Ben McManus: The Amadeus Archetype

Ben McManus

The Amadeus Archetype:

I’m only calling it that because that’s where I noticed it first. I’ve since noticed this archetype in Tarkovskiy’s Andrie Rublev, and in The Bible’s 1^st Samuel. The archetype deals with a relationship between two men: one who seems to posses some form of divine inspiration, and another who envies it hopelessly. In Samuel, Saul struggles to accept God’s favoritism toward David. In Andrie Rublev, Kirill can’t stand to be in the presences of Andrie, who is more in touch with spirituality. In Amadeus, Salieri rejects the reality that despite all his dedication, he’ll never make music like Mozart. In all versions, the meeker character blames God, and subsequently turns his back on faith. What interests me is the different ways in which each of these stories executes and carries out the archetype.

In 1^st Samuel, Saul can’t stop himself. He calls to mind the Pharaoh from Exodus, in that he eventually wants to stop himself, but simply can’t. Despite being repeatedly reminded that David is not his enemy, Saul can’t extinguish his urge to destroy him. As such, Saul pursues David’s downfall tirelessly until it brings him to his own brutal demise. In this rendition of the archetype, the favored character takes an undefeatable form. Saul’s efforts unfold in a hopeless plight. But what if Saul had won? What if he’d succeeded in destroying David?

In Amadeus, Salieri actually succeeds in his effort to destroy Mozart. Salieri feels God betrayed him in investing such great talent into such an immoral man. In an obscure tale of revenge, Salieiri destroys the man he believes God favors. Unlike Saul, Salieri finds a way to topple his advocacy. For me, this rendition provides a more interesting and complex look at the archetype.  Would destroying David have brought Saul piece? For Salieiri, it brings just the opposite. As Mozart dies in his bed, Salieri fills with regret that torments him till his own death. He quickly comes to miss the divine inspiration only Mozart could translate into music. In many ways, Salieri suffers much more than Saul. Salieri actually succeeds in making his greatest mistake. The pain of which is far worse than that of even the most brutal death. That being said, in surviving, Salieri does get a chance to learn from the error of his ways, even if that understanding haunts him till his deathbed.  “Forgive me Mozart! Forgive me...!”

If you fail, you die. If you succeed, you suffer. What can one do? In this case, the correct answer seems to be the simplest, but the hardest to really understand. After years of suffering alone in the world, Kirill somehow comes into this understanding: Acceptance. He comes to accept that he does not share Andrie’s ability and that he must accept what little he can do to serve his beliefs. What’s more, Kirill recognizes what a burden such a divine connection can be. How could Saul know the pain David knew? Acknowledging this burden, Kirill atones for his transgressions. He finds the strength to motivate Andrie back to his art.  He transforms his existence to the polar opposite of its original state. For me, this is just as inspiring as the works of the artist he envied.

Ben McManus: Andrei Tarkovsky- Not Quite An Epiphany

Ben McManus:

If I’d had this experience before taking this class, I’d have called it an epiphany.

Now that I know exactly what it means: “The manifestation of a divine being.” I really have no use for the word... at least, I don’t yet. I don’t expect to meet with the manifestation of any divine being. Frankly, I don’t know if I’m meek enough. I don’t stutter, and I’d be happy to accept the responsibilities. So I guess I don’t fit God’s requirements there. In addition, unlike Job, I haven’t suffered to the fullest degree. And I don’t want to. I’m not sure an epiphany is worth that much to me.

As such, I must be grateful to Andrei Tarkovsky for showing me a glimpse of the piercing white light that must be an epiphany. It occurred somewhere in the middle of Tarkovsky’s 1962 film Ivan’s Childhood. The image above is, more or less, the exact frame. However, seeing it out of context doesn’t have the same effect.

Though I believe it’s futile to describe the experience, I think it will be fun to try:

It all took place in one instant.... No, less than that. One frame. I saw it coming. Or maybe I heard it? In any case, I felt it. Like when the ground starts to tremble, and you know a freight train’s coming. I don’t know how far in advance I knew. It wasn’t enough time to brace myself. I knew it wouldn’t be. It was only enough time to make me aware. I recognized it on the horizon. It was moving towards me, and then, before I could understand how, I was brought to it, and left kneeling at its base. I was looking up at something I recognized, but was afraid to name. I would say it communicated something, but I’m worried you’ll assume it used words, so I will say it spoke to me, and assure you that it was nothing of the sort. Then it showed me something. Held it right in front of my face. Even as I looked directly at it, I couldn’t conjure a description. It was beyond my comprehension. All I can say is that time moves both ways while you look at it. I couldn’t breath... I didn’t need to. Just a glimpse, and I was filled with an infantine number of words and images, nearly all of which, I can no longer remember. It's almost tragic, but I did managed to grab hold of something. It slipped through my fingers like a silk sheet, but I dug my nails in and tour a part off. I brought it back.

“Literature starts from an intellectual point. From there, we master it as best we can in an effort to fill it with emotion. Cinema is the opposite. It starts with emotion. It grows from something abstract. From there, we try to intellectualize it, in order to better explain the art. In both cases, the transformation is necessary.”

Like waking up from a euphoric dream, I struggled to stay in that place; I even pretended I was still there for a few minutes after I’d been returned. It was futile and shameful to do so. All the same, I couldn’t help my self. I don’t know if the experience was actually of any real intellectual value. Despite everything, I may come to change my mind about what I think I’ve learned. I may discard it along with my countless other bad understanding. I don’t know. It’s too early to tell. That being said, the experience itself, detached from concerns of value, was a lot of fun. For that reason alone, it was worth it to me.

Tarkovsky

I just had an epiphany via Andrei Tarkovsky.... Though I guess it wasn’t actually an epiphany, now that I know what that actually means.

“The manifestation of a divine being.”

Ben McManus Jesus and The Bad Lieutenant

Ben McManus

Jesus and The Bad Lieutenant

Andrew Dominik’s 2007 film The Assassination of Jesse James contains a scene in which Jesse rides through the night with Ed Miller, an old friend he plans to murder. Ed knows, almost to a certainty, that he can expect a bullet in his back at any moment. As Ed gazes at the stars in contemplation, he remarks, “I don’t even know what a star is exactly.” To which Jesse responds, “You don’t. But your body knows”

Now it might sound obscure, but this illustrates the relationship I once had with Abel Ferrara’s 1992 film Bad Lieutenant. Not to be confused with Werner Herzog's 2009 film of the same title. Though that is also a great movie.

(Don’t worry. I promise, I’ll get to the Bible soon enough)

For readers that haven’t seen it: The film trudges along behind an unnamed police Lieutenant, played by Harvey Keitel. Five minutes in, we think Keitel’s bad news: He’s using cocaine as a regular substitute for coffee. Ten minutes in, we know he’s bad news: He’s confiscating heroin from one dealer, only to sell it to another. By twenty minutes, we can barely watch this guy as he uses his authority to exploit a pair of teenage girls. And it only gets worse... Seriously. All the while, he falls deeper and deeper into dept with a violent bookie. In a desperate effort to score some cash, Keitel attempts to track down two boys who brutally raped a young nun, his motive being the cash reward. Unfortunately, Keitel’s efforts only drag him deeper into the depths of his immorality, and deeper into dept. His dept eventually becomes so great, that even the cash reword won’t save him. Keitel realizes he’s finished. He couldn’t pay the dept, even if he found the boys, and there’s no chance of forgiveness from the Bookie. So, Keitel asks forgiveness from the only person who could stand to give it. He breaks down in an empty church. He cries and moans like a full-grown infant.

He’s truly sorry for the many bad things he’s done. See for yourself:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4qI60RZ0Gr4

It’s a repulsive sight, and yet, I find a strange presence of beauty in this moment. I haven’t always understood it, but I’ve always felt it.

Just as Keitel lets out the last of it, an old woman, who has heard his cries, helps him up. She explains that she knows where the rapists can be found. Keitel goes. He finds the culprits. He cuffs them, and loads them into his car. We think, “well, maybe the cash will be enough to, at least, by Keitel more time.” but he doesn’t bother with it. Instead, Keitel takes the boys to a bus station. Under the heavy influence of crack, Keitel tries to explain that he forgives them. He then empties his wallet into their pockets, puts them on a bus out of town, and sends them on their way. Ten or so minutes later, Keitel’s car window shatters as a bullet passes through his head.

Magnificent stuff.... But I don’t say that because I’ve always understood it. Intellectually, the conclusion of the film confused me. Why did he let the rapists go? Why did he give them his money? Wouldn’t the right thing have been to at least stop the only guys worse than him self? Did he do all this just because he was too high to know the difference? I didn’t get it. I liked it, but I didn’t get it.

It wasn’t until I came across a few lines in Luke Seven, that I understood Keitel’s actions:

“Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much: but to whom little is forgiven, the same loveth little.”

By the time Keitel finds the rapists, it’s to late for his body. The cash reward won’t be enough to prevent his murder, but that doesn’t mean it’s too late for his soul. Keitel knows what it feels like to do true evil, and so, he also knows what it feels like to be truly sorry. For this, God or maybe just some old women, takes mercy on him. Keitel can’t help but acknowledge and respect this. As a result, he extends the same mercy to two young men who are even worse than he is. You could argue in favor of the drugs, but in his last moments, it seems our Bad Lieutenant finds true piece.

Ben McManus: Why I'm Down With The Slave

Ben McManus

Why I’m Down with The Slave

I really like The Slave. It was well written, engaging, and all that other stuff, but what I like most about the story was Jacob’s developing relationship with God. I’ve always felt that the threat of Hell and the promise of Heaven was a week way to promote belief in the philosophy. It seems so childish to me, to believe in something simply because a reward is in store if you do, and a punishment is in store if you don’t. I feel that if you’re going to believe in something, you should do so because you respect and identify with it.

At the start of the story, Jacob is constantly fearful of loosing his passage into Heaven. As a result, the purity of his relationship with God is tarnished. You get a sense that despite everything, Jacob hates God, and only obeys his law so as not to suffer eternally. This mentality cripples Jacob’s ability to develop as a human being. He’s afraid to grow, and change.

After Jacob sleeps with Wanda, he feels he’s condemned himself in God’s eyes. At this point, I expected Jacob to turn his back on God. What’s the point? If God’s already condemned him to Hell, why bother with the relentless struggle to appease him? But Jacob doesn’t abandon God. Despite loosing his chance at infinite reward, Jacob still loves the Torah. He can’t help it, he just does. This recognition allows Jacob to love God honestly, without the relationship being tarnished with incentive. Once Jacob is no longer worried about Heaven or Hell, he’s able to view the religious text with a more open mind. This gives him a chance to better understand life, rather than constantly worry about death.

Ben McManus: Job, The Slave, and Winter Light

Ben McManus

Job, The Slave, and Winter Light

I like stories like The Slave because they deal with one of the most fascinating subjects: That of suffering. I suppose, in a way, The Story of Job laid the groundwork for such tales, and for that I am grateful. That being said, I feel The Story of Job lacks the most essential element of suffering. The story deals with pains of betrayal, heartbreak, and more than anything else, physical pain. But something is missing.

I believe Ingmar Bergman, a film director known for his philosophies on religion, deals with this notion very effectively in his 1962 film Winter Light.

The film deals with a Priest who struggles to believe in God. He cannot understand why he’s been made to suffer. Toward the end of the film, a painfully crippled man, who works in the Church, asks to speak with The Priest. At first, The Priest tries to avoid the cripple, assuming he’s come to ask for his paycheck. The cripple takes no care in what the priest thinks; he just wants to share his thoughts. Finally, giving in to the cripple’s wishes, The Priest is astounded by what this meek man has to say. It boarders on an epiphany for him.

The cripple talks of The Passion of The Christ, and Christ’s suffering. He believes that “the focus of the suffering is all wrong.” Here is the cripple’s monolog that follows:

“This emphasis on physical pain. It couldn’t have been all that bad. It may sound presumptuous of me, but in my humble way, I’ve suffered as much physical pain as Jesus. And his torments were rather brief. Lasting some four hours, I gather? I feel he was tormented far worse on another level. Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. But just think of Gethsemane, pastor. Christ’s disciples fell asleep. They hadn’t understood the meaning of the last supper or anything. And when the servants of the law appeared, they ran away. And Peter denied him. Christ had known his disciples for three years. They’d lived together day in and day out, but they never grasped what he meant. They abandon him, down to the last man. He was left all alone.... That must have been painful.... To realize that no one understands. To be abandoned when you need someone to rely on. That must have been excruciatingly painful. But the worst was yet to come. When Jesus was nailed to the cross, and hung there in torment, he cried out, “God, my God. Why hast thou forsaken me?” He cried out as loud as he could. He thought his heavenly father had abandoned him. He believed everything he’d ever preached was a lie. In the moments before he died, Christ was seized by doubt. Surely that must have been his greatest hardship...? God’s Silence.

Ben McManus tells his Mother where her name comes from

Ben McManus tells his Mother where her name comes from.... and she takes it badly

Having a conversation about the Bible is no problem for me. Getting into an argument poses a greater challenge. My opinions are unsound, and constantly changing, so it’s hard for me to take a side on any mater Bible related. I was preparing to take to the streets as a pretend literalist, just for the Hell of it, when I accidentally stumbled upon an actual argument. It was with my Mother, and it took place over the phone. Her name is Deborah. I thought she’d be excited to hear where that name comes from. I told her all about Deborah the judge, and her bravery, and her knowledge, and yes, her brutality. In fact, I spared no detail in describing Jael’s brief encounter with Sisera, and Sisera’s brief encounter with a metal spike. It’s a great little scene. To my surprises, my Mother was appalled by the whole story. “Is that a good thing?” She asked me. Apparently, she felt disdain for having a name associated with such violence. This really caught me off guard. I honestly think Deborah is great. I tried to explain it to her again, choosing my words more carefully this time. I focused more on Deborah’s knowledge and bravery. She took this a lot better, but I could tell she was still dissatisfied. I told her, “She’s like Buffy or Xena....” Not helpful. I began to realize that she understood this to be one of the most violent instances in the Bible. She’s never actually read it. Accepting this, I went on to assure her that a lot of the Bible, if not most of it, is like the story of Deborah. She seems to feel a little better knowing that most names can be somehow traced to a violent story in the Bible.