no choices because of gender discrimination, or whose particular and uniquely individually-selected gifts are rejected, devalued or unreciprocated because of gender discrimination.

 

Beyond such ravages of economic and gender exploitation, feminism has no legitimate interest in judging women’s specific choices of activities, such as, for instance, all the many possible forms of loving, or being loved by men and women. Loving men and women, including their bodies, does not necessarily imply gender exploitation or degradation or subservience, however distasteful or immoral some may judge it to be.

 

Nevertheless, even the world’s top geisha get no respect for their work from puritanical westerners, not because their work is sexist, but for the same reason that prostitution is everywhere disrespected:  prostitutes’ competitors–the many “honest women” happily ensconced within the powerful majority who believe they have a real stake in insuring that sex workers remain hidden and powerless.

 

Many modern women are completely confused about whether feminism is compatible with any kind of compassionate service (especially to men!) at all. Some women have come to wonder if service work of any kind–nursing, house cleaning, waiting tables–is unfeminist and demeaning. Many women feel constrained even within their marriages or romantic relationships, fearing that offering a life of lovingly exchanged service to a man must surely be anti-feminist—a form of caving to the enemy, of servility. 

 

When modern women do find it within themselves to offer men their friendliest services, many still wonder if there’s not something smarmy or beneath them about such offerings, even if their every hormone and natural givingness urges them ceaselessly to slather their beloved with wholehearted attention and kindness.

 

There is nothing sexist or anti-feminist about loving men (or women, for that matter)–about attracting them, pleasing them, or giving to them wholeheartedly. Loving, giving, and compassionate service of all kinds are never unworthy in themselves, although unworthy contexts involving extremes of compulsion, lack of appreciation and reciprocation truly are sexist and immoral.

 

Devoted service offered willingly and lovingly in an appreciative, reciprocal (if not tit-for-tat) context is absolutely necessary to optimal human functioning and happiness, and completely different from the kind of forced or half-hearted service in which someone’s gifts are disparaged, unreciprocated, and unappreciated.

 

Too many people nowadays overlook the fact that the very essence of a good relationship is standing in service to one another, regardless of whether that partnership is between husband and wife, mother and daughter, friends, siblings, in-laws, a CEO and her new mail clerk, young lovers…whoever.

 

Every conceivable positive relationship is based in reciprocal service. Relationships that are not about reciprocal service—however loosely defined—are not really relationships at all; they’re isolated billiard balls knocking about an empty lonely pool table universe, banging together sporadically and spectacularly in conflict and competition before resuming their separated lives.

 

The most universally prized life-enhancing romantic relationship, regardless of whether you’re a man or a woman, is one in which your dearly-beloved treats you like a king (or a princess), a goddess (or a god). Among the keys to such heavenly bliss are good-faith, wholeheartedness, appreciation, and reciprocation.

 

Because of confusion about the subtleties of feminism, modern romantic relationships evolved to become less concerned with caring, commitment, and helping one another in a challenging world, and more about cold, competitive calculations and sexual politics. Both sexes worry whether warm displays of affection will be perceived to be neediness. Both sexes fear that generous-spirited service iwill mply servitude. Both sexes exhaust themselves in endless, awkward, conflicted, back-and-forth rituals of worrying whether they’re giving more than they receive. Both sexes are all about, “you go first.” Yet both sexes are fully aware that their beloved wants a partner who is both powerful and slavishly devoted—because frankly, that’s what they want too. Many people deeply enjoy the lavish, tender, solicitous attention of an enchanting member of the opposite sex.

 

More young people of both sexes these days are giving up on what they see as the relationship game, foregoing the pain and uncertainty of modern committed relationships in great part because of their understandable confusion about the wisdom of putting themselves at service to another. I mean, if their long-dreamed-of personification of virtuous masculine/feminine perfections is ultimately unwilling to bow down, worship and serve them all their days, well really, why bother?

 

The age-old willingness of both sexes to offer their personal gifts to a single individual over a lifetime is in considerable decline, and considering the grave new shortage of available perfect partners for such paragons, may never recover.

 

Some women who would willingly offer loving service to women friends still feel historically (and often legitimately) constrained about giving to men, who thus are relegated to a very sad, under-served, second-class half of the world of often otherwise deserving, well-intentioned parents, bosses, employees, children, siblings, friends, and colleagues, which is too bad, too.

 

If feminists want more solidarity and sisterhood, they might consider offering compassionate service and empathy to exploited (or unexploited) sex workers. And while they’re doing that, they might benefit from listening to such workers’ hard-won geisha-type advice about how to please men, just as men could learn much from their gender's most supportive exemplars.

 

Most single young women today devote a large part of their earnings and their waking hours to pleasing men anyway, regardless of how feministically-conflicted they may feel about such efforts. Consider the successes of recent best-sellers offering love advice from former prostitutes….

 

It is certainly grossly sexist when women (and men) are constrained, unwilling givers to unappreciative, inequitable, unreciprocating receivers who have been deluded into thinking that such service is the rightful due of their gender.

 

Much of modern feminism is a reaction against unappreciative men who historically not only gobbled up all the good jobs and roles, but also most of the money, prestige and power that came along with them, and who later had the nerve to expect continued affectionate service from women, not as a freely-given, loving, and valued gift, but as their legitimate if unreciprocated due. Women, too, are finally seeing the sexism behind the long-standing assumption that men owe women a living….

 

To the often justifiably-aggrieved women who find little to like about men: please stop insisting that there’s something slavish, inappropriate, and/or sexist about freely choosing to be in a generous, mutually supportive relationship with a man (or a woman?) There isn’t.

 

Forewarned is forearmed: men like women who like them. If you don't much care for your man, or for men in general, for whatever reasons, don’t be surprised if he someday wanders off with someone completely unworthy of him but who likes him a lot and aims to please. The same goes for men who don't find much to like about women.

 

To all women: please try to see fit never again to disrespect a geisha or any other sex worker. Like the rest of us bumbling God-isn’t-finished-with-us-yet-either humans, sex workers need compassion, acceptance, and understanding, not contempt.

 

And finally, to women who love men, or who want to learn how to love them better, we can all reasonably choose, if we wish to, to learn a lot from geisha. Because geisha aren’t just about sex, you know. Sexuality, like spirituality, pervades all aspects of life. It's not just about genitals. The brain, they say, is the most important sex organ. Geisha know a lot about making men happier which is well worth knowing, if you’re one of the many who aspire to mutually enjoy and serve another.

 

Geisha lore offers a tempting (but not exclusive) window on relatively rare social arts: attentiveness, affection, tenderness, flirting, gentleness, refinement, courtesy, agreeableness, femininity, respect, presence, charm, humor, kindness, intellect, sensitivity, openness, loyalty, sensuality, giving, honoring, playfulness, intimacy, nurturing, acceptance, forgiveness, support, generosity, assistance, vulnerability, respect for tradition, and, in general, making a fuss over, and spoiling men rotten. Geisha are really good at making men feel truly wonderful about themselves. What’s not to like about that?

 

Whenever and however did this venerable list of praiseworthy social skills become politically incorrect? These subtly but important graces–along with physical beauty, gorgeous accoutrements, and skill in the arts of music, dance, serving food and the like–are a goodly part of what real geisha are all about, not to mention real women, real men, real relationships, and real feminism.

 

I don’t see much clarity about any of this in today’s society. I would love to see more thoughtful commentary and dialogue on these engaging contemporary issues, and regret not having found an in-depth treatment of them in Rob Marshall’s movie. I do think his film was beautiful made and visually and emotionally rich; he just missed this one important boat.

 

I hope someday to see highly-accomplished geisha finally receive from western audiences the recognition, support, and respect due them for their historic, centuries-old, artful, dedicated, cheerful, and very valuable example of freely-given, highly-valued compassionate service—not servitude or subjugation—to fortunate and highly appreciative men.

 

Please write comments to epharmon@adelphia.net

 

 

 

Here is a conversation I had with a thoughtful reader….)

 

 

Hello,

 

        A colleague forwarded your article to me, and I found it most interesting.   I agree with the vast majority of your assertions (although Marshall's set was not, in actuality, culturally accurate).    I wrote a doctoral dissertation on geisha (2002), and I propose geisha as feminists. I have an article in a book entitled Bad Girls of Japan; in a dialogue between me, a few geisha, and several customers, we discuss geisha as feminists.  I spent almost three years with geisha, and studied them as artists; I frame them as women in control of their own futures and outline just exactly how they exist within the arts world (the Ph.D. was completed in ethnomusicology).    I propose that the “bought and sold” model of geisha so treasured in America is a form of feminist Orientalism, and we need this false notion if we are to appear advanced in the gender department (another pipe dream).

    The film was ridiculous.   Even someone who's seen geisha for only a few minutes would never have tried to pass that off as accurate.   The Chinese actresses the country continues to rave about were pathetic actresses — we just have poor standards for this.   Real geisha couldn't be more different.

     The arts scenes were so far off as to be laughable — imagine casting the American basketball team as the Bolshoi, putting them in leotards, giving them a few lessons, and then allowing their “dance” to be passed off seriously as ballerinas.   These Chinese actresses couldn't even wear kimono properly because they hadn't done it for thirty odd years, couldn’t walk properly (an art learned from dance).

     Anyway, kudos to you for smelling a fraud even though you don't have the experience I've had, and for pointing out one of America's greatest blind spots.   Unfortunately, the rest of the nation is eagerly gobbling up the fantasy, and real geisha will suffer the consequences because young Japanese men don't want to be part of something that the world condemns.

      Feel free to email — kforeman69@hotmail.com

 

Best,

Kelly Foreman, Ph.D.

 

Dear Kelly,

 

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and interesting letter; it was very gratifying to hear from a scholar who is so experienced and knowledgeable about geisha, and I appreciated your support as well as your clarifications. What a fascinating experience you had in Japan!

 

My background in geisha and feminism is avocational. I was introduced to an exquisite geisha in Kyoto when I was a little girl, visiting the gardens surrounding a teahouse during the early 50's, and later that night saw more geisha singing and dancing on a kabuki stage, if my memory serves correctly. My father, a great Japanophile, was stationed in Tokyo in the U.S. occupation army–we lived there three years. My father described the “top” geisha to me as prized national treasures, personifications of the Japanese feminine ideal, carriers of a long oral cultural tradition, and the epitome of social refinement, courtesy, sensitivity, delicacy. My dad was my childhood hero, so his admiration piqued my interest greatly.

 

Perhaps I read a review of Bad Girls and picked up your idea of geisha as feminists–I don't remember, I'm sorry–we bloggers are pretty free to throw “our” stuff “out there” unhitched to anything, and just see what happens, unlike you more conscientious folk…. I really like your great thesis and agree with it, and I loved your NBA/Bolshoi image….

 

I've been blogging since Feb 05 and am enjoying it.  I forwarded the geisha article to your colleague (I only sent it to one person) since her name came up, when, as an afterthought, I googled “geisha” + “feminism.” I had started the piece as a review of Memoirs of a Geisha, and I guess it got away from me!

 

Thanks, too, for your comment on the set. The old town took me back a long ways into nostalgia-land, although to be sure, I shouldn't have pronounced it accurate, since I didn't know. I remember that I would take my 200-yen allowance weekly and wander the little shops in search of treasures. Everyone was always so kind to me–I'm still drawn to Asians. I didn't know there had been a war; I felt perfectly safe.

 

I will look for your book/article…. I hope to return to Japan some day. I remember spending a week at a lake resort called Kanizawa (I'm not sure of the spelling)–perhaps it has changed less than Tokyo? My favorite movie is Lost in Translation–I watch it over and over. I mean to review it–I'll send it when I do…. I've also been accused of having Japanese influences in my art–my compositions and technique too? I posted a couple of my portraits on my blog–do you see a Japanese influence? Interesting, as I left Japan when I was only 9.

 

What a fascinating field you are in–it's just exploding.

 

I really like/agree with your thesis on the American view of geisha; I'm guessing that the Japanese view is very mixed? I do hope some still cherish the geisha. Yes, the young everywhere are easily embarrassed by old ways, and hasten to throw them out; our Indian cultures come to mind. I remember how WEIRD I thought authentic (American) Indian music was when I first heard a recording (in elementary school)–anything different shocks the young–they are so rigid so early. I love it now, so it must have been a fruitful introduction–I stayed intrigued.

 

I was very interested by what you said about the actors' portrayal of the geisha in the movie, because I thought perhaps my memory might have been playing tricks on me. The movie geisha, to me, looked, in comparison to remembered geisha, very big, crude, and galumphing, sort of, although of course they are beautiful women. I loved Gong Li in To Live and earlier movies of Zhang Zhi (spelling?) better. My very different memory of geisha is of amazingly tiny, delicate, small birds. They also had beautiful cultivated voices, and were incredibly poised; every move seemed artless yet amazingly beautiful. My geisha was so gentle and warm to the little girl (me) shyly admiring her. And yes, no one in the movie reproduced their incredible walk….

 

I do recall seeing Sayonara many years ago, and the geisha/star in that movie seemed more authentic; I'll have to Netflix it and see what I think now, lo these many years later….

 

Thank you again, Kelly, for your kudos and your kindness. If I receive any interesting mail on the topic, I'll forward it to you. I will be very interested to follow your academic career.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Eppy Harmon

 

 

Hi Kelly-

 

An afterthought… May I post your letter to me on my blogsite (www.epharmony.com) along with my reply to you–following my geisha article, in the comment section? May I also post your email address, in case someone has a question for you? Thanks again so much for writing….

 

Yours,

Eppy

 

 

 

Hi-

 

        Thanks for your letter.  I like Kyoto too, and lived there, but kind of found that there were more actual artisans in Tokyo than in Kyoto (almost all of the arts headmasters who teach Kyoto geiko live in Tokyo or Osaka).   I love Tokyo's energy, and Tokyo geisha are really fun!   The kind geisha you saw in Kyoto are the real thing; they are far too busy to be as langourous as that film depicted, too refined to be as catty as that.   There's competition for the arts roles and artistic rivalry to be sure, but nobody has the time to waste like that.

 

    The real problem with the film, that the media seems not able to acknowledge, is that this awful film is based on an awful book. Golden's book is a fiction, and nothing more than a cheap white boy fantasy at that. He wrote it to cater to American orientalist fantasies, to sell copy (which it did).  So the movie should be viewed in the same vein as Harry Potter or something, if at all.

 

    Geisha do not spoil men; men feel spoiled around women who spend all day studying art, for most of their lives.  Imagine having dinner with a Bolshoi ballerina, or with Nadia Solerno-Sonnenberg?   Or a person with both talents combined?   We don't have anything like this.   Geisha don't cater to men's whims at all — I can assure this.  They are actually pretty aloof, in the way that artists are (even around the people who pay for their living).   Japan has gradually devalued its own arts, especially traditional music and dance, so any future audiences for geisha rely on a cultivated taste in these things, and this is unlikely.   Even the music tracks (all except for two) were completely inaccurate;  there's Chinese er-hu or pipa for many of them, shakuhachi (never heard in the geisha quarters), and tsugaru shamisen (a northern folk form).   Would you use blue grass fiddle music to depict classical ballet, just because the instrument is associated with it

(the violin)?!

 

            Please read the actual memoirs:   Geisha, a Life, by Mineko Iwasaki.  This is the same person that Golden interviewed for Memoirs, but chose instead to create his own weird version.   The two stories have no relationship whatsoever.

 

         Bad Girls of Japan (Palgrave Press, 2005) includes my chapter, called “Bad Girls Confined:  Okuni, Geisha, and Negotiation of Female Performance Space.”    It answers a lot of the questions many people have about geisha.   My dissertation is called The Role of Music in the Lives and Identities of Japanese Geisha (Kent State University Press, 2002), and I have an upcoming book being published by Ashgate Press in London called The Gei of Geisha:  Music, Identity, and Meaning (2007?).

 

         Thanks for the interest, and for doing the blog!   I’m fine with posting this conversation too….

 

Best,

Kelly

 

Hi Kelly-

 

Thanks for your permission to post our exchange. I must admit I enjoyed Golden’s book, and admired his story-telling abilities. I’m sure I projected my own image of geisha onto his. You, on the other hand, were evaluating critically, from an informed background and interest, which is another thing entirely…. Thank you for the above references…. I will post them too.

 

One last comment: I wish I’d said, “Geisha make men feel spoiled” instead of “geisha spoil men.” I agree that geisha are too hard-working and serious of purpose to have time to indulge men often. The lucky few men, on the other hand, who are graced with the good fortune to enjoy the complete, gentle focus and presence of a geisha, even for a short time, must feel spoiled and honored by that moment’s special attentiveness to their needs and thoughts. Too often, western women perceive attentiveness to men as flattery and indulgence, when sometimes what men want is merely courtesy, kindness, and a little unrushed attention…. They feel spoiled just to get that!

 

I look forward to talking with you again someday, Kelly.

 

Yours,

“Eppy”

 

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“To Live” is To Die For

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If To Live was intended to be a very persuasive heroic epic offering a model of feminine perfection during a lifetime of political and personal adversity, it succeeded admirably. I had to keep reminding myself that it was only a movie, and that the character played by Gong Li was fictional; I was stunned by her purity, refinement, selflessness, tranquility, quiet charm, and gentleness, and her apparent total commitment to creating a peaceful family life. Repeatedly, she let go of past regrets and bitterness, and worked through the many negatives of her life with a positive attitude toward the present and the future—despite a marriage to a weak, difficult husband.

 

I so admired the quality of contentedness I saw in this movie. Without any apparent advantages in education, cleverness, wit, talent, athletic ability, skill, spirituality, creativity, or money-making abilities (and other qualities many people aspire to), Gong Li’s character accepted herself, others, and her own situation, quietly working to improve her life without throwing energy into resisting or rejecting her challenging constraints. Her character projected no struggle whatsoever against the injustices of her situation, while so many of us second-guess every aspect of our lives, every choice we’ve ever made or have yet to make.

 

Most Americans—and probably most Chinese, who knows?—want so much more than “just” a quiet life with their spouses and children. And even when our steady American stream of personal requirements is lavishly addressed, few of us feel fulfilled, or filled with anything like satisfaction. Instead, we’re restless, doubtful, and grasping for more.

 

Gong Li’s character was so–believably–pure, I almost felt dirty–selfish, demanding, spoiled, neurotic. This film made me resolve to be less so in the future. I’m perfectly capable of getting myself in a big twist over a small thing; Gong Li’s character managed to make a happy marriage and a good family life out of very difficult circumstances and an unlucky match. Yet the movie still seemed a convincing personal vignette about a unique family.

 

To Live left me with a quiet ache for more simplicity and gentleness in everyday American life. For example—I was touched by how kindly and hospitably the older couple welcomed a shy young man as a possible match for their daughter—how accepting they were—especially when I consider all the hoops we sometimes make our prospective sons- and daughters-in-law jump through, and the impossible expectations we burden our children with.

 

Although I’m sure that Chinese culture has its many areas of challenge, I suspect that this movie is at least representative of values and attitudes the Chinese government would like to promote, and possibly is supporting through direct advocacy of such filmmaking. I wish we would see more similar work in our own culture; the media is such a powerful tool, and our airways are supposedly owned by the public—why not use them more wisely for the general good? Universal values are universal values—there’s little argument about what values we can all aspire to if we want to be happier. Yet, too often, our powerful media seems to be working against parental attempts to raise positive, productive, mentally and physically healthy children, and to create accepting, contented marriages.

 

I’m aware of the popular notion that Chinese blockbusters glorify communist history, but I saw little of that here. To be sure, the movie was pro-communist, just as many American movies are fundamentally (if perhaps less consciously) pro-capitalist, but viewers will see both the pros and cons of a rapidly-emerging culture during a very complicated, difficult, very human and fallible political and social era. In that sense, the portrayal of historical social and political realities should be familiar to Americans.

 

I found this window into a very-different-from-my-own private lifestyle completely fascinating.

 

I didn’t much enjoy the depressing, off-putting first fifteen minutes of the movie, as the director set up its initial sad premises. Furthermore, unsophisticated western ears won’t appreciate the traditional Chinese dramatic music during opening scenes, and may also find the opening gambling scenes, and dissolution of the early family, abhorrent. I was also restless during the initial revolutionary war scenes in which the Red Army was unrealistically idealized (war is, after all, war.) But when Gong Li finally returned to the screen, everything picked up, and the film was fascinating from then on.

 

The acting and the direction were outstanding, and the sets arresting and probably authentic. The very sad and memorable scenes depicting personal tragedies were compelling, beautifully, and convincingly produced.

 

I can’t wait to see Gong Li as the evil Hatsumomo in Memoirs of a Geisha. I’ve read that she does a brilliant job as Sayuri’s rival. What an opportunity to see Gong Li’s full range of acting abilities—from her portrayal of the somewhat Melanie Wilkes-type character in To Live, all the way to her villainous geisha in Memoirs.

 

If you think you might enjoy a poignant, thoughtful, beautifully-made movie depicting a starkly different culture, and offering on the side some sense of recent Chinese history and politics, you will enjoy To Live.

 

Please address comments to epharmon@adelphia.net.

 

 

 

 

Coulda Been, Woulda Been, Shoulda Been….Sad Lessons in 20/20 Foresight

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A few weeks after 9/11, my local newspaper published my “solutions” and comments about “what we should do next/now.” Here is the article as printed then:

If I were the U.S. government, (and, come to think of it, I am!–a person in the government of the people, by the people and for the people) I would figure out which American foreign policies have resulted in so much global hatred and criticism, and change them.

I would use this terrible, tragic attack an an opening to form global alliances based in respect and love for human life, human freedom, and human interests everywhere.

I would stop acting as if American interests and American children and American families and American freedom and American lives are more important than, or in some way separable from, the interests of children and families and  freedom and lives everywhere. People in faraway places feel just as much pain, anger, confusion, frustration, sadness as Americans do, when violence touches them.

I would defend the lives of my family and friends with my own. I would defend our land, our forms of government and economics, our people and cultures and freedoms and ideals and our chosen way of life, but I would not insist that everyone everywhere adopt them.

I would not subvert, and would ardently support, the right of women everywhere to freely choose their roles and work and religions and cultures–whether or not I agree with their particular choices.

I would not use the arguments of “stability,” “American interests,” or “protection of our citizenry” to legitimize unjustly invading, occupying, imposing on, or exploiting any other peoples, or to create or support undemocratic governments favorable to American interests.

I would not send secret agents to undermine others' right to self-determination. I would not assume that everyone wants us to come over and tell them how to live.

I would offer help to others in reaching whatever goals are important to them; that seems to be a good way to win friends.

Sharing our loving American hearts with people everywhere would make good economic and political and military sense. If some of the money we spend on military and intelligence were spent on kindness, diplomacy, and sharing, we'd be a safer, richer, happier country.

I would give no support to government policies and decisions that legitimize treating non-Americans in ways we Americans would not wish to be treated.

That's the golden rule for you–Jesus' rule, Buddha's rule, Confucius' rule, Moses' rule, Mohammed's rule. Treating others as you would wish to be treated is the christian thing, the humanitarian thing to do.

America is a land and a way of life that can legitimately be defended from those who would invade or impose upon us, true. But the America that is most worth defending is not just a land, not just a people, but a noble idea, a symbol, a belief and value system that supports freedom for all (not just Americans), a happy, joyful life for all children (not just American children), democracy for all (not just Americans), equality of opportunity for all (not just Americans), peace for all (not just Americans), freedom from terrorism and tyranny and war (90 percent of war deaths are civilians) for all, not just for Americans.

What we Americans all stand for, what is most worth defending, is the American creed we uphold, our fundamental creed that reminds us that our creator gave us all (not just Americans) inalienable rights.

Americanism is a creed declaring freedom for all, justice for all, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness for all. If not, we Americans are not really about justice, democracy, freedom, rights, at all. By definition, these are inclusive human rights and legitimate pursuits, or they mean nothing at all.

How can we be responsible for everyone else? Well, we can at least make a small start by making sure that we're not part of the problem for anyone else.

We can look and see where we have burdened other people or countries, where we have taken unfair advantage, where we have supported an unrepresentative system of government for our own convenience or comfort or gain, where we have taken advantage of unjust conditions and governments and situations and workers to reap an inequitable, unkind benefit–and stop doing that.

Would I be willing to give up some of my comforts, some of my privileges? Yes, gladly, and so would most other Americans. We would give up a great deal, for freedom, for justice.

We must actively insist that our government act only in ways that express and uphold the values we believe in.

Capitalism does not have to mean unfair exploitation, unbridled selfishness, uncontrolled greed, blind materialism. Capitalism isn't a system designed to protect the rights of everyone to take whatever they want however they can get it. Capitalism is not about allowing the rich to exploit the poor. Capitalism is about open, ethical markets among free peoples. Capitalism is about creating and protecting fair economic systems which work to support the interests of all people, everywhere in the world.

If the idea of America is about anything, if it's worth anything, it's about justice, fairness, kindness, support for true freedom and democracy and abundance for all.

If we allow America to be about freedom, justice, and abundance–but only for Americans–how can we say we value human life itself? How can we be angry with others who don't seem to value human life, who take it away senselessly in terrorist acts?

How can we expect the rest of the world to give a damn about the 6,000+ beautiful lives that were lost in America on Sept. 11, and about the thousands of family and friends who are suffering today because of those losses, if we ourselves don't care, moment-to-moment, day-to-day, month-to-month, and year-to-year whether our own economic and military and political policies contribute to the long-term suffering, starvation, disease, and death of millions everywhere in the world, and in our own country?

If we don't care about the millions of Afghans who died and/or are currently refugees from the last decade of war? If we don't care about the Iraqi children, 5,000 dying every month? If we don't care about these things, then we're not Americans, we're…I don't know…something else…hedonists?…some other entity that doesn't deserve to win, to be powerful, to thrive, to speak proudly of our rights and values and ideals and heritage, to people everywhere.

If we value human life at all, if we expect others to value American lives, then we must examine our own economic, military, diplomatic, intelligence and foreign policies, and hold our government responsible to insure that each of our policies and decisions reflects value and respect for human life, not just American life. Whenever we make policy that affects anyone anywhere, we must ask if we would want that policy directed towards ourselves.

Nothing can excuse this terrible, violent act of terrorism, or ever make it right. It has opened a Pandora's box of hatred and anger which will increase for a long time, and I pray in the name of its most direct sufferers that their memory will not be disrespected by using them as an excuse to start World War III. They know more than anyone else right now how much human suffering another war would create. Instead, I look for some kind of silver lining, some hope that some good can come of senseless tragedy, some understanding, some growth,  some meanings, as all things can work together for good.

I hope this disaster will impel us to finally open up global money tracking so criminals, terrorists, and drug dealers of all stripes cannot have a free hand. I hope we will finally track down all the weapons ever made, and make no more. I hope we will strengthen our highest-minded global alliances, create more, and continue to reach across national, racial, ethnic, historical, age, gender and religious boundaries, person to person, to further our highest ideals.

I hope we will support representative, responsive governments everywhere. I hope we will all listen, and talk, and share, and learn, and act in ways that respect human life and freedom and dignity, that alleviate human suffering. I hope that we will make decisions which reflect the highest beliefs of Christianity, of Islam, of Judaism, of Buddhism, of humanitariansm.

Only when we work together internationally in love, will we be able to begin to save our planet from the ravages or man's fear, greed, ignorance, and selfishness.

We must make choices from now on that are worthy and honorific of our beloved dead.

(Postscript, written on 12/19/05):

I never thought WMDs in Iraq probable (although possible.) My reasons for this opinion were generally rejected, though, by “average Americans” (people relatively unsophisticated about politics who trusted a narrow, steady diet of  conservative news outlets) with whom I spoke on the subject at the time—so enthralled were they with the booming Saddam-As-Evil-Incarnate pro-war propaganda machine as to be unreceptive to any alternate probabilities.

The reasons I thought Saddam probably didn't have WMDs were: (1) He was unlikely to have been able to conceal WMDs throughout so many years of U.N. sanctions and scrutiny; (2) he was unlikely to respond to the imminent U.S. threat by admitting he had no defensive capacity; (3) U.N. inspectors were very clear about the fact that their expensive and expansive searches had not as yet found any such weapons; (4) all the U.S. pro-war hawks had already embraced sufficient motivations for invading Iraq–a list including cockiness, dominance, militarism, oil, power lust, ideology, fear, religious convictions involving protection of  Israel, U.S. strategic and commercial interests, a desire to test and use their fancy new weapons and troops, “because they could,” and so on….) So I distrusted what they said about WMDs (along with everything else) as likely being just another part of their long dubious list of overblown, panic-inducing manufactured justifications for going to war; and (5) I knew enough about the U.S. government's history of setting up and supporting tyrannical thugs throughout the world in the past, not to buy into any newly convenient shrill indignation about how suddenly dangerous to the U.S. Saddam Hussein had become, how he'd gassed his own people, etc. It was the U.S. (the CIA) who originally set Saddam Hussein up as Iraq's leader, who financially supported him in exactly that type of thuggery for many many years, in order to protect “our” cheap and steady flow of Iraqi oil from an Iran-like oil industry nationalization. (For annotated and documented history of such repugnant U.S. actions, read he-whom-conservative-demagogues-most-fear-you'll-read: MIT's Noam Chomsky. For starters.)

Although I didn't write critically about the WMD speculations post 9/11, a lot of very informed and interested people who opposed invasion did. I wish someone would take the (considerable) research trouble to compile an “I told you so” expose, listing all the thoughtful people who, before the war, accurately predicted in U.S. daily newspapers, exactly what happened later in Iraq.

I wish this researcher would list who and when and what each critic wrote at that time, to answer all those who now say, “Everyone worldwide thought there were WMDs.” This assertion is simply blatantly false–“everyone” did not believe that. A multitude of spot-on pre-war critics wrote frantically, both in the U.S. and in international periodicals and newspapers, offering scholarly, articulate, and perfectly reasonable rationales against WMDs and for not going to war—although by then most Americans were so terrified by the steady drumbeat of pro-war, pro-fear propaganda that they had already made up their minds—including, unfortunately, many in leadership roles in our government who never even bothered to read about or consider the warnings. 

Anyone who was the least bit skeptical about the logic, trustworthiness, and veracity of the Bush administration's blustering could have read all such arguments in many daily U.S. and international newspapers, and certainly they were rampant on the web. For example, most of such arguments against WMDs and invasion were right there in black-and-white, as plain as day (if sometimes in small print and at the ends of articles) in The Washington Post—the daily newspaper I read—tied up with string, for me and all others willing and capable of looking past the pro-war lies and hype.

Please send comments to epharmon@adelphia.net.

 

 

 

 

“Eat Drink Man Woman” – Universal, Instructive, Thought-Provoking, Culturally Fascinating

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One reason I watch foreign films is to broaden myself about the ways American films, families, and culture are different from those of other cultures. This movie was richly rewarding in that sense, as well as very enjoyable, and artistically very well-done.

 

“Eat Drink Man Woman” is a thoughtful drama about a Taiwanese master chef/widower with three marriageable daughters.

 

The many intertwined plots were surprising and satisfying, never pat. The disparate characters were each interesting and believable, and their choices turned out to be very true to their characters. I felt a sense of real people, distinct, unique, each with his/her own very human set of strengths and weaknesses, each making real, important choices; yet this movie left me with no sense at all of strings having been tidily or predictably tied up, or even ending. Instead, I felt that much had changed, much had stayed the same, and family life would go on, a bit differently. How like life….

 

It was interesting to see how each character isolated him (or her) self  from the others concerning their most important, major private struggles. It was also interesting to see how unique and true-to-character each was in his/her choice of personal struggles, and how differently, in terms of personal styles, each one went about pursuing his or her chosen quests–and finally, how OK all these varied paths felt.

 

This movie left me with so much respect for uniqueness, and with a renewed realization that there really are no universal answers that work for everyone, although there are some pretty good universal values.

 

For instance, one character’s personality was quite unconscious about herself and others, resistant and defensive, even to choices which later worked out to be just right for her. Yet she was always true to herself, and worked to surround herself with others who cared about her.

 

One character strove toward a difficult long-term commitment, taking step after careful step to overcome heavy obstacles to achieving that goal. Another character merrily flowed along in life, characteristically open, eager, honest, generous and thoughtless—and of course stumbled enthusiastically into his/her destiny.

 

An unusually talented individual with great integrity anguished over every small deliberate choice, making small, excellent, creative decisions among many options despite considerable adversity, opening many more new opportunities to yet more expansive sets of difficult choices. This individual subtly worked to balance all her choices for the good of everyone she cared about, herself very much included, miraculously without being obnoxious about any of it.

 

Each character in this movie, like every human being, came burdened with past mistakes, regrets, heartaches, disappointments and misunderstandings, which of course impacted their present feelings and choices.

 

I admired this family’s loyalty, and their mutual respect and support, all very evident in their efforts to be kind, helpful and courteous to one another and others, despite life's many challenges.

 

I was intrigued as well about the evident “Asian” diffidence concerning effusive affection. Americans are often more pal-ly (pal-ish?) and casual, which can be hurtful or helpful, depending perhaps upon sensitivity and luck? It also seemed “Asian” somehow that no one in this movie really knew much about what was going on in one another’s lives and thoughts—but then, do Americans ever really know very much either, despite how much we share about ourselves and how many questions we ask? Everyone in this particular family seemed to accept one another’s right to privacy (perhaps to a fault); evidently this is a mixed blessing, which Americans often share with equally mixed results. Just like in America, these characters avoided and deflected direct questions about the really important issues in their lives–yet everyone still did a lot of guessing and gossiping, with all the usual resultant confusions–because everyone’s assumptions are always way off. All of which made the movie that much more interesting and universal.

 

The many intricate plots were each compelling, moving, and beautifully acted, and each story was worth telling and well-told. Each story, as well as the story of the whole family (an interesting plot in itself) was allowed to develop naturally and richly over time, yet efficiently, with no extraneous detail.

 

Although each person was very private, sharing little of their personal lives with one another, and rarely consultative about decision-making, each announced important personal decisions which would affect the family courageously, honestly, and openly, even when such disclosures were sure to be upsetting or unwelcome. The family always seemed to surmount initial emotional reactions and eventually come around to respect, acceptance and support for the different choices and values of the others, with no attempts to change or manipulate one another.

 

I was also impressed, coming as I do from a culture of fast-food and fast-living, with how much time and excellence this family put into its mutual offerings of caring for each other, friends, colleagues, etc.

 

If you like beautiful cooking, you’ll like this movie.

 

I took away a strong sense that things tend to work out in families (if not in the exact ways each family member would want) when family members strive to uphold ideals and values of commitment, courtesy, acceptance, caring, and respect, despite conflicting personal values, personalities and choices, and often in the face of tragic, embarrassing, or unwanted outcomes. In this sense, this movie reminded me of a Japanese book I once read (and also enjoyed very much) called The Makioki Sisters.

 

I found it difficult to keep up with the many names and faces at first. But I enjoyed this movie so much that I watched it again, so as not to miss all the delicious, rewarding details, and was glad I did.

 

The filming was gorgeous, particular the details about food preparation. I particularly admired the acting of the father, and the middle sister, who was memorably beautiful and charming. I appreciated that “Eat Drink Man Woman” was exemplary of the “show me, don’t tell me” school of art.

 

A character in the movie made the comment that different families communicate in different ways: this family communicated—really, loved one another–through food. It made me remember how much my birth family loved one another through singing together.

 

I recommend this movie for anyone interested in a charming, artistic story about individuals in a close family facing many challenges, both together and apart, over time. I also picked up a lot of fascinating details about interesting cultural differences in Taiwan.

 

 

Please send comments to epharmon@adelphia.net .