Yesterday afternoon around three, a city crew materialized around the corner from here, blocked off the street, began whaling away at the pavement with jackhammers. The sound ricocheted around these narrow streets, intense enough that they might as well have been in front of this building. Fifteen minutes of hellacious racket made it clear that work and study were over for the day -- the sanest move would be to throw on a jacket and head somewhere quieter. A glance at the paper reminded me that the latest Scorsese film was playing a multi-screen complex that plays subtitled foreign fare -- an hour later, I was in a darkened theater, an intense story getting underway.
I hadn't been anxious to see The Departed. I'd gotten the sense that it involved a fair amount of fairly nasty violence, though someone had characterized it to me as intense explosions of mayhem that happened quickly and were over quickly. 'Nasty violence,' of course, is a relative description -- violence in a Scorsese production is mostly a function of the story and its whacked-out personalities. Even so, I'm tired of it. There's no way I'll subject myself to the torture-and-slaughter-fests that make big bucks in mainstream theaters these days, much less reward their makers for producing such godawful trash by giving them some of my cash. Same goes for a genre of television shows that have come to prominence these last few years -- what might be called police procedurals that incorporate graphic depictions of murderous violence or sexual brutality into the story line. As high as production values may be for a given show or as interesting as certain aspects of the plot may sometimes be, I just can't kid myself into ignoring how bad it feels to watch the brutality. Not that it's any of my business whether anyone else chooses to tune that stuff in or not -- it's not. I can only speak for me, and I can only make my own choices. At times, though, it does occur to me that when a culture or country accepts ultraviolence as entertainment, it could be that the moment for some self-scrutiny has arrived. Enjoyment of the brutalizing of others -- even fictional others -- might possibly be an alarm bell that should be paid attention to.
Martin Scorsese is a master, and given the intensity of The Departed's storyline, it may be that he showed restraint with the violence that erupts throughout the film. Regardless, despite having a whole lot of appreciation for much of the work that went into the movie, when I walked out of the theater I was not a happy boy. It was a relief to be back outside in cool November air, rush hour underway, simple, normal life all around.
I'd arranged to meet someone later on, a new intercambio -- her working on her English, me working to improve my Castellano (a task that now and then feels like a full-time job). Instead of hopping a Metro train to ride three stations north, I walked, letting thoughts and nervous system settle down. Stopped in a joint along the way for a plate of tortilla and a glass of cool liquid, by the time I met up with Carmen in front of the Moncloa Metro stop, I was doing all right. Afterward, post-conversation, I walked for a while, noticing along the way that the movie theater where Casino Royale premiered a couple of nights back had reverted back to the films currently playing, all Bond imagery gone. The movie's actual run starts tomorrow -- they did the theater up for that one evening, maybe the only night they could get the new Bond to pass through this part of the world.
And today? It's Thursday, the sky over Madrid hangs low and gray, looking like rain may be getting ready to fall. Just another weekday in November. On the other side of the Atlantic, it's not just another weekday. It's a day whose morning streets are quiet, except for those traveling last minute to be with friends, family. A good day, one I've spent in big gatherings, in more modest groups, and solo.
However you spend it, may it bring pleasure and comfort.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Jean-Luc Picard: busted
España, te quiero.
rws 11:48 AM [+]
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