A Movie Review by BD Bondy
Movies you may not have seen, or for that matter, heard of. My last movie review, on Prey, was a huge success. I received accolades from around the world, praise from Roger Ebert himself, from the grave no less, and a contract with NBC, ABC, and CBS to have my own movie review show. As fantasies go, that was a doosie. Which brings us to the movie, Welcome to Marwen. It was apparently not well received by critics or audiences. My guess is that it is one of those category defying films that people aren’t accustomed to, and critics don’t know what to make of. It’s a favorite of mine, and I think Steve Carell deserves an Oscar for his performance. Welcome to Marwen is based on a true story, a real person, Mark Hogancamp. His ordeal began with a severe beating which nearly killed him. He was a graphic artist prior to this, but afterwards, he was unable to draw, and as he says in the movie, he could barely write his name. He also was left with such a traumatic brain injury that he didn’t remember his life prior to the beating. This movie has some very difficult moments, with Mark deeply disturbed mentally by the beating, and physically trying to get back to normal. His PTSD is palpable throughout, and triggered by many things, like loud noises, references to him in the news, and an angry neighbor. Sometimes, the trigger is in his own head. The movie graphically describes the beating, and his new artistic endeavor, photography. His photographs are very internalized, representing the event of his beating. His trauma is expressed in a WWII scenario, where he is the hero/protagonist, and the women that helped him in real life, like the woman that found him in the street, his nurse, his physical therapist, they are the supporting cast. The Nazis play the men that severely beat him. Throughout the film, Mark falls into his fantasy world of Nazis and fighter women, living in the town of Marwen. A fictional Belgian town which is built in Mark’s back yard, and scaled down so that the characters are the size of GI Joes and Barbie dolls. He then sets up events in the town and photographs them as if they are real. You can see a gallery of some of Mark Hogancamp’s pictures HERE. PRINTS | Mark Hogancamp The film’s timeframe is centered around 3 years after his horrific beating, when the men guilty of the crime are to be sentenced, and Mark is asked to speak before the judge about what happened to him. His trauma plays deeply into his life, and obviously, this causes more triggering of his PTSD. He copes as best he can, he takes meds, he photographs, he has a job in a restaurant, he collects women’s shoes, and he tries to live his life. The coping mechanism of his fantasy world is played out throughout the movie. It gives a sense of what a man in this position must live through, and I imagine, what a severe trauma causing PTSD may be like. I have no comparison in my life, thank goodness, I am grateful. I know several people that are not so lucky. Ultimately, Mark must face his demons, and he begins to understand that some of his coping mechanisms are crutches that also support the PTSD. He stands up to some of them, and becomes stronger, if still quite damaged. Mark will never be his old self again, but he will be a new self, and we see him beginning to be comfortable with that. The movie starts with a fantasy, builds with all the drama of his daily life trying to cope, and ends on an upbeat note of artistic success and some relationship success. I found it to be a fascinating insight into mental illness brought on through trauma, the resiliency of a man’s spirit, and the ability to cope when life becomes impossibly difficult. Steve Carell captured every aspect of this man’s emotions, a range expanding far beyond the norm.
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aka, HAPPY NEW YEAR, I think? By Zach Hively I live in paradise. It’s not everyone’s idea of paradise: if, for instance, you appreciate access to such modern amenities as reliable internet and trash service, this is not paradise. But it is my version of heaven on earth—most of the time. Even I have my moments. Like the other day, just before New Year’s Eve, I was walking my dogs down our neighborhood arroyo. Normally this is paradisiacal. But this time, we were following some a-hole’s ATV tire treads tearing through the sagebrush, and pretty quickly we came upon their heap of ashes and burned cans and bottles dumped right in the middle of where my dogs like to walk. To be clear: we do not like to walk through a public dump. This is, in fact, privately owned property. We have permission to walk through this land from the landowner, because the landowner is me, and this stretch of arroyo is basically right outside my front door. Now, the compassionate, thinking part of my brain—the part that was not shouting obscenities to see if I could hear an echo and get double the swearing satisfaction—recognizes that people have been dumping garbage in arroyos here for many, many more years than I have been alive. And, what choice does one have when one’s county trash service is, by all accounts, corrupt? (If it even exists in the first place, which is also dubitable.) But this is not my rant and rave about ATVs and illegal dumping and misuse of county funds. This is all merely to keep you from thinking that my chosen home is so idyllic that you should build your vacation house here. Also, it is to illustrate why even those of us who live in paradise need a holiday. So to relax, unwind, and get a fresh perspective on life, I went to Belgium in the fall, when it was wet and damp and miserable, even to Belgians. And, to cheer myself up, I went to a museum exhibit on book censorship. (Citing my source: the exhibit is (Un)chained Knowledge, held in the University Library at KU Leuven. It’s up for another week. Still time to book your ticket!) It won’t surprise you to learn that I think a book is one of the most sacred human-made things (both as an object and as an idea) on this planet. You can’t compare it to something like, say, the arroyo out my front door—except that both are intensely sacred, and I never come so close to understanding vengeance heroes like Batman and Inigo Montoya as I do when people thrash what I hold most holy. Some of the censorship on display was laughable in its execution, such as these naked ladies given skirts to shield our eyes from their hand-drawn genital regions: Some of the censorship bowled me over with its brazenness—like, why even keep the book if this is what you’re going to do to it? (P.S. — still pretty legible, numbnuts.) Some of the censorship made me cry. And not the way that, very occasionally, other museum exhibits have made me cry (out of awe, or beauty, or wonder), but out of recognizing pieces of my own humanity torn from me that I never even knew were missing: You’ve heard of book burnings. Maybe you’ve seen pictures of book bonfires. Maybe you’ve seen Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Maybe you’ve even seen the remnants of a house fire, recognized pieces of books and other belongings tragically destroyed.
Maybe I have too. But I had never, ever seen a book that had been willfully burnt. This wasn’t, like the Beowulf manuscript, some fragment rescued from a tragic fire. This was a partial survivor of a willful inferno, in 1914, by an occupying force deciding to decimate a university library—the very library I was standing in at that moment. My friends moved onward through the exhibit. They let me linger. We didn’t even talk about the burned books afterwards. I didn’t know what to say, exactly. I still don’t, except to say this: This is why I write. Writing is cheap, now. Probably cheaper than ever. Not even going into AI (which is not writing, but accumulation of words, advanced plagiarism), but normal people-writing. Anyone can publish a book now, for negligible or even no monetary cost. We are flooded with books. Millions of new ones every year. And that’s not counting all the internet writing! But this does not—it cannot—lessen the worth of a book as an idea. Of any written expression, or any creative expression, as an act of being human and shouting it to the world to see if it echoes back. I don’t think what I write is particularly important. I doubt our modern-day Nazis are going to come burn my books on purpose, unless incidentally as part of a whole library-burning. I like that sometimes I make one of my readers smile, and that sometimes I get a note from my other reader because I used a bad word, like “numbnuts.” But writing them? Writing these pieces on Substack for you? Writing, period? It’s my barbaric yawp to the world. No one can possibly burn every one of these millions of new books—partly because many of them are eBooks, but also because their matches can’t keep up with us. Their flames cannot truly lick our paradise. Which is all to say, believe it or not, happy new year to both of you, my darling readers. This is a year of redoubling my efforts to actually put my writing in your eyeballs. Like many writers, I’m good at the writing part (though never as good as I want to be), and terrible at knowing how to share it. So I’m going to bumble my way through it, here, with you, every week. I welcome your input on what you like, what you want more of, what makes you want to share with your friends. Use the ol’ comments section below. And, as subscribers, you’ll be the first to know of new things. Like, new books (and cover reveals and bears, oh my!). And workshops. (Like Misfit Poetry, next Thursday!) Thank you for being here, for reading—not just my work, but in general. It’s the best way we have of giving the bird to the censors out there, both the blatant ones and the more covert. Zach’s Substack is free. The free stuff today will remain free tomorrow. Someday, he might offer additional stuff. Zach+, as it were. You can tell Zach that you value his work by pledging a future paid subscription to additional stuff. You won't be charged unless he enables payments, and he’ll give a heads-up beforehand. You can subscribe for free to Zach's Substack to receive weekly short writings -- classic Fool's Gold columns, new poems, and random musings. |
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