Enkidu and Mud

            After I saw “Mud,” I kept thinking about Enkidu, the wild man in the Epic of Gilgamesh. So I read a summary of the epic and what did I find but more emblematic links. Was this just a coincidence? Or are the emblems so deeply archetypal that if one is employed in a story the others are constellated? What might the epic and the movie, taken together, mean for a viewer?

            First, a boat is presented (1) as a means of salvation, and (2) as left high and dry by receding floodwaters. In the epic, the gods are angry with mankind and send a great flood. Utnapishtim builds an ark and saves animals, people and artifacts of civilization. The waters recede and the ark comes to rest on Mount Nisir. Utnapishtim and his wife are rewarded with immortality. In the movie, Mud brings a boat down from a tree, repairs it, and escapes in it.

            Second, there is friendship between a wild man and a man of civilization. In the epic, Gilgamesh of Uruk is an oppressive and tyrannical king. His subjects plead with the gods to save them from him. They create Enkidu, who is supposed to kill him, but the result of their struggle is a lasting friendship. They share many adventures. Impressed by Gilgamesh’s exploits, the goddess Ishtar offers herself in marriage, but he refuses her. She sends the Bull of Heaven to kill him. Enkidu kills the Bull. The gods cause Enkidu to sicken and die. In the movie, Mud and Ellis become friends.

            Third, snakes underscore the reality of death. In the epic, Gilgamesh grieves over the death of Enkidu and sets out to discover the secret of immortality. He fails a test given to him by Utnapishtim. Out of pity, Utnapishtim tells him where to find the Plant of Life. Just as Gilgamesh reaches it, a serpent steals it. In the movie, Mud knows that antivenom treatment is good only once. After that, antivenom will kill a patient as surely as snakebite. Now Ellis, like Gilgamesh, is faced with the reality of his eventual death.

            This kind of exploration is what Johnston calls thematic criticism, in which themes from movies are compared with themes from other texts. In my last post I suggested that the unifying theme in “Mud” was, in a word, a boy’s growing pains. A comparison with the Epic of Gilgamesh implies the presence of at least three additional themes: salvation, friendship and mortality.

What kind of friendship do the two pairs of men have? Perhaps it is a symbolic one pointing to the integration of the lawless or instinctive part of the self with the law-abiding part. When Neckbone commiserates with Ellis, at the end of the movie, over the destruction of his houseboat home, Ellis says, “It’s the law.” Mud, on the other hand, goes out trailing clouds of lawlessness. He has killed a man “because he deserved it”; the man’s relatives have formed a posse to kill him in revenge; Tom Blankenship has saved his life by shooting down the posse. These events illustrate a more modern theme: frontier justice.

What does it all mean? Life is complex!

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The Theme of "Mud"

            What is “Mud” really about? The answer to this question ought to give us the theme of the movie.

            In the first place, why is Mud called Mud, and why is the movie named after him? Tom Blankenship, the one person besides Juniper who has known him since he was a boy, says he didn’t have a daddy and nobody knows if he had a mama. He seems to have come into existence when Juniper saved him from snake bite by rushing him to the hospital. This happened when he was the age Ellis and Neckbone are now.

            We have two clues. One is the common expression, “or my name is mud.” The other is the muddy pit that Ellis falls into at the bottom of which are writhing, black snakes. Mud has a snake tattooed on his body. He has murdered the man who impregnated Juniper and then pushed her down the stairs, causing her to miscarry and possibly taking away her ability to have another baby. He says the man deserved to die. He himself isn’t a violent man, nor is he a snake. He’s neither treacherous nor cunning. He’s a creature of instinct, a survivor. In the human social world, he is a stupid, worthless creature like the snakes. Still, he makes a connection with Ellis. He saves his life by rushing him to the clinic; he sneaks into his bedroom to say goodbye—this puts the boy in danger when a vigilante posse opens fire on Mud; Mud throws Ellis to the floor and saves his life again.

            How does Ellis get himself into the middle of all this? How does his life become so entangled with Mud’s? (What happens when you fall into a viper’s pit?) It starts when he and Neckbone meet Mud on the island and Mud asks them to get him some food. He is hungry. Neckbone wants to be rid of the problem. Ellis says he’ll do it because “it’s the right thing to do.” There’s an interesting contrast between Ellis and Neckbone. Neckbone is always the one to bring up the topic of sex, while Ellis is circumspect in this area; Neckbone frequently uses the word “shit,” while Ellis never swears.

            Ellis is a dutiful boy, trying to be on time for his job of helping his father deliver packages of frozen catfish. His father is the kind of man who says, “Life is hard. That’s why I make you work hard.” Further, Ellis’ parents teach him to be law-abiding; they instruct him to return the outboard motor he and Neckbone have stolen (which turns out to be impossible). In contrast to Mud’s boyhood story, Ellis is being raised to be a man of worth.

            I think the theme of the movie, the idea that unifies it, the emotional center that anybody in the audience can identify with, is based on the fact of Mud’s existence. Mud puts Ellis’ life and his budding integrity in danger, yet they become friends.  The viewer asks: what does it take to be a person of worth?

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"Mud" and Genre

            I had no idea that movies were made to fit into genres. Yesterday my project was to view “Mud” and figure out how it was a coming-of-age story, which I had learned from a review.

            Genres are the patterns, forms, styles and structures that filmmakers depend on for the construction of films, and which audiences depend on to make sense of them (Johnston, 190). After I saw “Mud,” I glanced quickly at a website (it was almost time for dinner), which said: sex, loss, a rending of the veil of childhood illusions. I began to understand the patterns in coming-of-age films and remembered “Stand by Me.” I perceived: the protagonist has at least one pal; a chance occurrence draws the boys into a dangerous adult world; the protagonist boy’s emerging manhood is put to the test; a scene at the end underscores his successful negotiation of the threshold to manhood. With coming-of-age films, we are viewers of a ritual.

            The movie’s title gives the impression that it is about a renegade named Mud, who is hiding out on an island in the Mississippi River. Actually, Mud is the figure who opens the door to manhood for fourteen-year-old Ellis and his pal Neckbone. The boys go to the island to take possession of a boat that a flood has lodged high in a tree. Mud already lives there. By the end, Mud, sending the boys for supplies, has brought the boat to ground, repaired it, and escaped in it.

            During these few days, Ellis falls in love with the very attractive Meg Pearl, who gives him his first kiss. He discovers that his parents are going to separate and may divorce. And he finds out that the houseboat his family has occupied all his life is about to be seized and destroyed by the government. He has a lot to learn. Johnston advises viewers to note originality in filmmakers’ treatments of genre. In the realm of sex, Neckbone, who is being raised by his young, single uncle, is a source of information. But Ellis is an idealistic youngster who is more interested in the meaning of love between a man and a woman. As the movie progresses, this appears to him to be nothing but disaster. His parents split up; Neckbone has never known his own parents; Mud loves Juniper but they never get together; and Meg Pearl, who is a fully developed girl, bigger and older than Ellis, has a boyfriend her own age.

            Another pattern I perceived was wildness. The movie begins with the boys venturing into the wilderness of nature, where they meet the wild man, Mud. He inadvertently awakens the wild man in Ellis. An incredible four times Ellis socks a man in the jaw who is bigger and older than himself. Once he is slugged in return and gets a black eye. Then, along with Neckbone, he becomes a thief. The supplies they scrounge are from junkyards until finally they steal a working outboard motor. Ellis’ final assault is on Mud himself, who has turned his life upside down. He runs away and falls into a pit of cottonmouth snakes, where, when one of the snakes bites him, the wilderness turns on him.

            To be continued….

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How to Watch a Movie

            How should we watch a movie if we’re looking for experiences deeper than what we’ve had before? For ways to say more than, “It was good,” or “It stank to high heaven”?

Paul Ricoeur’s three stages of belief suggest a path. The stage I’ve been in, with respect to movies, is first naïveté, the uncritical, childlike acceptance of whatever the filmmaker has to give me. Now I’m collecting equipment for engaging in critical reflection, the second stage. However, I don’t want to continue standing at a distance from movies; I want to enjoy them. This calls for second naïveté, a combination of acceptance and reflection. For Johnston, the ideal situation is to experience a movie fully and reflect on it later; but I wonder whether, once we are wise to techniques of storytelling and moviemaking, it is possible to separate experience and reflection. The thing is to become a happy philosopher!

Critical reflection on the movies requires understanding at least these points:

Movies tell stories in three ways: images, words and music. All of these are happening when we watch a movie.

Stories are composed of several elements: character, plot, setting, theme, tone, mood, point of view, and something Johnson calls atmosphere, the inevitable “givens.” (I wonder if he means context?) “Admission” focuses on the character of Portia Nathan and her dilemma when she meets the boy she thinks is her son. In a character-driven story, the character is often changed by the challenge he or she meets. “Oblivion” is plot-centered: how will the alien threat be resolved?

Stories have a three-part structure. Johnston calls these Acts 1, 2 and 3; but I prefer a homemade definition. Stories start with a situation of stability. It may not be peace and light; in a war movie, a battle; in a murder mystery, a dead body. Nevertheless, a story starts with a place for the viewer or reader to stand. Then a conflict arises, disrupting stability. Usually, it is that the main character is presented with a challenge. In “Schindler’s List,” what happens when Oscar Schindler recognizes the humanity of the concentration camp detainees? Finally, there is resolution, which may go well or badly for the main character. The first and third parts are much shorter than the middle one.

Movies fall into four categories, which can overlap: realism, fantasy, entertainment and education.

They appear in a gazillion genres: love story, romantic comedy, screwball comedy, science fiction, thriller, detective story, gangster film, Western, horror film, etc. Each genre follows certain conventions, which help the viewer to make sense of the story. In “Oblivion,” there is the expected clash between humanity and an extraterrestrial intelligence. In “Admission,” a romantic comedy, Portia and John fall in love.

A movie is constructed of cuts and shots. Cuts refer to the editing of the movie; they are concerned with the use of time. Shots refer to the framing of its scenes; they are concerned with the use of space. Last night I practiced looking for cuts and shots while watching a Hercule Poirot mystery on television.

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Oblivion

            In Reel Spirituality, Robert Johnston answers the question, Why look at film? from a theological perspective: “If viewers will join in community with a film’s storyteller, letting the movie’s images speak with their full integrity, they might be surprised to discover that they are hearing God as well” (100). When I saw “Oblivion” this weekend, I was fixated on the middle part of his statement. Being open to what a movie has to say before attempting to analyze it is a persistent theme of his. However, what it means to me to be “open” has changed since I came upon his book.

            For example, I read a review of “Oblivion” before going to the theater, something I never used to do. It suggested that it might be hard for a viewer to get around the Tom Cruiseness of Tom Cruise. Morgan Freeman, another icon, is also in the movie. I had the opportunity to say, You know what? These guys are just actors. They're paid to facilitate the story. What a feeling of freedom this gave me! The movie was well produced and told a good story. The actors were never a distraction.

            “Movies, like life itself,” Johnston writes, “are first experienced, then reflected on. They affect the heart, then the head” (250). “Oblivion” certainly hit me in the realm of experience. It’s a post-apocalyptic science fiction thriller in which aliens (subtly presented; no guys wearing rubber masks) have taken control of Earth. A band of human beings has taken refuge underground. In one crowd scene, a small boy pushes to the front to see what is going on. Babies and small children always get to me; I started to cry. In other places, when the drama became overwhelming, I reminded myself that the movie fell deeply into the fantasy category on Johnston’s range-of-cinema matrix. So, was I not completely open to its images?

            Later I remembered reading about “second naivete.” The blog Big Other says it better than I can: “Consider the ‘second naïveté,’ a theological concept derived from the French philosopher Paul Ricoeur. It refers to a stage of belief that, in contrast to the ‘first naïveté’ (characterized by uncritical, childlike acceptance), can only be achieved after passing through an intensely rational or critical stage. So that three stages can appear—the first naïveté, the critical distance, and the second naïveté (a sort of return to, and maturation of, the first).”

First naïveté’ is the condition I used to insist on with respect to the movies. It is sometimes called the pre-critical stage. Critical reflection is the stage that became available with the option of taking the theology course in June. It is characterized by an attitude of distance. Second naïveté’ includes the consequences of passing through the first two stages. I was not able to watch “Oblivion” without resorting to reflection, but even while I was calling it a fantasy I was in tune with its story. It was like waking up in a dream and knowing I was dreaming.

            Big Other applies the idea of the three stages to the artistic life of Syd Barrett, a founding member of the Pink Floyd band.

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A Critical Apparatus

            A critical apparatus is a structure of thought that enables one to approach a topic on its own terms. So, for instance, in my Introduction to Theology class, one of the first things our professor gave us was a list of definitions. We had to start learning the language that theologians use.

            Of theology textbooks, Reel Spirituality is among the clearest and most down-to-earth that I’ve read, but there are still terms I need to look into more deeply. They are important to Johnston’s argument. For example, he speaks of transcendence quite a bit. He asks the question, are movies art? He emphasizes the dialogical methodology of his book. He writes about the dialogue between theology and culture. He asserts that a work of art seeks to initiate a dialogue with its audience.

            In this post, I want to go directly to the critical apparatus he provides to moviegoers with a “theological interest.” His suggestions are based on the nature of story and how movies employ the elements of story. Last time, I talked about words, music and images. Movies use a variety of artistic methods to tell a story. I talked about what Johnston calls the “range of cinema” and the four-part grid he uses to illustrate this.

Here are more perspectives:

A movie script typically has a three-part structure. In act 1, “the protagonist is offered a new challenge.” In act 2, “the challenge produces conflict, which escalates throughout the act until a crisis is reached.” In act 3, the protagonist meets or fails to meet the challenge.

A story has four constitutive parts: character, plot, atmosphere, and tone, which Johnston prefers to call point of view. By atmosphere, he means “the unalterable given(s) against which the story is told and the characters developed… the unchanging backdrop against which the story is played out.” “Using [this] critical apparatus,” he writes, “the movie-viewer with theological interest is often able to focus attention where it first belongs—on the film itself—and to respond to the movie from its own center.”

            Another perspective is the “story’s critical circle.” This also has four parts. “An adequate critical theory of film will take into account not only (1) the movie itself, but also (2) the filmmakers lying behind and expressed through it, (3) the viewers with their own life stories that help interpret it, and (4) the larger universe, or worldview, that shapes the story’s presentation.”

            Reading these things reminded me of “Admission.” In voice-overs, Portia Nathan summarizes its point of view. She says, at the beginning: “Students want to know what the magic formula is for getting accepted to Princeton.” And at the end: “There is no formula. Just be yourself.” The story ends with her telling her life story to a personnel director. She tries to contact the boy she gave up for adoption. John learns that Nelson wants to stay put, not move to another country. The movie seeks to convince us that just being ourselves is the best thing.

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Admission

“Admission” is the story of Portia Nathan (Tina Fey), an admissions officer at Princeton University. She has held her job for sixteen years. She has never been married.

On an trip to an experimental high school called Quest, to explain Princeton’s admissions policies to the students, Portia meets a teacher, John Pressman; his twelve-year-old son Nelson; and a boy who wants to apply to Princeton, Jeremiah Balakian. John adopted Nelson when he lived in Uganda; Jeremiah is also an adopted child. Portia has never wanted children and doesn’t particularly like them, so it is with some resistance that she takes John’s news that Jeremiah is the baby she gave up for adoption eighteen years before. Then her maternal instincts arise; she pushes hard with the admissions committee to have Jeremiah accepted. He is a brilliant human being, a self-described autodidact, but his school record is abysmal and he is rejected. Portia sneaks into the office at night and substitutes the Accept label from the folder of a student who is opting for Yale, for the Deny label on Jeremiah’s folder. He is admitted, but she loses her job. Then she learns that Jeremiah is not the baby she gave away. She is not left with nothing; she and John are in love.

I went to the movie with the goal of remembering an emphasis in Reel Spirituality, that movies are made not only of words in a script but also of music (or sound) and image. The images in movies are primary. Movies are a visual medium. It’s probably more accurate to say that story is primary. Script, music and image serve the story, which is why the viewer goes to a movie in the first place. I noted that “Admission,” while the screen was still dark, begins with light, bouncy music; after this I was mostly unconscious of music and sound. The script answers the question, What would a woman do if she unexpectedly met the young person she gave away as a baby? There was nothing startling about the imagery. Script, imagery and casting made Jonathan and Nelson the most appealing characters, the only ones I cared about and wanted to know more about. It’s a light, bouncy movie.

In Reel Spirituality, Robert K. Johston presents a simple diagram to illustrate the many different kinds of movie. It consists of a horizontal line crossed by a vertical line. The extreme left represents entertainment, the extreme right education. The extreme top is realism; at the bottom is fantasy. “Admission” lands in the quadrant described by fantasy and entertainment. It’s not a realistic picture of university admissions practices nor, to my mind, of maternal instincts. It doesn’t attempt to lead the viewer into an unusual experience.

It was an odd coincidence that Paco and I went to a movie that included a matter of ethics just as I am starting to cogitate on theology and ethics at the movies. Too bad the ethics plot point in “Admission” wasn’t dramatized more interestingly as a dilemma.

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