At the start of the movie, I wasn't sure if the film's billing of El Infierno, or Hell, as a comedy was an error.
So far, the friendly, polite Mexican laborer, Benny, had been sent back by the border patrol to his dusty home in Mexico after 20 years in the U.S., told "don't come back," and was then welcomed home by his dear, old mother with a whalloping slap across the face. Then Benny learns his younger brother, who he had promised to send for while away in the States, earned the name El Diablo, the devil, while Benny was away, before being killed in the narco turf wars of two look-alike brothers who hate each in the way that only family members can.
When the affable and gentle Benny needs money to bail El Diablo's son out of jail, Benny's childhood friend, also turned mafioso, takes him to his patron's ranch to get him a job in what seems to be the only trade visible besides bar-tending or patching up tires: running drugs. We need a guy in a white hat to come into this picture, I said to myself on the couch.
The old mafia don and his wife, who's the brains of the business, have a living room the size of a museum. The photos of the don and his wife taken with Mexico's ex-president Vicente Fox and shown kneeling piously receiving the blessing of Pope John were the first clues telling me where this film was headed: dangerous and dangerously-funny territory, as in "oh-no-you're-not-going-there." Maybe Benny's old mother's slapping him to say hello was a hint.
When Benny faints at his first mob-style execution, I sat up straight on the sofa and said, "oh-hell-yes-you-are-going-there!" A film about a complex character, a man caught in the combine. And though I knew where he would end, I was glued to the screen wondering what I would learn in the story of his journey. Thoughts of white hats were far from my mind now.
It's a modern Godfather story, complete with betrayals and loyalties, corrupt officials and lots of blood and machine-gun fire. What makes this an A film, and not a B, guns-n-tits shoot 'em up, is the dark humor and brutal honesty of the movie.
El Infierno takes you to the underbelly of the beast of our times: the centuries-old resentments of the Natives against the Whites, as who Benny is perceived by the native Oaxacan military-trained soldiers-turned narcos with whom he works. Mexico's schizophrenic views of women as either virgins or prostitutes are turned upside down in characters who have no recourse but to think only of themselves, such as Benny's mother, the knitting shop-keeper who is bought off with drugs to watch out for the mob, or the wife of the don, who is a movie unto herself. She is the more-cruel-than-anyone-woman behind the narco-throne who is surely to blame for her son's being gay, not to mention being murdered.
I'm strangely optimistic for Mexico's future after watching this film. I confess I'm probably myopic in my love for Mexico, but I'm optimistic that a film like this can be made with funding help from the Mexican government. This is not to say after it was completed, the film was later supported by the government, which it was not. I'm mainly optimistic because I'm reminded once again by El Infierno that the arts have a strong role to play in making life--if not better for us--then clearer for us to see.
Art helps us to observe what the dusty clouds of sharp braking trucks and the commotion and business of everyday life obscure. Picasso with Guernica, Steinbeck with The Grapes of Wrath. The Spanish Civil War and the Great Depression, each seen more easily. Leading us to remember and not make the same mistakes twice, hopefully.
Here in El Infierno is the role of drugs, now entering the lives of off the shelf, average Mexican kids, cops, and even the man at the hotel desk with his own meth addiction. Here is the stereotype of the self-less, sacrificing mother exposed as empty by Benny's mother, who as she blesses him asks for his new gold watch and for a Walkman like her neighbor's. Here is the handsome "good cop" federal agent promising immunity and protection in return for information such as offered thugs in America, and Benny falling in his trap. The trip through the combine is nearly ended. Here is the childhood friendship of two boys who lovingly call each other 'mi' or my when referring to each other. "Mi Benny" is really no one's, not wanted by the U.S., which has tossed him back, not Mexico's, who sees him only as another grunt with a strong back.
When Benny finally takes his place at the fancy stretch of cemetery mini-chapels that are set up when men in his family die, we see through the veil of the supposed foundations of Mexican culture, that his religion and faith have also failed him.
Benny, who was always polite, waited for the patriotic orators to complete their speeches on Mexico's Independence Day when the names of Mexican heroes sound hollow against the fact that more people have died in the drug war there than in the entire 30 year Revolution, which surpasses in carnage that of our own Civil War. Benny waited for the crowd to finish singing the national hymn before paying his respects with an automatic weapon to the assembled powerful elite standing above the celebrating crowd.
For all the seemingly
never-ending cycles of misery of greed and drug-born corruption this
film exposes, my optimism and my laughter at the irony of the film's story and of its making are my rewards for watching El Infierno.
After the commercial success of the film in
Mexico and its easy availability over Netflix now, if the government regrets its funding of the project, that's too bad. The cat's out of the bag. Anyway, El Infierno is too
funny and too accurate to censor. Though, if the brilliant and brave
filmmaker ever asks for funding for his work from the government again, he might be told, as was Benny when he was booted out by the border patrol, "don't come back."
The link below is to the full on-line version, without subtitles.
I would try to see El Infierno on Netflix, with subtitles, if only for the fun of watching how many ways the word "cabron" is translated.
Also puzzled at the translation of "mas loco que una cabra" (crazier than a female goat) to "crazier than a shit house rat." Overall, surprised and grateful thanks to the translator, the writer, the director, actors and everyone associated with the making of this amazing and brave film.
Good luck in finding a new job, too, to the government official who approved its funding.
http://cinefox.tv/ver1957/el-infierno_pelicula-completa.html
At the ripe old possum age of 81, country western singer George Jones passed away today.
I imagine his signature song, "He Stopped Loving Her Today" will be on the air a record number of times all over the world today, played in homage to the singer.
Here is a link to a 1980's television performance from Youtube:
http://youtu.be/1R2F9f2Cl6Y
The song has got to be in my list of top country songs of all time.
Here is a fairly recent interview with the song's writer from NPR's Fresh Airhttp://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=129550239
This is a teacher's blog, so it's natural to write about what I teach. In mass media, there's much I've seen and not seen, so it sometimes feels like I live in a foggy watchtower or lighthouse, able to see some but painfully aware of all I cannot see.
Age and experience makes for high criteria for judging good media. One compares one project to another, sometimes validly, sometimes not. Is a film as heart-breaking as The Wizard of Oz? Does it change the way one thinks like The Smartest Guys in the Room or All The President's Men? Does the play resonate with your own history and experience like La Casa de Bernarda Alba or the film, Callejon de Milagros?
It is a joy to see new technologies applied to story-telling-- think of Skyfall, the latest 007 film. Yet, story-telling can fall short of its twin-sister, production values and the result is unbalanced work that becomes more common than it should.
West Wing's episode about a pivotal moment in the President's thinking not only met my criterion for a balance between production values and story-telling, it surpassed it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2akDd-VoQwI
Like many, I watch TV on Netflix, on my own time and without ads. Like everyone, I watched it the other way for long enough to figure I've seen enough TV with ads, if the business model is crumbling, hell, I did my part to encourage and save it. Last night's episode made me wince with pain, cringe in sorrow and stand up with a tall spine with my hands in my pockets to face my own challenges. Mrs. Landinham's words should be heard by everyone "having a bit of a day".
http://youtu.be/QkNrSpqUr-E
The Internet's current phenomenon of Harlem Shake videos is interesting to explore.
Maybe one way to understand the role the videos serve is to think of Pedro Almodovar, the wild and wonderful Spanish director of films such as "Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown" and a long line of films that break boundaries like children break pinatas.
The end of the control of Spain's dictator, Francisco Franco unleashed the artist Almodovar's pent up frustration and fury, and we, Almodovar's fans worldwide are the grateful, if exhausted, beneficiaries.
The song, "Harlem Shake" has simple lyrics, "con los terroristas"-- which lead me to think that since 9-11-2001, Americans have had an unelected dictator of their own, terrorism.
The way Harlem Shake has caught on makes me wonder if the song allows people--mostly young men-- to break free from the serious drone-at-work world that has been largely defined by terrorism.
Recess time in grade school meant children raced to the merry-go-round, swings and see-saws to secure a spot to ride and play on during our short time out in the fresh air and warmth of the sun before returning to the confines of our wooden desks, our crayons and pencils, Big Chief tablets and the smell of Old Colonial oil and sawdust on wooden floors.
It was important to rush out and grab a spot because there weren't enough spaces on the playground equipment for every single kid.
Media fifty years ago and media today can be seen and understood in playground terms.
When media choices were few, advertisements paid for all content, by easily, although expensively, reaching mass audiences. We school kids rushed out the door after school to watch one of three television networks or to listen to one of two or three AM stations that played the Beatles or Rolling Stones.
With the arrival of the Internet, media choices exploded and there are not enough advertising dollars to pay for all content or to reach mass audiences, which are dispersed among the new multitude of choices.
Advertisers now target selected audiences, the 18-35 year-olds, the golfers, the investors, the arts and crafts crowd, the vampire or zombie set, etc.
Mass content supported by ads becomes few in number, such as tonight's Oscar awards, the Super Bowl earlier this month, last summer's Olympics, the Presidential debates this fall, and the few dominating the mass market on TV, such as CSI, Glee, etc.
Specialized program content increases: subscription programs like Boardwalk Empire, Girls, Downton Abbey, which we receive through grants, donations and ads, stand side by side with open-source content like Wikipedia, You-Tube and blogs and Internet sites on music, film or any one of a thousand subjects of limited interest, sometimes but usually not supported by ads, now added to the pool of special-market, but-not-mass content.
Quality of entertainment on the playground was determined by the scarcity of our choices. We raced for spots because there were many of us who wanted to ride. When our choices for entertainment, news and information are numerous, it is important to notice what these changes might mean: We can slow down and decide more carefully where to spend our time, based on our interests at the moment.This is a sea-change in our role. We are the decider, as a former president would say.
The up-side to scarcity of content is that ad dollars once paid for quality mass appeal programming. We shared a national conversation about the episode of Bonanza or the film that aired on NBC Saturday Night at the Movies.
The downside to scarcity of of content is that left-handed tennis players were left out in the cold without their own magazine and Americans who were not mainstream were largely unseen, or possibly worse, only in stereotyped portrayals.
The upside of abundance of content is that any of us now have a place in the marketplace of ideas, it is up to us to raise and hold the interest of an audience.
The downside of abundance is our teachers are not on duty, and it is we consumers who are in charge of the playground, while many of us may be unaware or unwilling to step into our new roles as 'the decider'.
Ad dollars cannot support it all, so mass content quality can decline even as our specialized content increases.
What happens to the content is
important. In the early days of the computer era, it was common to hear
the equalizing explanation of the power of computers: GIGO (garbage in,
garbage out).
A great post by Seth Godin helps to flesh out this sea-change in media and our roles in the marketplace of ideas. Seth Godin
There's a gathering of energy in the hills around Bandera, the stillness of Winter is awakening to the shy shudders of the on-coming Spring.
It's in the warm air and the buds of the mesquite. The hints are mounting and even though the calendar says it's mid February, it's really clear it may be time to hit the Ace's Hardware store garden area and buy some plants for the gardens.
We walked with friends at the Bandera Natural State Area today. We hiked an easy path, chatting and letting the dogs stop and smell every exciting news item they wanted along the way. It was dryer than I remembered it from a year or two ago when we were last there. That will change, just hope it's sooner than later.
We wore sweaters and hats and lots of sunscreen, but soon took our sweaters off as the hike and the sun's heat warmed us.
There were people on horseback and a large group of volunteers working on repairing trails.The oak and cedar stood nearby, all along the way, guarding our passage as we ambled along in no particular hurry.
We tipped our hats to each other, me and the trees. Another season behind us all on the planet, and here we found ourselves again, greeting each other as the sun waved overhead.
Our outing was just what I needed to remember that walking in nature is my favorite way to spend an hour or two. What beats shopping, watching television, surfing the Net or Social Media? What is so much richer in information and surprises than all those wonderful devices: natural wonders, naturally.
Crawling on bare knees over sharp, hot caliche rocks.
That's what progress feels like at times. Ouch, ow!
The job of a leader is to study then propose an idea, fly it up the flagpole, and look poker faced when people send arrows ripping through the fabric of the flag of your inspiration. Ouch, ow!
Yesterday was my day for crawling and looking poker faced, both not easy to do, least of all at the same time.
At the college where I teach, I am advocating a plan for maintaining a film and video competition we have hosted for 13 years and which may end this semester for lack of institutional support.
At KLRN where I've worked on and off since 1988, I am establishing my role on a team of creative people producing ARTS, the weekly series we began October 4.
http://video.klrn.org/program/klrn-arts/
There are days when you need to remember that doing your part is the only part you have any control over. Telling your story, selling its worth and recruiting support can follow, but there are other variables, such as budgets, priorities and even the possibility you are off course in your proposal.
Yesterday's long string of meetings starring me as pitcher also showed me there are other answers in addition to "yes, I love your idea and will support it" or "no, your proposal stinks." This is where the sharp, hot caliche comes in: There is pain and discomfort in being out of your comfort zone and having discourse with someone else while really listening and hearing another view.
The surprising part is that new, better ideas emerged--coming each time from other persons-- from those uncomfortable conversations. Instead of focusing on the progress made, I tend to focus on the crawling and the hot, sharp caliche biting into my bare knees. But that's part of the puzzle of what makes up progress.
At the end of the day, back home, I had a relaxing supper with some neighbors, then fell hard asleep. I awoke sometime in the night with a tape of instant re-plays flashing before my mind's eye: my department chair, my colleagues, my co-producer, and my executive producer, the conversations, the give and takes, the slow moving forward of ideas. Ouch, ow is all I remembered at first, until I reminded myself that yes, I had moved each idea forward, which is what I ask of myself and am proud to say was accomplished.
