The Thin Red Line

Directed by Terrence Malick 


The first time that I saw "The Thin Red Line," the 1998 film directed by Terrence Malick, I kind of hated it. I barely understood what it was about and it seemed to me absurdly long and sentimental. But that was then. I just saw it again a few days ago and I came to understand a couple of things this time: first, my initial frustration of those days. Second, the deep conviction of the director that prevented him from making a more standard, cohesive movie and rather forced him to create a disjointed work or art. Imperfect but genuine. A jewel made for posterity.

It's hard to think of this movie as a war movie, in spite of the fact that it holds some of the most vivid war scenes I have ever seen. This is mostly because of the tone inserted at the beginning of the story, when some AWOL soldiers live in hiding from the war among some remote Islanders. Since then, Malick floods the movie with first person narrations of the characters reasoning their past and present, questioning life and God, thinking about the world they live in.

So many characters and renown actors come and go that it's hard to keep account of them, and at the end the spectator remembers just a few ones, who die or disappear just the same. Also, heroism, self-interest and pure generosity come and go from the screen, as a means to paint the absurdity of life without denouncing war as an intrusion or an anomaly in a perfect world, but rather assuming its futility as part of the futility of life itself.

All of this might be too much for the average moviegoer that, more or less expects going from A to Z. The whole plot --if we could talk about a plot in the whole movie-- is about the take of Guadalcanal by U.S. forces against the fiery resistance by the Japanese. We see how the Americans soldiers go from frightened little pups to develop a sense of entitlement to their superiority at the end. The Japanese, that start bringing fear with their accurate, massive, efficient attacks, crumble into insanity and bottomless desperation at the end.

But among all this nonsense and destruction paradoxically portrayed as such in the middle of the Second World War --the only "good war" in American history-- Malick proposes art as an escape. Beauty as salvation from our sins. Mankind's redeeming quality. We have the power to imagine, he seems to be saying. The power to create and enjoy and, most of all, the power to create beauty. We'll destroy it in the end of course. But it's good to remember.

Sueños

Hay periodos en la vida en que los sueños de uno se vuelven tan reales y vívidos, que se convierten en parte de nuestra experiencia. Sí, experiencias. Y en mi caso, y ello quizá sea un síntoma de vejez o de locura, ocurre que en sueños me encuentro con mi padre y, a veces, con tíos que murieron hace muchísimos años, cuando yo era apenas un adolescente. Y no una sino muchas veces, como remachando la idea de que, en el fondo de mi conciencia,  jamás voy a aceptar su muerte. Cuando en sueños me encuentro con mi padre, por ejemplo, estoy tan contento de verlo que no recuerdo por qué lo dejé de ver la última vez. Totalmente amnésico, me inunda una alegría contagiosa, hago bromas y chistes, y lo abrazo y a veces hasta lloro de emoción. Nunca me acuerdo de su muerte ni de la profunda tristeza que me causó su despedida. La presencia de mi padre lo inunda todo con su dulzura, y mi felicidad no tiene límites.

The Woman in Black

Directed by James Watkins 
Cast: Daniel Radcliffe, Ciarán Hinds  

Finally I caught this film in a dollar-theater here in Greensboro, after it exhausted long ago the official premiere network rounds. But the wait was worthwhile. This movie is a creepy old-fashioned ghost story where in fact, voilá, there is a ghost. A real one. And scary as hell. So, what I am saying is, when you open a door like that in a script, well, anything can happen. As in fact it does. 

Daniel Radcliffe --who famously portrayed Harry Potter in the film series-- makes a good job as a frightened but brave lawyer who, during the early twentieth-century England is sent by his company --in the old Dracula's storyline tradition-- to a remote village to retrieve documents from an old estate haunted by the supernatural. Then he realizes that all the villagers are as scared of him as they are from the abandoned house he is visiting. And, of course, sooner than later he begins to understand why. He starts hearing strange noises and to see weird things --that the freaked-out spectator sees before him. Among the visions is included the hateful woman in black who lost her child in the past and, as revenge obliges in scary movies, is taking with her the children of the terrified villagers in the present. According to the town people, whenever the woman in black is seen by anybody, the next thing that happens is that a kid dies in a horrible manner.

But, let's stop talking about the plot. It does not make much sense to be honest. The strength of the movie resides in its horror crescendos and its artsy production --including malevolent monkey toys and trashed old dolls, no less-- that conjures up those fears that were breastfed to all human beings  from scary stories.

Unfortunately there is a couple of moments where the director exaggerates the gratuitous shocks --and the strident music that comes along with them, that are a staple in every horror film from the last decade. But, all in all, and including the very respectable presence of Ciarán Hinds in the cast, this is a good film that enjoyed a decent and well deserved box-office return. Warning: at times, it's really scary.

The moving landscape

I wrote this article as a Google Profile about two years ago and then I updated it a few months ago. I took it as a writing exercise but then I started to like it... maybe because, pretty much, it's about my father. 

I grew up in a noisy neighborhood in Lima, Peru, playing soccer on the streets with my pals when traffic was slow, hiding from adults to smoke guilty cigarettes and listening to portable AM radios at the doorsteps of our houses. It was during my high school years that I discovered movies, books, good music. What can I say? I am still hooked up. It seems that I have not changed much since then. 

I am the son of Alicia Segunda and Ezequiel Gilberto, immigrants both from the same northern part of the country who met for the first time in Lima, the country's capital, the big metropolis. Everybody knew my dad by the nickname “Chiki” (pronounced Cheekee) —except me, who called him “papá” until I became a teenager. My dad was a truck driver with a heart of gold who rarely allowed me to go with him during his travels, something that hurt me badly because I loved being in his company.
Maybe because it was so rare, hitting the road with my dad is one of my most precious memories of those days.

Truth be told, truck cabins were then such an uncomfortable place. The engine of my dad’s truck was so noisy that we could talk only if we yell at each other —forget about listening music on the road. Besides, in order to arrive as early as possible, my dad always pushed himself a little longer and drove farther and farther before even thinking about pulling out to eat. But no matter what, every single minute of those trips was precious to me, bringing to my eyes a moving landscape that was worthy of every nuisance: desolate deserts that seemed to extend until the end of the world, small dusty pueblos in the middle of green and luscious valleys, mountainous landscapes that looked from another distant planet… until you saw a barefoot little boy carrying his books to a school miles away from home. The best, though, was when we stopped to eat and relax, and we could savor the different accents and the stubborn smiles of the people, defying with humor the appalling poverty of their surroundings.

One day, after graduating from high school, a friend of mine came home with the idea of studying in one of the most “exclusive” universities in Lima. My dad heard that and since then he insisted that I should study there until I actually did it. In Peru there are no scholarships available, though, and we had some money issues at home. But throughout the time I was a student, I never had any problem paying my tuition on time.

After graduation I discovered the pleasure of writing when I was hired as a copy writer for a recently launched weekly magazine of El Comercio, “the” newspaper in Peru. I am very proud of my record there. In time I became an Editor —“Jefe de Redacción” was my job title — and my boss, Bernardo Roca Rey Miró-Quesada, a restless and visionary guy with the soul of a gypsy, got tired of getting cornered with my salary demands and put on my hands the responsibility of creating an entire magazine, so that I could have a superior pay-grade as an Editor. It was a stroke of genius. Those days felt as if the stars had finally aligned for me. I had my “own” magazine, my beloved son Alex was born and I got a new job title and a better salary. Best of all, I put my ideas to work everyday. And as an editor, I recruited and lead a group of talented young writers and we had lots of laughs together. Best of all, the financial numbers and the readership of the magazines under my supervision looked absolutely great and always improving. Did I mention that I was lucky?

Things changed in time, though, and I started to think that I could do even better. Marital problems at home, management decisions at the magazine that bothered me and left me with the feeling of being unappreciated at work lead me to leave everything behind for the promise of coming to the United States.  So, I quit and studied hard to pass my GRE test and finally I got a graduate student visa, coming to Miami to study International Relations.

Postgraduate school was so difficult, though. I had to struggle not only with a new country and a new language but I also had to deal with these highly abstract academic texts that I needed to read over and over. Providence came to my rescue. I met a nice woman in the university who sweeten my days with her love and dedication. We married as soon as I graduated and it was a beautiful period in my life, when money was tight but we did not really care. Financially we were down at the bottom, I guess, and we could only go up.

The problem is that a degree in International Relations is as useful in Miami as "an ashtray in a motorcycle". In a single week I had to work three or four jobs at the time: seasonal jobs, part-time jobs, freelance jobs. Finally, I decided to start moving. Unable to find any position in South Florida, I went to work for a Spanish newspaper in Houston. I started living there and in a few months I was hired by a publishing company in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, to be the editor of a trucking magazine. I met great people there and, again, I felt better with myself . The magazine seemed to be successful enough and two years later I became an American citizen. The only sour note of these days was that, during my first year in Alabama, my father passed away in Lima. It was one of the most painful experiences of my life and I still can not honestly say, after almost six years, that I am over it.

Alabama is kind of slow but you may find really nice people. The weather is just lovely and, if you get over the addiction to college football that seems to permeate everybody and everywhere in Tuscaloosa, you easily enjoy its cozy, small-town flavor. Eventually though, my son grew up and enlisted in the Air Force; I got divorced in 2008 and my ex wife returned to her life in Miami. I stayed in Tuscaloosa until June 2011 when I moved to Greensboro, North Carolina, a perfect place for me, with a nice weather and friendly people and a social and cultural dynamism that you associate with larger cities. 

It was usual that, when my dad and I were riding the truck on a trip and we saw the roadside restaurants lined-up one after another just when it was time for lunch or dinner, he kind of read my mind and said: "Come on, let’s stay on the road a bit longer, we can always stop to eat later."

Sometimes, I feel that those words have come to lead the remaining years of my life. This need to keep on moving and to stay on the road longer than what I am supposed to, stretching the limits, forcing myself to go on though deep inside it's been a long time since I am starving, sleepy and exhausted.

                                                                           *   *   *

All That Jazz

Lima 1994

"Era la oportunidad de volvernos internacionales..."

Corría el mes de marzo, creo, cuando Jean Pierre Magnet, un conocido saxofonista limeño maldecido por el cielo con una pinta de artista de cine y un carácter alegre de un entusiasmo infeccioso, contactó conmigo para hacerme una propuesta deshonesta. Eran los días en que yo era Jefe de Redacción de Somos, la revista semanal que publicaba el diario El Comercio.

Jean Pierre estaba en plena producción de uno de los más grandes festivales de Jazz que hubieran tenido lugar en Perú hasta entonces. Entre los participantes se encontraba nada menos que Ray Barreto, toda una leyenda de la salsa y del jazz, y Dave Valentín, un flautista boricua que destacaba entre la nueva generación de jazzistas contemporáneos. ¿Cuál era la propuesta deshonesta? Jean Pierre me pedía la portada de la revista a cambio de arreglarme una entrevista con sus estrellas... ¡en el mismo Nueva York!

No era común entonces que los diarios peruanos enviaran corresponsales a los EE.UU. para entrevistas de la "farándula" como le dicen, en especial por los sempiternos problemas de visa que todos conocemos. Jean Pierre me prometía que su contacto en la Embajada yanqui me allanaría el camino hacía una visa de turista... que en esos días yo no tenía. Por supuesto que accedí. Para la revista, era una oportunidad inesperada de volvernos internacionales por derecho propio. Y para mí lo mismo pues sería mi primer viaje a los Estados Unidos.

Todo resultó mejor que lo planeado y, tal como dicen los que saben, en unos días pasé toda una vida en esta ciudad increíble.

Aquí incluyo el artículo que diagramó el enfant terrible del diseño de Somos y entrañable amigo Gonzalo Sarmiento. Sobre las fotos, sólo puedo añadir algo. Una vez estando en Times Square me jalonearon la cámara para robármela mientras yo, bien gracias, miraba embobado a un músico callejero. De no haber reaccionado a tiempo, las imágenes del artículo se hubieran perdido para siempre...