Maybe I don't, maybe I do

So how did I miss an entire week of my life online? I feel like I had so much to say this week but so little time.

Let's see, there's my distressed relationship with Pittsburgh to tackle . . . the odd dinner out with acquaintances I had last Saturday at the world's least spicy Mongolian barbecue restaurant . . . every crazy person I know from high school on Facebook (guns! liberals! guns! liberals!) . . . Oscar Pistorius and an extended riff on gun control (seems like a natural follow-through, that) . . . some pop music . . . my success in French class this week . . . my "soup for one" status (as far as I can; it's, as the kids say, complicated) . . .

How about discussing another movie instead? I'm sure that won't bring up any of these issues. No. No way.

* * *

At the moment, I am really happy with my decision to cut back on cable and make better use of my Roku and its various offerings--Amazon Instant and Amazon Prime Video, HuluPlus, even the semi-gutted Netflix streaming service. I'm watching more movies and TV shows and being more intentional in my viewing habits, which are good things indeed.

Winter will end eventually (or so Punxsutawney Phil tells us), and I'm sure I'll get busy with life, work, and French before too long. Maybe I'll even exhaust my movie/TV queue(s) and subscriptions, unable to find anything interesting to way, 57 channels and nothing on and all that. I doubt it, though. My interest in music is like the universe, ever expanding. With some new options for finding and viewing film and TV, I foresee a fetishistic future in media consumption for my own bad self.

Having a little free time right now and this extra access is allowing me to go back in time to watch some things I've been wanting to see for some time. Cases in point: Old episodes of Dallas; an episode of House, M.D., starring South African actor Neil Sandilands (not-so-secret crush #1,748); German classics like M and The Marriage of Maria Braun; the occasional silent; and an Israeli film from the 1980s, I Don't Give a Damn (originally titled Lo Sam Zayin in Hebrew).

This is one movie I've wanted to see for a long time, since I first read a review about it when I lived in Washington, D.C., and where it was shown either in theaters or at some film festival. Can't remember every detail.

Was it worth the 25-year wait? Well, I wouldn't go that far, but it had it's moments, good and not-so-much.

The storyline roughly goes like so: Raffi (played by actor Ika Zohar) is all happy-go-youthy and full of joie de vivre upon finishing university (or high school at a more mature age) and starting his obligatory military service in the Israeli Defense Forces. Plus he's in love! However, he is severely wounded while on patrol and becomes a parapalegic, turning him (spoiler alert) into a bitter, angry, hopeless young man, who punishes those around him for loving him.

Good enough but not quite. Ika Zohar does a great job in conveying Raffi's full range of emotions, but I'm not sure the script is there to allow him to portray fully Raffi's plight, the practical realities of his situation and his existential crisis. How will he make a life for himself on his own when he has to be carried into his parents' hillside home? How will he make love to and make a family with his girlfriend, Nira? His virility and pride damaged, his shame at his perceived weakness pronounced, his future erased. Is he still a man? Can he live his life? Defend his country? Retain his humanity?

Well, I'm not sure the script gives us all of that to work with, but the review I read years ago--from what I recall through the hazy newsprint of history--made it sound like the film would address at least the existential crisis of youth at war in modern Israel.

And maybe it did. There's a long, talky scene at the beginning of the film that wasn't even subtitled but is referred back to at one point in the film. The impression I got from the reference and the scene is that there might have been a whisper of an homage to All Quiet on the Western Front (book or movie version) in which the young men get their mojo on for the "fun" of war, only to later have their fun taken away from them, some of them for good.

It's also possible that I know less about modern Israel than I think I do. (Ha ha. Really, I know next to nothing about most everything.) There were probably any number of subtle (to me) references to modern Israeli life that I just didn't pick up on, that were lost in translation, one way or another.

But at times the movie comes across as hopelessly '80s, like an After-Hebrew School Special. Nira, the love interest, represents everything cloying and contemptible about the "kooky girlfriend" character in movies: She's got a Madonna-esque "Borderline"-era fashion sense (about four years too late, I might add), fugly big hair in desperate need of less humidity and more conditioner, and a manic approach to life that would have made me angry and caustic long before I became injured in war. Again, I don't think this is the actor's fault necessarily. I know less about acting than I do modern Israel, but it seems like she's trying to make the best of a bad script situation.

Still, I'm not sure I'll ever forgive anyone--actor, writer, director, lighting crew, gaffer, best boy, what have you--involved in the "bagel clown" scene, in which Nira visits the military hospital to pass out kisses and bagels to the patients. That's more than enough detail; I don't want to spoil the execrable surprise for you. Suffice it to say that when Raffi reacts badly to Nira's visit, I think it might have been less due to the bitterness over his situation and more about his mortification over having made such a unfortunate choice in lovers.

The way Raffi's sister-in-law is portrayed is hardly any more favorable. Again with the big hair, the poor fashion choices, and this weird sense of (read: lack of) boundaries! She's forever flirty with Raffi, before and after injury, even going so far as to pose for him in photos, dressed in a skimpy bathrobe, naked underneath, and showing more side boob than I would be comfortable seeing from a member of my family, close or extended. Is this any way to treat a wounded soldier? I would think Raffi has suffered enough.

My riffing on the horror of mid-'80s women's fashions aside, there are other problems with the movie for me. I didn't get a strong sense of any sort of existential crisis--What are we fighting for? What are we dying for? If this is now life we have been given, how do we survive it and thrive in it? Maybe it was there, maybe it wasn't, and maybe it wasn't even the point. But then what was the point?

The scenes, even the sex scenes, are filmed at a curious distance, never in close-up, making for a very "flat" experience. You never feel close to the action, the emotion, or the intimacy--except in one scene where you see the ugliness of Raffi's wound, which seemed far too fresh for as far along as he was in his treatment. You follow the plot points and witness the emotions: Raffi is angry, frustrated, bereft, and embittered by his experience and existence. I'm not sure you ever feel it, despite Ika Zohar being a very convincing actor in my estimation. This lack of a emotional connection is a very curious thing for a movie that could potentially be as emotionally explosive as any shooting or bombing.

Did I ever talk about The Bubble, another Israeli movie I watched last year? I don't think so.

Despite feeling a bit punk'd at the end of it, The Bubble did a far better job at conveying the feelings of the characters and the intimacies they experienced, positive and negative. Despite mining a similar vein--the young and the Israeli dealing with the harsh realities of an intractable conflict--it packed much more of an emotional and psychological wallop.

Alone, the way the romantic and sexual scenes were filmed between the two leads (both men) felt far more personal and seductive, despite actually showing less. Yes, perhaps that does say more to my affectional orientation, but the boom-boom-boom-let's-go-back-to-my-room scenes in I Don't Give a Damn were more explicit and yet, less impactful. I saw Nira's knockers indeed, but I also got a lot of visuals of Ika Zohar's virility, too. (Not as much as desired, perhaps, but a good amount, all the same.) And yet . . . due to what? Unfriendly lighting? A wide shot? The egregiously cheesy score? Or the perfunctory nature of the prurience? I felt less. Much less.

My feeling somewhat brutalized by the ending of The Bubble is to the point--I felt enough to feel bad, to feel fooled, to feel abused. With I Don't Give a Damn . . . well, heck, I didn't even feel enough to give a fig, much less a rat's or a crap.

* * *

Obviously this movie resonates in contemporary times. More than a decade later, American forces are still in Afghanistan and Iraq; Israel and Palestine are still locked in a seemingly unresolvable conflict; and there are growing conflicts in Mali and Nigeria, to name but two. And another day, another dozen people are shot and injured or killed in America, thanks to a powerful membership organization, a weak central government, easy access to firearms, and a portion of the population that seems to have a profound misunderstanding of the Constitution, as well as a serious disconnect between real-and-imagined risks to their persons and property.

The level of firepower seems to have become more dramatic and fatal in recent years, with smaller packages, bigger explosions, and more dedication to the zealot's creed of might-makes-right (whether that creed is yours, theirs, or ours). The severity of injury and carnage, coupled with improved, rapidly delivered medical care, has created a number of men and women, adults and children, in Raffi's situation.

Or maybe war has always been like that. I think of the American Civil War and the "Great" War, also known as World War I. Lots of injury, lots of maiming, lots of death, physical as well as psychological.

So not an untimely movie to watch at all, even if the particulars of the story are removed from my day-to-day life experience.

* * *

And yet, I'm not unfamiliar with anger, at least being on the receiving end of it. My father, bless him, suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder from his experiences as a young man in World War II in the Pacific Theater, experiences that followed him through life, only being relieved it seemed when he developed Alzheimer's in his 70s.

My Dad was a great guy in many respects. Funny, kind, disciplined, and loving. I would have never made it through high school, college, and graduate school without his and my mother's faith in me. I would be a much bigger emotional mess than I am sometimes without his and my mother's love for me, never feeling it slip away, despite the challenges I presented to them. I will probably never be able to fully express my joy and security at being the son of my truly wonderful parents.

Not everything was seamless or perfect, mind you. My Dad could also be extremely short-tempered, sensitive, depressed, mean, angry, and physically and psychologically "imposing" at times. He had his moments, not all of them good or kind or welcoming. Whether this was due to his experiences at war or the fact that he was one of 11 children born to a working-class farm family in rural Kentucky in the 1920s or some other reason, I could not say for sure.

I have had my moments, too, rest assured. I've had periods of depression, anger, mean-spiritedness, and childishness. And I've had moments of great kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness, and joie de vivre as well. We're all only human after all.

Not all of our wounds are physical. Not all of are wounds come about from war on the battlefield. The wars at home can be damaging as well, to one's body and to one's soul.

I Don't Give a Damn made me think of other people I have known in my life, in the past and in the present, who were extremely, unfathomably angry, with their histories and with their lives, sometimes this anger manifesting itself with the world at large or even me in particular.

I've felt a bit like Nira at times, trying to love someone who is too angry to accept your love and to love you in return. Because they feel too guilty about it, if that's indeed what it is. Shame, guilt, hurt, disappointment, irritation. Or perhaps they just don't love you, specifically, for who you are or are not, for what you represent or don't.

I can't say that I've felt a lot like Raffi ever, for at least any extended period. I've had my challenges in life and still do. I suck at saving money. I'm unsure about my career. I've lost a brother and a parent. I've had lovers cheat on me and have been forced out of jobs, all within the space of a week. I'm over 50 and single and can't say that I see a lot of life-partner prospects in my future, with yet another one slipping through my fingers only recently.

But, all in all, it's been a pretty decent life so far. Maybe not everything I've ever wanted or needed or deserved has occurred, but a lot has. Plus there have been some pleasant turns along the way, people and events and moments happening that were wonderful, unexpected, and exactly what I needed or wanted or deserved, even when I didn't know it. And I'm healthy--if a tad wide shot-friendly myself at the mo'.

So how do I, a Nira, love someone like a Raffi? Is that possible? Or even advisable? At what point does such a love transform from being a joy, to a joyful dedication, to an obligation, to a chore, to a misery? I can only play the "bagel clown" for so long before I run out of energy or, truth be told, interest.

Nira and Raffi found a way in the movies. I'm not sure that's possible off-screen, at least for me and my situation. I'm not sure I want it to be either, the pleasures and the gifts too fleeting and now, no longer there. Love overburdened by pain, frustration, and a sense of pointlessness and failure.

Does that make me a weak lover? Or a wise one? At this moment, it feels like some of both.

So, yeah, clearly, I still give a damn. Not that that matters a damn.

Can this marriage be saved?

An American Civil War amputee, who still lived despite his injuries.
A public domain photo from WikiCommons and the Mutter Museum.

If at first you don't secede, try, try again.

Please.

* * *

Sometimes marriages sound like a good idea at the time. Couples start out with the best of intentions--either full-on love or I-have-some-doubts-but-you-seem-into-it/our-families-expect-it/you-are-pregnant/this-is-what-grown-ups-do-isn't-it?

Nothing lasts forever. Not the full blush of love or the peaceful coexistence of two very different people. So perhaps inevitably, irritations develop. They start out small. You talk funny! You've got more people and hog all the bed!

And grow. I don't like the way you own people and make them work your land! I don't like your telling me how to run my economy and treat my Negroes! And before you know it, it's make-up to break-up to make-up to break-up, to a hostile separation, a bitter divorce and a vicious child custody battle. Over Kansas ferchrissakes.

But wouldn't you know it? Old habits die hard. Despite the hostilities and out-and-out war, sometimes stars fall on Alabama and doesn't that make her look lovely in the moonlight? New Jersey starts calling himself the Garden State, and my my, you never realized how really lovely the Pine Barrens can be in the spring. Just like home!

You consider your dating options. Canada. Mexico. Really? Has it come to this? Before you know it, each of you is looking more attractive to the other. And think of the children! Colorado! Utah! The Dakotas! And wouldn't it be nice to give them some brothers and sisters to play with? And to keep Miss Frosty-Pants Canada and Mister Hot-to-Trot Mexico at bey a little longer . . . ?

So even though your true friends tell you no, what, are you insane?--and all the others just laugh behind your back--you remarry.

But things are never the same, even after he accepts your friends--a Virginia planter who went to college at Princeton, a peanut farmer from Georgia, a wonkish lothario from Arkansas--as his own. You try to like his friends, too. That nice old fellow from California, well, he reminded you of your dementia-afflicted grandfather, bless his heart. And that other one from California with the jowly face, he really, really seemed to appreciate you. Too bad your husband dumped in during that late unpleasantness over politics. And Lord knows that one from New York with the nosy wife hung around long enough, showing her butt in places that she just had no right to do, but he at least gave you some nice presents like roads and rural electrification. 

But Massachusetts, Massachusetts, Massachusetts. What is it about Massachusetts? Is there something he's trying to tell you? Oh, he says he likes country music, sweet tea, and NASCAR, but he keeps going on about medical care, minorities, and summers in Maine and Michigan. Over time, you discover that he likes apple-picking in the fall, surfing, and higher education. And what was that? Is he checking out that tramp Canada again?  While Mexico's got his hands all over you! That bastard.

And then he forms a fast friendship with some man who claims he's from Hawaii. Hawaii. Is that even a real state? You're so not sure. Oh, he's well-spoken and -groomed, you'll grant him that, but he does go on, talking at you more than with you. Plus, well, he's black, you whisper to your grandchildren. Yes, you know, that's not something that you're supposed to say, but . . . well . . . you're just stating the obvious.

And my, now that you husband is good "friends" with that rather odd black fellow, doesn't he go on and on about racism and, pass the smelling salts, gay people. Hmmm. A more suspicious mind . . .

But hold on, before we get to that, it's back to his favorite topic: health care. Please God, shut up about it already! For one thing, nobody's gonna tell you what to do with your body--unless it's a legislator with curious ideas about rape and a do-as-I-say-not-as-I-do attitude toward abortion. For another, good people don't get sick. And if they do, they have enough of their own money to take care of it. They don't come calling on their friends to help them out in a time of need. That's what prayer and capitalism for. Everybody knows that. Or at least they should.

And oh no you and special friend didn't just go and give all those poor people what we had to fight long and hard for/be born into/marry into/imagine ourselves lucking into despite all evidence to the contrary! How dare he!

You don't even know him. And he doesn't look as handsome as he used to. Have you ever been to Pennsylvania? A lovely name, some old stuff, some nice trees, but, hmmm, they don't call it Pennsyltucky for nothing.

The children are all grown up, except for little, adopted Puerto Rico, and well, that was his idea, not yours.

So it's back to divorce court. No, this time you mean it! Look, you're heading out the door! Don't try and stop you!

* * *

Seriously, secession? You're welcome to it, but it's not like it's ever been a peaceful, fun-loving, hey-kids-let's-put-on-a-show process.

Life as we know it, however middling, is disrupted. Battles rage. People die. Your "side" and mine, too.

Mind you, I'm not opposed to your moving on and moving out. People need to go their own way, follow their own piss bliss.

Have at it. We'll be fine with alternating weekend visitation rights to Florida and New Orleans.

Buh-bye. Don't let the door hit you on your Mississippi on the way out.