Hope is dying. Dream we must.

 

Humanity's ability to dream

source

 

The popular saying, hope dies last? I beg to differ. It’s dreams that die last. And they only die when we do. Dreams die when the brain dies – unlike hopes. The sentient animal dreams. “Hopes” are conditions: expecting, projecting, wishful thinking. Dreams are unconditional, infinite possibilities.

We have no way of knowing if other sentient animals experience what we define as “hope” – until, maybe, one day we can communicate with dolphins and ask them some important questions hoping they answer. We can merely hope they answer. They might refuse to communicate, or they might respond in a non-informative way, like telling us to mind our own business. Would you blame them for that?

Animals do learn from past events and they do get conditioned to react to similar situations in similar ways – we call it learning, experience, training. But that is not hope. Although it would offer humans more actual reason to be optimistic, if we did manage to learn from history much better…

Humans always imagined Eutopias , Dystopias & Utopias. There is some confusion about these terms: Eutopia (from Greek “eu” = good + “topos” = place) is a realistic ideal situation, a society that we can actually work towards to and make happen. (Eutopia is not pronounced like Utopia in Greek, but Eftopia). Utopia is also a good place, but it’s unrealistic: a perfect state that is not feasible.  Heaven. A Paradise. Pessimists would say that a Eutopia is Utopian, as human nature is imperfect. Optimists would think that even Utopias are feasible – hence the confusion between these two (remember The Field of Dreams?) Realists would say that every improvement is Eutopian – a step closer to that Good Place. Everyone agrees on what Dystopia means: a very negative version of the future that we will end up in, as a result of bad choices, if we don’t work to avoid it.

The belief that human society is always improving, that there is always progress, is a particularly persistent form of optimism that is obviously unwarranted. We are accelerating towards a Dystopian future that is just a few decades away, at most. Civilizations flourish, reach an apex, decline and often entirely disappear. (According to the Great Filter theory, “intelligent” life may self-destruct before it reaches capability for interstellar travel). The industrial civilization, for all its accomplishments and improvements in quality and expectancy of life, is sleepwalking towards extinction.

Hope is dying. 

Powerful examples of thought-provoking Dystopian concepts in literature and film are Aldus Huxley’s Brave New World (1932), George Orwell’s Animal Farm (1945) and 1984 (1949), Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (1953), Anthony Burgess’ A Clockwork Orange (1962), Philip K. Dick’s The Man In the High Castle (1962) and Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? (1968, the book which gave us the classic Blade Runner), Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse – 5 (1969), Alan Moore & David Floyd’s V for Vendetta (1988-89), Susan Collins’ The Hunger Games (2008) and a personal favorite, Equilibrium (2002).

Some great Utopias (in the Eutopian sense) include the most influential Plato’s Republic (c 380 BC), H. G. Wells’ A Modern Utopia (1905), and one of my most favorite science fiction novels, Arthur C. Clark’s Childhood’s End (1953).

Up until recently, we thought that non-human animals only live in the now – we were wrong. Not only some animals remember the past but they can also plan for the future. Undoubtedly, some intelligent sentient animals are self-aware and they do dream. We don’t know exactly if they can imagine the future like we do or how far ahead they can plan for, but there is evidence to suggest that some great apes do make future plans; of course, many animals dream in a rudimentary, elementary, involuntary sense.

We don’t just dream in that involuntary sense – we consciously, intentionally, assertively, proactively imagine better realities and better futures.  We aspire, wish for, yearn, visualize, envision. And engage in wishful thinking –  daydreaming – escapism, and often delude and convince ourselves that our hopes are justified – even if and especially when they aren’t…

We dream because the Eros Principle (the life instinct) seeks joy. It motivates us to create, preserve, perpetuate life. Our brain plays out scenarios – wish fulfillment – that we get pleasure from. It plays out soothing scenarios but also anxiety dreams, or nightmares, reactions to negative experiences, tension-release mechanisms. We don’t exactly understand the purpose of involuntary dreams, but they aren’t the subject of this post anyway.

The other dreams, the visions, the active, positive, creative wonderings of our imagination, the Voyages to a Good Place, are the ones we can make sense of; they represent the kind of future and improved reality we want ourselves and our children to live in; those conscious, intentional dreams, are the stuff inventions, breakthroughs in science, technology and society are made of; yet at the moment of conception, when the first flight of fancy or novel idea is born in the mind, we don’t know if they are realistic, if they have any chances of ever becoming true, if they could indeed lead to something better or not; still, the mere fact that we dream those dreams excites us and makes us happy. It makes us optimistic. It gives us hope.

So it’s dreams that offer hope, not the other way around.

And when reality proves that hope is not justified, what we are left with is still -dreams. Ideas are still there in the mind, in a dormant state, waiting to happen. Especially now, with the virtual reality of the cyberworld in place, alternative realities are part of our everyday tangible reality. We create them just to escape or as models of a better tomorrow. Even escapism can shape the future – with technologies that allow us to access and sense, experience the virtual world as if it was the real one. Science fiction that started with the stories of Jules Verne and long before him, thousands of years ago, with primitive and early humans casting their mind as far and wide as the cosmos, creating Eutopias, Utopias and Dystopias with imagination alone, has become a driver of innovation, invention and science.

Dreaming shapes our world.

Scientists by definition are realists; they know, to take a prime example, the most important issue of all, that Global Warming is real; they also know for a fact that we have very slim chances of avoiding it; they don’t hope – hope alone doesn’t actually help in increasing the odds of survival. In a way, hope leads to unrealistic expectations, complacency, inaction: “Oh sure, things are looking bad, but hey, everything’s gonna be alright“. No, it’s not. That’s false hope. Things don’t work like that. If things are bad, to make them better, or simply avoid them getting worse, we need ideas to make changes happen; and actions, not hopes.

Science is determined to solve the problem because realistic, factual thought knows the human population will not do enough, will not change the way it conducts its life sufficiently fast to restore the damage. There are too many idiotic deniers and too many insane, ignorant world-scale criminals working against humanity: lying to the public, casting doubt about research and facts, deflecting and distracting public opinion from the emergency and seriousness of the threat.

Politics and positions of influence and power attract opportunists and malignant narcissists. History is full of them and of the catastrophic carnages of war and genocides they caused. Unfortunately just as Global Warming requires massive common effort and international cooperation, there are some world leaders that are sworn to the opposite, for their own political and financial gain, their monumental lack of empathy and their ties with corporate greed. The situation is made worse because of the combined influence of religions and traditions that cultivate and propagate apathy, faith in messianic saviors and belief in miracles.

 

Amazon

 

Religion trades in hopes: it sells comfort, and promises miraculous salvation; it promotes apathy and obeisance with the illusion of an afterlife where things are perfect – a future where dreams have already come true. Hey, you don’t have to get off your butt to make this life better (“do not worry about tomorrow”); all you got to do is believe without proof – have faith without evidence – do as you’re told – comply, and magically you will be rewarded – after you’re dead.

But – what about now? What about this life? OK, then, pray. Prayers will give you comfort…Meanwhile, you can “sin” all you like, be a total asshole – don’t you worry, little mortal, you will be forgiven. Go ahead, detonate nuclear bombs, destroy the world, kill millions of innocent children, abuse, murder, rape, exploit – still, you will go to heaven if you repent, so this life doesn’t matter. What kind of pay-as-you-go morality is this? Go ahead and be a total dick and a creep, a child molester even, a cruel homicidal sadist, then go to confession and the slate is wiped clean. Pope will sell you absolution. Christian ethics, Muslim morals – wonderfully elastic, ever so convenient…and deadly. Religion, conformity and consumerism formed the Axis of Evil that threatens life on Earth.

Comfort is not motivation. It reinforces optimism that things are going to be alright on their own. It’s a cop-out. It’s irrational. Pray and wait, some time prayers may be answered. Just wait, things are going to get better because they always do…but in truth, we don’t know that things are going to get better, in fact, the evidence points to the contrary. Waiting for miracles to happen or imaginary superheroes and totalitarian leaders to save us is definitely not the best survival plan. What animal senses danger and prays or hopes instead of getting out of harm’s way? only one – the most intelligent of all, as we arrogantly claim: homo sapiens, dumbed down by its own imbecilic, prehistoric invention, of a primitive psychological need born out of fear and ignorance about natural laws.

Without changes, we can’t rely on chances. We can’t just hope for a random fortunate turn of events. That would be highly illogical, in situations that actually depend on us, on action or inaction. We need to get out of our comfort zone to make things better. Keep doing the same thing and expecting different results is insane. We need effort, not wishful thinking.

In predictable fields, where we can recognize trends and make projections, it is quite possible to collect data and make educated judgments about the outcome. Some things are quite predictable. A sumo wrestler can’t possibly win the Olympic gold medal in pole-vaulting. That’s an improbability; winning the lottery is a probability, it’s just very, very unlikely, because although someone – a random person – does win the lottery quite often, the odds of it happening to you, or me – a specific personare astronomical. Common sense (in other words, experience) and science can predict outcomes with varying degrees of accuracy. From the study of past events, facts and figures and cause and effect and natural laws, not by guessing or reading the tea leaves and the daily horoscope…

Sure, we could hope our lives away, but it would be self-destructive. When we know reality is bad and can’t get better by just hoping, without positive action hope dies. Belief without reason can make you feel better – it can be comforting: but it’s not going to make our world any better for you and your loved ones, cure AIDS or avoid catastrophe…

 

Amazon rainforest

 

What realists and scientists and dreamers and inventors and creators and we all (potentially) have in common are, unsurprisingly, dreams. Ambitions. Creative thinking. Curiosity. Goals. Ideas. Ingenuity. Plans. Visions. Some of us don’t just rely on hope, expecting leaders, Lady Luck and gods to make things better: they imagine a better place, a better life, a better future; they wish for a better way, a more efficient method of achieving this or that and they act, work to find ways to invent it and make it happen. That is the value of dreams.

They could be totally unrealistic – like the idea of time travel, which is theoretically possible, but only under such unlikely conditions to make it highly improbable – or they could be totally possible. Faith promises absolute certainties without facts, proof or reason. Science deals with possibilities, facts and logic.

The distance between a better future (a Eutopia) and a bad present (not quite a terminal Dystopia, yet…but increasingly becoming one) is those possibilities and rational thought. We empirically know that there are no problems without solutions.

What we have, beyond hope, is our ability to dream a better reality and make it happen. That’s how progress is achieved. That’s how we find cures for disease. That’s how we improve living standards. Religious faith believes in gods’ will; the same “benevolence” that, according to the primitive “logic” that invented gods in man’s own image, gives cancer to innocent children.

Faith submits and subjugates us to accepting a malicious, preposterous, fatalistic concept. Humanity and rational thought revolts against it. If you could create a universe, would you punish your most innocent children for any reason – and then be such a reprehensible coward as to blame it on themselves, parents, women and “original sin”? The answer is a resounding no – human morality is much better than that. Only a capricious, vindictive sadist would do what theists accept as the work of a divine superior mind. Epicurus disposed of that absurdity more than two thousand years ago – and his logic remains irrefutable:

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent.  Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent.  Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil?  Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?”

So don’t despair when hope is dying. It’s only the primitive belief in fate and a  future dependent on divine will that keeps us shackled in a prehistoric dark cave, rejecting the marvel and potency of Ideas, casting doubt in our potential to shape our own present and future reality. Our history attests to the opposite. Humanism rejects the morally bankrupt concept of a superior puppet-master.

Don’t give up when everything points out to a very dark dystopia with little chance of escape. Realism is a better source for optimism –  fear kicks butt into gear. We are the product of adaptation and evolution that equipped us for survival  – with instincts, cognition, curiosity, imagination. For as long as we can dream, we grasp the possibility of a better tomorrow out of thin air and find exactly what we need to do to make it happen.

We can cure sickness – because we can dream, and act-move-work to make ideas realize a better tomorrow. We are work in progress and that in itself is wonderful. Sure, we are capable of some pretty horrible things and we’ve put ourselves and life on the planet in a very critical situation. But it’s us who did that – not Jesus or Mohammed, and that means we can correct it.

 

Ocelot in Equador rainforest

 

Scientists have given up hope about humanity collectively changing overnight and surviving Global Warming. Professor Stephen Hawking spoke of alternative possibilities for survival. That is realism and imagination, positive thinking and problem-solving all in one.

Scientists have given up hope because it is passive and unrealistic: educated, pragmatic thought is the opposite of that: active, inquisitive, always questioning, wondering, probing, proposing theories & hypotheses, experimenting, pushing the boundaries – not expecting that all will somehow be revealed as if by magic; conscious Dreams and plans are real and proactive. Visions and visualizations of possibilities are the opposite of passive and pathetic – they are windows of the mind to an alternative universe that we could arrive at by a change of course – making the invention of solutions possible.

Hold on to that thought.

If there is a real, pressing need, intelligence, ingenuity, research, study, the prolific human brain will find a way to answer it. That is what inspiration and experimentation have been doing for thousands of years. Providing solutions to problems, old and new. After days, months, years, decades, centuries – as better tools and improved methods become available, Eureka springs into consciousness like a triumphant cascade of light – a moment of great joy and sublime sense of accomplishment.

The first step towards that progress was dreaming.

We had been looking at the moon and stars, longingly, for thousands of years. Wondering what they were. Yearning to reach them. Hope alone would have never gotten us there.

What took us there was the dream, the initial Erotic hunger and thirst: falling in love with an idea. Interacting with the objects of desire: knowledge, life, the universe and everything – every question, every enigma, every knowable fact, every conceivable answer, every reachable conclusion, discovery, frontier…at first flirting with it, pondering on it; then probing at it, embracing its possibilities, visualizing the journey and the outcome; nurturing, feeding and keeping the dream alive, no matter how long it requires; growing and expanding the thought process to fruition; examining, learning and memorizing every step on the map along the way, working with facts and tools and figures; artfully applying old and new techniques towards finding the best route to make the voyage possible, to arrive at the destination, give birth to and unveil a new reality, create a new state of existence.

This is what I meant by Eutopian voyager: the journey bridging the distance between imagination and existence, between Eros  (the yearning) and materialization. It’s what makes us special as a species. The dream is the first step, even before we prepare to set sail. That precious beginning, like a little spark in the darkness.

There is a magnificent moment in the masterpiece of Stanley Kubrick & Arthur C. Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey dedicated to The Dawn of Homo Sapiens, accompanied by the truly mindblowing orchestral introduction of Richard Strauss’ Thus Spoke Zarathustra. It is that split second, that the thinking mind grasps the possibility, the first glimpse of an idea that begins to form. You can feel the spark igniting, the glorious instant of change that made an entirely different history possible. An alternative universe was born at that very fraction of a second, the burst of an impulse that generated a universe that includes humanity. The start of an epic journey to discovery and becoming. The conscious dream that transformed our distant ancestors from thinking apes to sapient humans.

It doesn’t matter if hope dies. It’s a good thing: letting go of the superstition that things can improve if we remain fatalistic, passive witnesses of history, by some kind of an outside miracle, means coming of age as a reasoning, intelligent species. Our very humanity is born out of that brave, defiant, magnificent risk of trying different things, overcoming obstacles, pushing boundaries, becoming ourselves, protagonists in our lives, rather than just following a predetermined track.

Empathy, Realism, Imagination, Ingenuity are far better propositions for individual and collective improvement, rather than relying on hopes; they have often been false. They let us down more times than not. Hopes are mortal during our lifetimes, especially if we put our faith in gods and god-like despots, instead of pragmatic, hard-working, fact-checking, inquisitive, problem-solving, mature rational thought.

Giving up faith, empowering our minds, opening our eyes to reality, embracing aspiration and action is our only source of hope: Eutopian change for the better. It means we grow up to take control of our fate and future, instead of putting our trust in Pandora or some other imaginary benefactor. It signifies we care enough for ourselves and each other to take responsibility for our actions, instead of blaming what happens on divine will. Caring for each other and the future generations are what makes us humane, our strength, our heritage and our legacy. Isolation, lack of cooperation, hostility, are paving a highway to death and destruction.

Emancipation from servitude to a creator is the prerequisite of what we call Freedom. Religion & free will are mutually exclusive. The concept of a divine master endowing us with free will is oxymoronic and immature. The very reason we arrived at two minutes to midnight for life as we know it, is blind faith: sheeple mentality, religious traditionalism, patriarchal inequality, injustice, prejudice, division between the favorite sons and the children of lesser gods, between the master’s flock and the infidels, between us and them; exhausting the planet’s resources as if Earth was made for us to consume because the Bible says so; removing control of reproduction from women; believing that we have a better world to go to after death; replacing reason and philosophy (Eros, lust for knowledge) with a sterile, debilitating worship for tribal totems and anachronistic taboos; being reared and conditioned by churches to follow and obey mass-murdering tyrants like the faithful follow their tyrannical, whimsical gods.

What we define as “humane” is the very essence of morality that is a natural product of evolution, instead of god-made: empathy, compassion, communication, mutual support and teamwork, tolerance, understanding, are essential attributes of social species; we depend on these evolutionary qualities for survival and happiness, instead of obeying commands to avoid punishment and gain favor with a supernatural despot; that servile proposition is the very essence of corruption, it’s a transaction instead of ethics…

What we term as heroic is altruism, the sacrifice of self for the greater good: the very same natural product of evolution that is innate in most social animals; we aid and protect each other, shed our individual lives to save one another and the young – no different than any other mammal; they all display these instincts; they didn’t get them from faith, churches, commandments or biblical teachings, but from the common genetic code of synergistic behavior members of social species carry in their DNA.

Already ancient Greek thought, although still religious, realized that hope is not enough, prayer alone can’t provide solutions – action can: “Syn Athena kai heira kinei”  – pray to the goddess Athena (to save you from drowning), but also use your arms to swim. Philosophy thousands of years ago arrived at the conclusion that there is no imaginary friend in the sky – and then patriarchal religion spread like wildfire imprisoning human consciousness to this day, poisoning the human mind since childhood, trying to keep us controlled in the pens of organized churches to serve the interests of the Elite masterclass. As a result, billions live in poverty, die of preventable diseases, are denied their human rights and deprived of education, marginalized, exploited, robbed of opportunities and real participation in the decision-making about their lives, even in the world’s wealthiest economies.

What we need in this critical time is to keep the dream and our humanity alive. Reject the mental slavery that keeps humanity following the twin sirens of death and destruction to its peril. Religion is a death-wish. It’s the enemy of the life force – the Eros principle; an obsession with the afterlife at the expense of this one.

Corporate greed has been using the same propaganda techniques as religion, to establish its world domination; it has used the hypnotic influence of blind faith to manipulate the public, keep voters uninformed, deluded and powerless to determine their own future.

Hopes are dying and our dreams are being transformed into nightmares. The old vampires of fascism and tyranny are rising and baying for blood.

We have to resist and survive. We have to unite, organize and act: work together.

Keep Life Going. Life is its own reward.

Plant many, many baby tomorrows. Dream as if your life depends on it – it does. Save the forests. Preserve the future.

Tropical rainforest

When agents of Evil crawl out of darkness to kill Hope, what we have left is stronger: Dreams. Ideas. Human values.      

 

*Συν Αθηνά και χείρα κίνει

“Revenge” (1990): Eros & Thanatos

Ode to Eros

 

In 1859, French writer and Poet Laureate Frédéric Mistral wrote a poem about two star-crossed lovers in the Occitan language; it’s named after the heroine, Mirèio. Mirèio and humble basket-maker Vincènt are deeply in love but her rich parents disapprove and want to marry her off to a wealthy Provençal landowner. In despair, she runs away from her home on a pilgrimage to Camargue, the city of the Saint Marys of the Sea (Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer). She travels on foot, constantly praying about her forbidden love. The soles of her feet are bleeding. The two lovers had arranged to meet there so she carries on despite the blistering heat. She prays and prays for her parents to relent and allow her to marry her true love. Finally, the patron saints of Provence appear to hallucinating Mirèio, telling her that she and Vincènt will be reunited and forever happy in heaven. Mirèlha left in such a hurry that she had forgotten to bring a hat; she dies from heatstroke, in Vincènt’s arms and under the gaze of her parents.

One hundred and twenty years later, on May 8, 1979, Esquire published the 30-thousand-word novella “Revenge” (“A tale of love and betrayal”) by Jim Harrison. This fatal love story of another Mireya would become the 1990 love-triangle film “Revenge“, directed by Tony Scott, starring Kevin Costner, Madeleine Stowe and Anthony Quinn; the author co-wrote the script. Mireya (“wonder”) was the name of Stowe’s mother. Quinn plays the husband “Tibey” (Tiburon = ”Shark”) Mendez, a Mexican overlord. Costner plays anti-hero Michael “Jay” Cochran, a retired US Navy fighter pilot and tennis hustler who falls for Mireya.

The novel opens with an impressive and typically western, macho, masterful and memorable phrase: “you could not tell if you were a bird descending (and there was a bird descending, a vulture) if the naked man was dead or alive“. Scorching heat is a theme here too, the heat beating down on the human body left to die, the heat of a forbidden passion. Costner became obsessed with the visceral story in 1985, impressed by the “honor code” and violent vengeance it portrays, the lethal coexistence and juxtaposition between the Eros and Death drives; in the New York Times interview, he recalled one sentence in particular that stayed with him: ”There is an impulse for vengeance among certain men south of the border that leaves even the sturdiest Sicilian gasping for fresh air.” Quinn touched on another theme:  ”He [Cochran’s character] doesn’t know that my love for him is because he is my surrogate son. Sometimes we older men  [Quinn was 75 at the time, although his character in the novella was just approaching 60] love a young man and see in him qualities that we had or hoped to have. For my character, there’s great pain in losing the wife, but that pain is not as great as losing the friend.”

Quite revealing about Quinn himself, rather than Harrison’s novella.

He continued:

”I think the man is of another time and his values are of another time. It’s the old country mentality, which also happens to be mine. I think sexual liberation is a lot of garbage. I mean, there’s no code, there’s no honor. It was a question of morality that Tiburon takes the action he does. So that’s why I did the picture, that and the fact it’s a classic, old-fashioned story that could have been done by John Wayne or Gary Cooper. I’m aware that a lot of American women will not understand my behavior, will find it as twisted as all hell. They’ll say: ‘Well, that terrible man, he slices up the girl’s face and then almost kills his friend.’ I’m saying that the man can’t help it; he was born with that morality. I mean, a hunting dog can’t help that he bites.”

So, for Quinn, Tiburon “can’t help” being an asshole – he was “born” with that “morality”, inherently evil… In one scene Mendez throws one of his other valuable possessions (a hunting dog) in the swimming pool, presumably to teach the dog a lesson; and despite the dog just being a dog, by Quinn’s logic, it’s excluded from the actor’s moral defense. It’s “just a dawg”, like the wife is “just a wife”. What’s a woman compared to male bond? (Top Gun, perhaps the most famous of Tony Scott’s movies, is very much a male-bonding tour de force. Worth here to mention Tarantino’s take on it: “It is a story about a man’s struggle with his own homosexuality”, the auteur famously proposed. I was thinking of that, reading Quinn’s interview…).

He further stated ”I’m very happy to be in this picture, because it is probably the last picture I’ll ever do where I get to have a young wife.” In Quinn’s wiki page we read that he told reporters he wanted to play Paul Castellano, the boss of the Gambino family. Castellano inspired the actor because he had had a “thirty-year-old” mistress, which Quinn believed was “a beautiful thing”. (Trump himself could have not said it better). Tony Scott first met the 70+ year old Quinn for lunch at the Bellagio Hotel (in Las Vegas), and he recalled two young women sitting nearby who by the end of the meeting were sitting at Quinn’s table. “When I left I left him with them.” Scott lived in a house that once belonged to John Barrymore, and Quinn shared stories with him of when he stayed in the home’s guest house and threw massive parties. “He said they’d invite all these Busby Berkeley girls up to swim in the pool, and they’d blindfold the mariachi band and do nasty things to the girls in the pool.” Ahhh, the good old days before #MeToo…

In his autobiography, The Original Sin: A Self-Portrait by Anthony Quinn, he revealed himself to be a man who “has difficulty accepting unconditional love (this is the original sin)”. As a Mexican-Irishman who struggled with the death of a young son (just like Onassis, a take on whom he portrayed in The Greek Tycoon) Quinn’s interpretation of Tiburon’s character and of his friendship with Costner’s character as a case of Oedipodean love and betrayal between “father figure” Tiburon Mendez and “surrogate son” Jay Cochran, his emphasis on the pain of  losing Cochran as being greater than the pain of losing Mireya, offer intriguing aspects of the actor, his personality and his approach to the part.

Costner himself, 35 at the time and emerging as ”the new Gary Cooper”, after “intense but understated performances in movies such as No Way Out (another fatal love-triangle film and a great personal favorite – that I hope to blog about at some point) and Field of Dreams”. It was Costner’s passion for the story that finally got the project off the ground – and Tony Scott had an additional, personal motive for directing it, as a man infamously involved in a much-publicized love triangle, a man who understood perfectly the compelling erotic drive in the characters; and “pure cinema” stylist Scott knew more than most just how to portray sex on film, staying on the preciously thin cutting edge of intense desire that is neither vulgar nor anemic and never without danger or personal cost.

I for one am glad that John Huston didn’t get to direct the film and that Jack Nicholson didn’t get Cochran’s part. It might have been a good old-fashioned gritty western but it would have been a very different movie. I can thoroughly appreciate why Costner felt it was a part to die for in a picture that had to be made. It’s one of those Hollywoodianisms that producer Ray Stark wanted to shape the film more to his taste, make it a more muted down affair. It is to Tony Scott‘s credit that he fought tooth and nail to make it what it is: a tough, unforgettable look at a man’s world, at terrible conventions and social mores that people cross at their peril and at the expense of what is natural and valid, our only saving grace, after all: the Eros Principle, the lust for life, life instinct itself and its struggle against death.

 

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Don’t expect to find dithyrambic reviews anywhere – there aren’t any. Revenge tanked at the box office – how could the audiences in America stomach its ambiguity, its boldness, its complexity and its unapologetically sexual, tragic nature, its unresolved, brutal misery, its ending offering no absolution and no hope? It’s not your typical Hollywood movie. The US critics panned it too – praising the stunning visuals but completely rejecting the rest: it had no appeal for anyone who looks for moral justifications in lust and doesn’t find any, it was too brutal for a romance, offered no real catharsis – other than, on the surface, the punishment of the adulteress and the return of the men – both destroyed and reconciled with fate – to their personal hells – where is the triumph in that? Too bloody, too sexual, too uncomfortable and too real…

It’s also very real that there is no love between Hollywood and Costner; the reason, I suspect,  is that he both refused to be controlled and sought control of his own projects, Tom Cruise being another notorious example of that genre that studios and their assorted mouthpieces treat as “irritants” …Revenge was just one of the many targets in the orchestrated barrage of vitriol from (birds-of-a-feather) film critics, in a long series of systematic character assassination attempts aimed at “stars” who, The Industry deems, get too big, too “uppity” and need to be “taken down a notch or two”. I’m sure that if it was anybody else – anybody, just not Costner – the film would have been lauded for its bravery, nominated for awards and filed under “unmissable”…

The studios didn’t think Costner was ready to direct (Dances with Wolves would soon prove them wrong) and although Revenge is visually perhaps the definitive Tony Scott signature film, I suspect it was also very much a Costner film, through his creative involvement in every aspect of the project, the script included (he brought Robert Garland who produced and wrote the screenplay for No Way Out, to work on it) as executive producer; Scott’s and Costner’s storytelling concepts of Revenge were evidently harmonious, became a common vision for the film, and they collaborated again in the release of a punchier, steamier and even more grisly Director’s Cut some seventeen years later, confirming their belief in the validity of the story and of their telling of it. The very dedication of returning to a piece of work after that length of time attests just how much it resonated with its creators. It’s a rare if not unique case of a Director’s cut, very much shorter (by some fifteen minutes) than the original version; and it’s a rare case of a film much better than the book it was based on. Although the script was quite faithful to Harrison’s plot, the author’s Hemingwayesque prose is more about style (arguably racist & even misogynistic) than substance – so the movie is perfectly justified in taking a life of its own, leaving some of the book (such as the dubious ending, of which more below) out of the picture.

And what a picture it is…the movie begins with a foreboding, contrasting visual, a memento mori: the arrogant phallic dominance of a killing machine – the deadly gorgeous military aircraft shape shearing through the sky like a sharp knife, very much à la Top Gun, over a naked man dying in the foreground, and finishes in a crushing, totally unhappy ending. Costner the sleek and handsome US Navy pilot is gradually transformed, reduced to someone who “could not bear the sight of a plane”, a naked, beaten-up near-corpse caked with blood, charred and scarred to the marrow, his attractive face disfigured, surviving only to carry out his revenge, eviscerating a man with glee and relish; he admits that his love for jets ruined his marriage [in the novella it’s “His tour in Laos, among other things (alcohol, womanizing, an incapacity for sitting still”)] although the film does not mention his daughter, that in the book he relinquishes; “Over Laos he took a 57, ejected from his Phantom, leaving a dead navigator, and spent two months with some friendly fishermen in a junk avoiding the Pathet Lao and the Cong. He was essentially antipolitical and now the war only reappeared in nightmares”. So much for the dashing knight in shining armor. He is a cynical survivor, tough-as-old-boots and clueless that an opportunity to redeem himself is just around the corner.

Jay Cochran is forty-one, a farmers’ boy from Indiana who is clever because “he could not bear to be stupid” and likes books; he can recite Lorca’s and Neruda’s poetry in fluent Spanish and is appreciative of Modigliani; he listens to Bach and Debussy, has visited museums and art galleries in Paris and Madrid and knows exactly how engines work. About Eros he remains uninitiated and pedestrian though and not only he is the sinner, the colluding adulterer – his antagonist and friend is “the enemy”: not even a worthy opponent, a respectable gentleman, being Mexican, once a pimp and a drug lord; no wonder there was little empathy for Costner’s unlikely, compromised, ambivalent character among the confused moviegoers.

Tarantino loved the film – its audacity and its raw, sparse, gripping, atmospheric stylishness. There is a purity in Revenge not (unsurprisingly) to be found in Hollywood; it is a love it or hate it case that has earned a cult following – among those who got it and what it was about and how it told the story – trimming all the excess off and leaving only raw bleeding flesh and broken bone. But there is a song in the marrow of those bones, universal, primordial, tragic yet sublime…and it deserves to be heard.

Each main character and each relationship between them commits and is a hubris. From the diametrically opposing states of the protagonist in the first sequences (in control of the flying instrument of Thanatos at the top of the screen and totally powerless, at death’s mercy on the bottom, as the natural world looks dispassionately upon man’s fate through the eyes of a coyote) the setting is of a modern Greek Tragedy on multiple counts: Jay betrays both father figure and friend. Tibey (real name Baldassaro) betrays both his friend, the son he wishes to have and/or to be, his wife’s love and trust and his own arrogant, brutal code. Mireya betrays husband, owner and protector with none other than his own surrogate son and friend.

Jay and Mireya defy the old “natural order of things” (the order that Quinn defends against sexual liberation – the very thing that he himself seems to have been quite keen to exploit and benefit from…); they also defend the real, natural order of things – the Eros Principle. It is the old that ought to die or submit and give way to the young.  It is Eros the primordial all-conquering force, the divine madness that inspires to live or kill and die for. There would be no one alive without lust. There are mimesis and diegesis and Nemesis aplenty in the story. Where is the Catharsis to be found? It’s a tough movie to watch for a thinking viewer who is not just looking for a mindless, entertaining action thriller.

 

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Twenty-seven-year-old Mireya is owned by Tiburon: in his tradition, Saint Paul’s patriarchal dictum of marital order and virtue, the wife is an obedient accessory and decorative commodity, symbolized by Mireya’s white, bridled mare (a white rose, in the book). “The Shark” is used to being obeyed. He earned that place in his world, ever since he was born, dirt poor, and fought, murdered, pimped, robbed and blackmailed all his way up. He will not be challenged or compared – the novel informs us that his wife didn’t have any previous sexual partner other than himself. Of course – second-hand goods, especially women, are worthless to him.

Even the slightest defiance to his power, his honor code and his symbolic name, is punishable by death – or worse, vengeful torture before execution. He is a charmer, hypocritical, veneered, vicious and ruthless. Mireya explains to Jay that marriages are arranged there but she married Tibey because “she was in love with him – all the girls were”: that is the chaste romantic love notion traditionally imprinted upon young women – the kind of romance invented by the male-dominated medieval chivalry, preserving the woman’s “honor” and securing the use of her womb to the sole rightful owner, her husband and master – the notion uninformed by the visitation of almighty Eros himself.

Mireya, who reveals that she had never truly fallen in love before with this sentence, is the real protagonist; she is the apex of the triangle, the one who sets the plot of the tragedy off: she watches Cochran, realizing he is not one of her husband’s sycophantic pets; he is neither ignorant nor an idiot. His sarcastic put down at the mobster who brags about the nine-foot jaguar he killed earns her respect. She is the one who seals everyone’s fate the moment she recognizes her Eros for Jay and decides to pursue him, signifying to him that she is aware and willing.

This is an empowering film for women. It is she who initiates the affair and owns her sexuality, boldly, joyfully in her newly found freedom, with pride and without inhibition. He resists – initially he is reluctant and clearly very aware of “who’s court he’s on”. His words on the telephone to his friend, who is incredulous as Jay “doesn’t fall in love”, are “I’m fucked”. “That bitch in heat has killed you if you don’t go” is the reply – in the book. The film version is more restrained but still, the gravity of the imminent danger is spelled out in no uncertainty.

Mireya’s sensual beauty is exotic to the white North American audiences – Stowe is herself the daughter of a Costa Rican mother of Castilian descent –  she is not, therefore, the virginal blonde blue-eyed angelic girl, after Jesus own image, that often portrays the devoted wife in the Christian tradition, a meek victim of seduction against her better judgment. She owns the temptation. She is it: the defiant seductress, the one who refuses to deny her attraction, the one who does not hesitate to go to Cochran’s beach home and make herself available, show him she is interested.

She is marked by Tibey as a “dirty” sinner early on: “only whores smoke in public” he tells her, with a smothering embrace – a public display of affection and possessiveness. She wears crimson red lipstick and absorbs the abuse with a smile. She is used to his patronizing humiliations. She enjoys her husband’s immense power, influence, wealth and status – why can’t she at least be faithful? It’s the bargain that’s expected from God-fearing wives, in return for their own safety, security and a lavish lifestyle to boot, in her case. Why can’t she just not be greedy, and settle for the luxuries other good little gold diggers can only dream of?

Tiburon Mendez does not want to make a public show of the betrayal – being the cuckolded one is degrading, its so contrary to what he is about, and making it known that he knows it is even more so; but so many of his minions know what’s happening that he can’t ignore it; besides, his lifelong contempt for women since he became a pimp at nineteen dictates that he has to teach the whore a lesson.

Mireya wants a baby but her husband doesn’t want any more children – he had plenty already before she was even born. Mireya is a personification of the life instinct – Mendez is in the service of Thanatos, holding her captive. He bought himself a beautiful trophy, young enough to be his daughter, to arrogantly display and elicit jealousy, projecting his superior prowess and status to and over other men. Her impeccable social acceptance and popularity give him access to the elite circles he had been denied – using her to gain the respectability he craved, paving his way to mingle in the legitimate society and install his political accomplices.

He asks Jay if he finds his wife beautiful and warns him that a woman like that he “would do anything to keep” his own alone. Mendez is a vampire clinging to life by sucking the life out Mireya and everyone else that he can use for his purpose, like his young athletic protégé – but quick to snuff it out from anyone that dares stand in his way. And he doesn’t want his possession’s value diminished – childbearing would ruin Mireya’s figure. That is her declared value for him – an asset, a commodity, an object he has convinced himself he is fond of because his very ownership of her bestows value on her – he is successful, he is rich, he is above the law of ordinary men – plus she’s a pretty, young, popular vessel and the source of envy.

Mendez is angry when one of his prized dogs leaps at the flight jacket he only just got as a gift from Jay. Cochran is repaying him for the lavish present Tibey sent him for his retirement – a set of expensive guns (of course). Tibey grabs the whining dog and tosses him into the pool. “Americans would forgive easily”, he tells a flabbergasted Cochran “but a dog without discipline…” he doesn’t finish the sentence but the implication is clear. He forced an arranged marriage onto Mireya – musing that marrying her mother would have probably been wiser – and she (a bitch like all women) is not allowed to seek her own fulfillment, satisfaction and happiness. That’s the price she had to pay for marrying up – into power, money, success.

 

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Instincts take over and Mireya claims Cochran before he claims her. There is no question who falls in love and lust first. It’s Eve who offers the fruit of knowledge to her chosen one. Cochran soon sheds his cynicism and takes it. After the scene at his beach house – the tender gesture of touching and removing a wet strand of hair from her face as it’s raining, not quite managing it as his fingers are clumsy: he is visibly affected by the realization that is dawning on him: he has fallen, this is it and he’s powerless against it – they meet at the party Mendez is throwing at his hacienda on the occasion of a newly installed puppet politician. Mireya follows Jay into a cloakroom. She is not timid. Her mind’s made up. He locks the door as Mendez henchman Cezar is right outside looking everywhere for them.

It’s a beautifully filmed lovemaking scene, depicting a crescendo of erotic passion and sexual longing absolutely essential to the story. Halfway Mireya slaps Jay and spits on him: they both shed civility, shame and fear, animal nature taking over, raw want and hungry desire unleashed. She is startled by the intensity of her own need to have him, testing her lover – and he does not retreat: he throws a heap of jackets from a hanger onto the floor and takes her there. He passed the test. The tame inhibited beast gone, he is her young lion and has earned the right to what she’s offered. They seal their tryst in full knowledge of the danger, right under her husband’s own roof. They have entered the lovers’ realm, the absence is no more. Eros’ battle, his eternal dance with Thanatos has been joined.

 

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The film picks up pace. They arrange to go to Cochran’s cabin, near Douglas, a border town, for a week, when Mendez is away. Mireya asks a friend in Miami to cover up for her, while Tibey is eavesdropping on the phone call. He visits Jay and asks him to fly him to his business trip. He refuses, politely, nervously yet firmly. Mireya is driven to the airport in her husband’s limo and he kisses her goodbye (he fucked her the night before, we learn in the book). Her lover arrives and asks her if she has second thoughts: she denies it by asking him to kiss her and they leave on his jeep for their getaway. There are more sexually explicit scenes in the car (some of the most erotic ever in mainstream film) and at a lake on the way to the mountain cabin. They are carefree in their shared yearning for a few hours. Then Tibey and his henchmen break in. A shotgun blasts Cochran’s dog dead. “Faithless whore!” Mendez shouts slapping Mireya. Cochran is brutally beaten and forced to watch “what happens to whores,” as Tibey demands: “your whore”, he adds, as The Shark himself slices Mireya’s face with a knife. She is forced to watch Tibey’s men punch and kick Cochran senseless.

“You want to fuck; you will be fucked twenty times a day until you die” says Mendez to his discarded possession; willingly “soiled” by another man, the object has lost all value for him; they set fire to the cabin; Mireya is given a drug injection; they toss Jay’s unconscious body out in the desert and deliver Mireya to a whorehouse, to be drugged, abused and relegated to “common use” on a daily basis. She clings to Jay’s Navy dog tag that she clutched into her hand during the beating. Meanwhile, dying Cochran is spotted and saved by a Mexican and his daughter, revisiting the opening sequence of the film. He is slowly nursed back to health. He returns to the burnt ruins to take the money he had stashed under the floorboards. His rescuer drives him to town and gives him a knife to “cut the balls off your enemy”. He encounters a sick Texan delivering a horse, who offers Jay a ride in his car. Inside a cantina, Jay sees Mendez’ heavy who had thrashed him; he quickly fulfills his Mexican savior’s wishful prophecy: follows him into the men’s room, guts him and cuts his throat.

The trader sells the horse to one of Tibey’s guests, who recognizes Cochran. As Jay is driving the car and horsebox, he realizes the Texan is dead and buries him in the desert. He drives to a motel, where he runs across Amador, the brother-in-law of the Mexican who’d saved him. Amador and Ignacio have their own scores to settle with Mendez (another woman that was killed) and are willing to help. A signer who takes a shine on Cochran assists them in capturing another of Tibey’s men and force him to reveal what whorehouse Miryea is held at. At the brothel the madame tells Jay Mireya was “very popular”. He hits her but she doesn’t know where Mireya had been taken. Cochran realizes he has to find out from Mendez himself.

They ambush Tibey and his bodyguard on a morning horseback trail. Amador and Ignacio shoot the other man dead, as Jay and Mendez face off. “Where is she,” he asks, but Tiburon requests his apology for “having stolen his wife”. Jay lowers his gun, gives the man what he asked for; Mendez in return tells him she is held at a convent. Cochran arrives at the monastery as Mireya is dying. He tells her he loves her, kissing her; she smiles as she opens her eyes and sees him. She tries to hide the nasty scar on her face but he pulls her hand away; she asks him to take her outside. He carries her outdoors and she whispers that she loves him, moments before she dies in his arms.

The end titles roll.

 

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The movie’s finale is of bitter irony and utter despair. Everyone has lost. Mendez  is last seen clinging on to his twisted honor code, defying the natural law and human morality, deprived of compassion, unlike what even the roaming coyotes on the hills know: when a younger challenger, fitter for survival, arrives to stake his claim on life and the right to love and happiness, the decent thing to do is admit defeat and give the friend and the loved one (if you ever truly cared for them) your blessing, or at least let them go without harm, retaining – or reclaiming – some basic dignity and respect. Quinn’s take on his character is stripped bare and found to be false and devoid of value – from a humanly ethical or purely evolutionary point of view both.

Eros defeated by Thanatos – but is it? Doesn’t Eros command his own timeline, a spacetime where a single moment of heavenly joy is worth -and lasts- an eternity? There is a layer of triumph against adversity and moral decay after all in the story (not to be found in the novella, however, where the men unite over Mireya’s grave, Cochran betraying her memory by accepting that Mendez has served his punishment, rendering her death pointless): in the film, Cochran has redeemed himself (literally and figuratively purged in the fire and in Erotic flames) – he did what he did for love, in a state of genuine divine madness and in defense of the Eros Principle. He did not confront Mendez until he absolutely had to, in order to find the woman and save her. Mireya died loving him back and knowing he truly loved her, like Mistral’s Mirèio, but with one very critical, defining difference: not hoping for godly redemption in some afterlife, but unapologetically claiming her own time, her own desires, her own personhood in her own life and by her own actions.

She and he had both admirably shared a few hours of euphoric ecstasy, becoming one and finding freedom, defying danger and the corrupt norms of society; denying civilization the demand it had thought it could place upon them: reclaiming their basic right to choose freely whom they loved, above and beyond their own self-interest and the threats of a monstrous, defunct concept of morality. Following their very real conviction and animal instincts unconditionally, stripping back to the bare essentials of what it means to be alive and a sentient being with free will, with integrity and courage, to the end. Any end being better, after all, than mere survival in a cage, as the film so uncompromisingly and powerfully illustrates; each choosing their own consensual self-sacrifice (like wild things do when they are cornered), maturely accepting the consequence rather than utter betrayal of themselves and each other, having been afforded the rare grace and privilege to find one another among billions of strangers.

Which is more than most of us can ever hope for the chance to experience in our lifetimes.

The film is a genuine powerhouse despite the attempts of Hollywoodian status quo to reign it in and sell a different, prudish message. It runs off to its own conclusion and truth. And, even more preciously and rarely, the movie manages to become quite different than the novella it was based on: it rises above Jim Harrison’s male chauvinist agenda and machismo, telling its own story beautifully, purely and defiantly. It’s as if the movie subverted the story’s original author, becoming Mireya’s own: a vulnerable yet powerful wonder, the song of a woman’s soul; is it the director’s accomplishment, is it Costner’s and Stowe’s input – we just don’t know how much each contributed, but what is revealed before the viewer and what matters is that a woman who was subdued and abused, tamed and sentenced to languish in a pet zoo, inside a gilded cage, was freed and realized as a person by her own instincts and her own capacity to seek and follow her heart and by her lover’s ability to redeem his humanity and follow his own, true to his nature as man and human, not a misogynist monstrosity.

This is one of my fondest and most troubled experiences in the vast universe of cinematic art, as I am truly humbled by my own unworthiness to be blessed as Mireya and Jay have. If the reader had not yet seen it, I would urge you to watch the film and give yourselves over to it, open your eyes, ears and hearts to its harsh yet rewarding beauty, power and sublimity.

 

 

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