Exodus 8:2 - A Trinitarian Notion

Raised a Catholic, I have been taught to split the concept of God into thirds -- Father, Son, Holy Ghost. I have often suspected some smoke and mirrors on this point, as if this trinitarian notion was specifically designed to mislead us, divert our attentions, confuse us into submission. I recall the lion tamer in Errol Morris' Fast, Cheap and Out of Control, who reveals why they seem to provoke their animals with the four legs of a chair: the lions can concentrate on only one leg at a time and will soon get confused and lie down.

Nevertheless, there is something appealling about things trinitarian: disparate concepts synthesized into one. I never expected to find a cinematic trinity that would hold such sway over my views of film, but now that I have, I will run with it.

My Cinematic Trinity: Magnolia, Network, Close Encounters of the Third Kind. These films are connected in ways you do not expect; mysterious ways.

I begin with Melinda Dillon. In CE3K, we find her cowering in the corner, clutching her child, terrified and screaming as an unimaginable "supernatural" event occurs outside. In magnolia, we find her cowering in the corner, clutching her child, terrified and screaming as an unimaginable "supernatural" event occurs outside.
Then there's the TV show host collapse. In Network, Mr. Beale endures a disturbing episode or seizure and falls to the ground in front of a live studio audience. In magnolia, Jimmy Gator does the same.

The "look" of the WDKK? set matches that of the Howard Beale Show. While Network has no musical soundtrack to speak of, it does include the stirring drumroll/brassy theme to Beale's Show, echoed in magnolia by Jon Brion's swingy WDKK? theme.

Music is integral to the story telling in both CE3K and magnolia, and both include a "musical crescendo." The musical note communique recieved by Dreyfuss in CE3K is parodied in magnolia by the musical note quiz questions.

Anderson clearly reached back to the 70's for thematic and visual inspiration. The magnolia DVD extras actually includes him screening Lumet's film for cast and crew, asking them to look at the cinematography and pay attention to the "old school" television men, like his own father, Ernie "Ghoulardi" Anderson, a late night Cleveland horror show host.

If I have convinced you that these movies are intentionally connected, then pull back your lens a little further and consider this: Network is The Father, CE3K is The Son, and magnolia is The Holy Ghost. Network, the dark, cruel God of the Old Testament, savage and vengeful, it ends with a "crucifixion." CE3K, the loving, benevolent God of the New Testament, hopeful and joyous, it ends with an "ascension." magnolia, the kitchen sink God of everything else, the God of the Next Testament, perhaps, it ends with a shocking Exodus 8:2 reminder that "this is something that happens" and we simply can't explain it all away: sometimes, we have to let the mystery be.

Kubrick and Toynbee, Resurrected

"The Toynbee Conundrum is not a work of fiction," began Bloomsday at the podium. "It is, however, a factual account that includes multiple works of fiction. Let's begin with facts. Arnold J. Toynbee was born of British aristocracy before the turn of the century. His grandfather was a renowned otorhinolaryngologist (ear/nose/throat doctor) whose death in 1866 is attributed to a mishap during an experiment with chloroform. His granddaughter is currently a prominent journalist and advisor to Britain's Labour Party."

"Toynbee, himself, rose to prominence as a historian. I will do no justice to his dozens of volumes of world history, since I haven't read them. But I do know that his views on the ebb and flow of civilizations, and on the methods of decline and ascent of cultures, set him apart. He talked about how the Sumerians invented irrigation to save themselves from extinction. He talked about the ideas of Christianity and communism and how such ideas transformed the social landscape of the globe. He also believed that Buddhism would someday transform Western Civilization in unprecedented ways. He was, to my mind, a chronicler of paradigm shifts, which makes him something of a paradigm shifter, himself. But that's an opinion, and I'd like to stick to facts for now. Toynbee died in 1975."

"Ray Bradbury is a renowned writer of science fiction and fantasy. Fahrenheit 451 and Something Wicked This Way Comes come to mind. Bradbury immortalized the name, Toynbee, in a short story called The Toynbee Convector. The time travel story was first published in Playboy magazine in 1984, and involves a scientist who misleads people about the world he has visited in the future. His lies about the future motivate and inspire the people of the present to create a future that never existed. When the future finally arrives, it is not the one he visited, but the one he had lied about, created out of the hope from the past."

"Stanley Kubrick directed many complex films, but none as grand in scope as 2001: A Space Odyssey. The 1969 film was a collaboration between Kubrick and sci-fi writer Arthur C. Clarke and posits an alien lifeform that gives pre-humans the gift of sentience, then waits until an evolved humanity develops the technology to travel off the planet. The story's crescendo occurs near Jupiter where the sole survivor on a malfunctioning space station confronts a mysterious monolith that has awaited human arrival for eons. The story contains no obvious references to Toynbee or his writings."

"In 1983, playwright and screenwriter David Mamet published a short play that mentioned Toynbee in a peculiar way. The play, entitled 4:00 a.m., takes place on a late night call-in radio talk show not unlike the halcyon days of Larry King. In the play, a caller encourages the world to support "the theories of Toynbee" as presented in Kubrick's film, then reveals those theories to involve resurrecting all the past dead of Earth on the planet Jupiter. The show's host tries to correct the insistent caller, pointing out that neither 2001: A Space Odyssey nor it's source material, Clarke's The Sentinel, had anything to do with such theories, then points out the practical difficulties of such a mass ressurection."

"Here's another fact: starting in the mid - 1980s, messages have been carved into linoleum tiles and placed in the roads of many American cities referring to this apparently erroneous Toynbee/Kubrick connection. These are collectively known as Toynbee tiles.

"This one, for example at the corner of W. 3rd and Prospect, here in Cleveland." The large screen behind Bloomsday lights up with colorful message. "And another one, on the other side of downtown, at East 12 and Euclid." The screen fills with photo of a second tile, its message partially obscured by tar, but common with the first in its reference to Toynbee and Kubrick and resurrecting the dead on Jupiter. Over a hundred have been found, mostly East of the Mississippi, many seem the work of a common hand, though others appear to be copycat tiles. Freelance investigators have narrowed down suspects, yet tiles continue to appear even though some suspects have died."

"So those are the facts. And what are we to make of these facts? Anyone have a suggestion?" Bloomsday inquires of his puzzled audience.

"The Greatest Part Cannot Know, Therefore, They Must Believe"

Bloomsday was there. Afterwards, I went back to the dorm, smoked my brains out and played Sonic the Hegemony Hog.

The rest of his lecture is at The Manifesto. Wait til he takes his corduroy jacket off!

Lawyers, Nuns & Money: The Secret Consecration

Friday 8:30 a.m.

The phone rings.

"Good Morning, Bloomsday. It's Tim." Father Tim, the renegade priest who blew up Rodin's The Thinker in 1970 and has availed himself to the ecclesiastical laws of sanctuary to avoid prosecution ever since. "Your colleague, Mr. Gaines, has informed me you are travelling to West Virginia this weekend."

I am packed for the surprisingly short trek from Cleveland to the southern banks of the Ohio River to a casino where my brothers and sisters of the criminal defense bar throw a weekend frat party masquerading as a seminar each summer. Higbee Gaines, my now clean and sober friend formerly known as "The Problem" has given the priest too much information about my recreational activities.

"Yes, that's true. I'm leaving in an hour or so, but there's no room at the inn, Father. At least not in my room."

"Oh, that's fine. I don't need a place to stay down there. I have friends waiting. I just need a ride."

"A gambling junket?" I ask. "I thought you were on the lamb, Father. Crossing state lines might be dangerous. Besides, this call may be monitored for quality assurance."

"I'll take the risk. I assure you my journey is spiritual business, not vice. It's not the casino I need to get to, but your destination is just a few miles from mine. You mind if I catch a ride?"

"Sure," I say with a tinge of regret. "Gotta hit the road by 10:00."

"That's perfect. Thank you, Bloomsday. I'll be waiting at the rectory. I understand the imposition, but could I ask one additional favor?"

"Sure," I say with a deeper regret, still.

"Can I bring along Sisters Beatrice or Bernice, as well?"

10:05 a.m.

I pull up and find Father Tim, crazed Michael Landon mane and priest-collared, waiting with two summery-habited nuns. They each have backpacks that they toss in the trunk of my beloved 2003 Pontiac Vibe.  The nuns smile broadly as they hop in the back seat. Tim takes shotgun.  I had spoken to one of the nuns, Beatrice or Bernice, over the phone a few weeks earlier; I wasn't sure which. I now understand through my rear-view mirror that they must be identical twins, utterly indistinguishable from one another.

Their gratitude is effusive as we pass the onion domes of St. Theodosius Russian Orthodox Church and hop on the highway east toward Youngstown.  As we settle in to highway travel, Father Tim offers some explaination.

"You're casino seminar takes you to Chester, West Virginia. Do you know what else Chester is known for?"

I have no idea.

"It's home to one of the largest landfills in America, garbage from several metropolitan areas have been transported there for years, including the garbage from Washington, D.C."

I check the mirror and notice the delightful smiles on the twin nuns (or is it nun twins?) have disappeared. Replaced by somber, tragic faces.  "You mean, he doesn't know?" one says as they glance at each other.

Father Tim misses no beat: "There wasn't time, Bernice. I didn't want to tell him over the phone. He might have had second thoughts..."

"Excuse me.." I interrupt, but I'm interrupted by simultaneous voices from the back seat.

 "Requiescat in pace!" both nuns cry out in unison as they cross themselves.

"Ladies, please..." Father Tim cautions. "Let us not get too wrapped up in the emotions of this. We are servants of God on a mission."

"You mean, like the Blues Brothers?" I ask.

Father Tim looks puzzled. A voice from the back seat: "Oh, I love that movie!" 

Another voice: "Yes, funny. Lots of car crashes though. Tragic, tragic John Belushi."

"Requiescat in pace!" both nuns cry out in unison as they cross themselves again.

"Last year, a girl went missing from the one of the poorest neighborhoods in Washington." Father Tim brings back the gravitas. "Gangs, drugs, guns, prostitution; she was 13 and she was in the middle of it all.  Her grandmother had raised her, but she lost her to the streets. A homicide detective there in D.C. came to believe that the girl, Evie Nichols, had witnessed a murder and, since her were loyalties untested, she was murdered, herself.  According to interrogations of several gang members, she was shot in the head, placed in a suitcase and tossed in a dumpster just a few blocks from the hospital where she was born.  

"Of course, this information was gleaned nearly six months after her disappearance, so the contents of every dumpster in D.C. had, long before, been transported to Chester, emptied, and bulldozed over with more garbage.  The detective, the grandmother and church and civic leaders pleaded with city officials to search for her body with the help of a dumping schedule gridded map and GPS - every container load is theoretically locatable, but the city decided it was too dangerous and futile..."

"A needle in a haystack, they said," spoke a voice from behind. "Perhaps, the needle wasn't even in the haystack, they argued. A proper burial would elude her."

"So, are you telling me you're all bumming a ride to find a dead girl in a suitcase in one of the largest landfills in America and give her a proper burial?"

"No," says Father Tim. "We don't need to find her to give her a proper burial. We're going to consecrate the landfill, then give her proper burial rites, wherever she already is."

"And the friends you have waiting down in Chester?" I ask.

"Evie's grandmother, the detective, some friends of the family, community folks...practically a minor congregation ready to break the law and trespass for the sake of a little girl's immortal soul."

"I brought wire snippers, just in case we need them," says Bernice or Beatrice.

A long silence follows as we travel down the highway. Forgive us our trespasses, indeed.

Hurley for Governor

There Will Be Fart Shoes

There's "Your America," There's "My America," & There's "Our America."

Altman's Nashville pretty much sums up "Our America."
Please. Please. For the love of God, for the love of our children: Remember "Our America."



Happy Fourth of July. Hurley for Governor.