Here it is, practically the eve of the Oscars, and I’ve yet to see two of the five movies nominated for best picture. I didn’t care for No Country; I liked but did not absolutely love Juno. So far, my money’s on There Will Be Blood, which was not only a magnificent film but the richest evocation of loneliness and megalomania I’ve watched since Citizen Kane.
Saturday night, we decided to see Michael Clayton. My husband, myself, and about 200 other middle-aged, middle-income, mid-level professionals. John and I got to the theater in plenty of time but there was a line, literally, around the block. Round white faces and L.L. Bean-clad bodies for as far as the eye could see. Damn, it’s humbling to be confronted with your own incredibly predictable, privileged, demographically determined life. . . .
By the time we’d stood waiting for ten minutes and hemmed and hawed and finally departed because we didn’t want to be stuck inside some crowded auditorium with all those other lemmings, it was too late to catch any other show. So we dashed to Hollywood Video and picked up a film sure to make us different from all of THEM: A Cannes winner from last year called Ten Canoes.
Then we stopped at Hennepin-Lake Liquors for a bottle of wine.
Now let me remind you that Henn-Lake DOES NOT TAKE CREDIT CARDS. I do this, of course, because we didn’t remember ourselves, and John and I ended up digging through pockets and purse to come up with the price of an Australian Pinot Noir from Lindemans Wine that was bottled — get this — in 2007.
This made the pinot roughly the same age as the orange juice in our refrigerator. And it cost only a tad more at $5.95. But the Lindemans came highly recommended by the girl behind the counter, who was at least 21 years and 2 months old. Also, luckily, we had just enough pennies and dimes between us to take it home — which we did, along with our DVD.
It turned out to be a very odd but charming little film. The first full-length feature ever made in native aboriginal language, Ten Canoes is more fable than drama. It begins with a voiceover narrator, then reverts to a tribe in which an elder is telling a story to his younger brother, then reverts a second time to an ancient camp in which men’s instinctual jealousies cause a series of dire things.
This is what I call a "recessive" narrative — one that goes back in time then flashes back yet again, so like concentric ripples in a pond, you can never quite remember where you started. It is, in fact, a structure I advise my undergraduate writing students to avoid. It’s nearly always confusing. (Last year’s Sweetland suffered from the same problem.) I can think of only two films that used this paradigm well: Sophie’s Choice, in which the adult Stingo recalls his young adult years in Brooklyn then yields to Sophie’s memories of the war; and The Princess Bride, which broke all the rules anyway and still managed to do everything well.
Ten Canoes is not quite so successful. At least one of the stories — the "middle" one, if you’re looking at them chronologically — eventually fizzles out and gets lost. But the cast is extraordinary, actors who do as much with facial expression as they do with words. And it was wonderful simply to be some place else for 90 minutes: In this case, the swampy northern tip of Australia camped by the side of a river with men (mostly) who think nothing of walking around with only a braided string tied around their waists and routinely have three wives at a time.
In the end, the central story — the one that takes place in ancient days — is tight and satisfying, its life lessons relevant even today. And it is comforting to me, somehow, to know that men take the same scatalogical glee in their own body emissions and sexual habits whether they’re carrying cell phones or spears. (See the extended flatulence scene, which is oh, so effective, by the way, when done nude.)
And about that wine, you’re wondering?
It was. . . .fine. Strawberry, cherry, and raspberry, like liquid candy with a tiny bit of oak (a very tiny bit) and a hefty kick (13.5% alcohol). This is the Tom Collins of wine — appealing, apparently, to those drinkers who are stranded in the decade or two between Juicy Juice and Chatauneuf-de-Pape. Even for we grown-ups, sitting curled up in a big chair and watching a magic realism tale about dignified warriors who giggle as they fart, it was pretty damn good. Especially for six dollars and change.
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