“It gets so easy to dream
Oh, but it’s so hard to face the day.”
- Weddings Parties Anything, Away Away (1987)
Right now it’s fair to say that I hate my job. Hate it, hate it, hatehatehate it. The reason is that it makes me get up in the morning and face the day.
The job is an enormous obstacle to my preferred plan of lying in bed until the last possible moment, rising to face a midday gin, lounging about on the couch in my pyjamas, talking to absolutely no one, and continuing to become acquainted with more gin until it’s time to crawl back into bed again.
Just as hateful is the working class Catholic guilt at the merest thought of this kind of shameless wallowing. How did this happen? I endured minimal doctrinal exposure, mainly during school holidays spent with my grandparents. Grandma was soft about everything except going to church on Sundays, which was enforced with an iron will (and hand). I did put in a few good uni-student years trying to rid myself of any vestiges of moral imprinting, but evidently to no avail. It seems socio-religo-morality, when inflicted early, has more staying power than halitosis or heroin. Pavlov may have thought he had it figured, but the Jesuits really knew their shit. I mean, I can't even call in a sickie; it's physically impossible.
So I drag myself up each morning and reluctantly (but feeling guilty about the reluctance) slope off to the Corporation for a day's structured toil and forced interaction with colleagues. If there are no great rewards, certainly there are no horrors worse than I could self-inflict at the moment.
In fact, this week I enjoyed a little outing.
The other evening I went to a media screening party, a function run by one of the big film distributors designed to get you to at least look at and talk about their movies, if not actually spruik them. Years with the Corporation plus being located in the country had made me forget these sorts of things existed. Slobart may not be a capital city to rival its mainland sisters, but there are more perks on offer here than in Tamworse.
Certainly this is the sort of temptation the Corporation firmly warns about lest it cause you to commit the mortal sin of Endorsing Commercial Products, but I went along with the firm inner understanding that my attendance was to improve networking and to view a film for review purposes only, so my conscience was easy.
Anyway, it was a civilised affair that followed the usual forms. Organisers welcome you to the designated cinema, engage in a little chit chat, and anesthetise you with a glass of booze (being delayed by work I managed to miss the chit chat but still snagged a reisling, which suited my current misanthropic frame of mind just fine). Then they subject you to half an hour of trailers for films of wildly varied quality, drag you out to top up the anaesthetic, add finger food, and then herd you back in for the main feature.
The feature was the Oliver Stone movie “World Trade Centre”. I hadn’t read anything about it before going, which was just as well. To quote from the flash promo book from the showbag:
[voice of gravitas]
“In the aftermath of the World Trade Centre disaster, hope is still alive. Refusing to bow down to terrorism, rescuers and family of the victims press forward. Their mission of rescue and recovery is driven by the faith that under each piece of rubble a co-worker, a friend, a family member may be found…”
Naff? Sure. That’s to be expected. And in truth, there are things to like about the film. The sfx of the towers collapsing and the bloody, dusty injured people look very good. Watching the families’ journeys is okay, a bit weepy but not too bad. The fact that it’s based on the story of two men who actually were pulled out of the rubble against all odds is heart warming. You know, Beaconsfield on a bigger scale. It’s just what’s bad sooooo outweighs what’s good.
Have you picked the key words yet in that blurb? Here, let me help – ‘faith’ and ‘mission’. Now, not being a believer does not make me mock believers (well, not much, and not my sensibly reserved friends anyway. Nutters are another matter).
Despite not believing, I have always held that there are lessons from the Christian faith that could be recommended to anyone of any faith or indeed of no faith at all. That bit about ‘doing unto others…’ rates pretty highly in my view. The bit about worship being a private affair that is better done in a closet than put on display is also a good one. Shame Oliver Stone isn’t into that bit.
Mister Stone is evidently a man of conviction. Or if you prefer, a man of Conviction. It may be that he is simply American, and Conviction is the standard American response to stress. Whatever – he wears his heart on his sleeve and the Conviction turns this movie from might have been ‘tragedy with a happy ending’ or at worst ‘naff feel good weepie’ into something that’s simply tragic.
Look, you know what happened in New York on September 11 , 2001 so it’s not giving away anything to say that a lot of people died, and a lucky few were rescued. It’s normal in terrible times to seek comfort, which for some is to seek faith. It may not surprise you that some, in extremity of pain, fear or grief (and doubtless of Conviction) may have believed Christ appeared to them.
But Christ appearing in a flowing white robe, with Catholic-style bleeding heart smack in the centre of His chest, carrying a plastic waterbottle?? Puhleeze!
If that was bad, what was unforgivable was portraying the Marine as Myth. The key rescuer is a churchgoing ex-Marine who dons his old uniform, lies his way onto the site and finds the trapped men – making ‘profound’ statements as he goes.
I especially did not like the statement about how he intended to rejoin the Corps because, “They’ll need good men to avenge what has happened here.” Vengeance may well be the Lord’s, but I do not recall Him deputising the US Marines to act in a similar fashion.
As my American exile friend Jaahn would say, “HE’P me Jebus!”
So perhaps it was not polite that I could not contain my derisive snorts of laughter before I was out of the building. (My restraint was not helped by my boss, who was actually laughing out loud.) After all, I did not fork out good money for the movie and could therefore have afforded a show – or sham, at least – of appreciation.
Then again, the movie was supposed to put a smile on people’s faces; should the promoters be fussy about how this end is achieved? I may well bag “World Trade Centre”, but I’m not complaining. I did get a smile out of it, which was much needed.
Because the wind is still howling.
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