Unspoiled
I just got back from the first movie I’ve seen in the theater since last summer. I’m not much for movie reviews, but I’d definitely recommend this one. The English movie selection here in Cairo is, not surprisingly, fairly thin, and I chose to see The Prestige (registration required) basically as the least of the bad ones. It’s been advertised here quite a bit, and I’m a big Christian Bale fan (more from the Empire of the Sun days than American Psycho, although I thought Batman was pretty decent as far as superhero movies go). When I learned that it was written and directed by the brothers who did Memento, it was a lock. I don’t want to write too much for fear of revealing the conciet(yes its one of those). I’m the type of movie goer who loves trying to figure out the trick, but I’m usually disappointed if I succeed. Luckily, my track record is not so good. Dead Again, The Usual Suspects, The Shawshank Redemption, Fight Club, Memento, and The Sixth Sense, all caught me by surprise. Even the Sting surpised me (granted, I was about ten the first time I saw it). The only twist movie I distinctly remember figuring out was The Others, and that was because someone told me beforehand that it was like the Sixth Sense, I was really irritated that the movie had been ruined for me and now I try not to listen to anyone discuss the movie in advance. I saw The Crying Game in the theater, but had to go to the bathroom. The sex scene happened while I was out, and, when I came back in, I asked Scott what I had missed. He just looked at me blankly. I still regret having missed that moment, one which could never be replicated.
Anyway, in this movie (didn’t I say that I sucked at reviews?), I found the twist to be pretty easy to predict, but my enjoyment only increased at watching it unfold. For me, the enjoyment was in seeing the replicated patterns (almost Shakespearean in its duplication of archetypes). The movie also succeeds by asking some very difficult questions and not trying to answer them.
When it comes down to it, though, I have only one empirical measure for a good movie; it is both absolute and impossible to define. When I leave the theater having just seen something wonderful, I feel larger than life, even than the planet. I feel as though I am walking on a very small globe (like the Little Prince), or I’m several miles tall. This happens whether it is a happy or tragic ending. I first noticed this when I left the Hunt for Red October (I know, not a great movie, but I was 16). I was standing outside Kipling Theaters, waiting for my dad to pick me up, and the lamp poles seemed like match sticks. The sky seemed like the top of a pup tent.
Tonight, I walked out of the Galaxy Theater, in Manial, and wanted to walk forever. Nightlife here in Cairo is just starting to pick up around midnight, so I put in my earbuds, played a Norah Jones album and started walking. There were a bunch of cafes along the Nile and small groups of guys were walking down the street, laughing and joking. On the main thoroughfare, the bright lights and fast moving traffic energized me. There were little sheesha joints, and kushri shops with a scattering of customers*. Once I got to Maadi, the wide, leafy streets, the occasional security guards and the pollution haze all combined to enhance my mood. I started taking long measured steps to stretch out my legs, put my hands in my pockets and walked home. Occasionally I would get into my grandfather's bulldog style of walking, head down and working more on speed than style, but when ever I noticed this, I slowed myself down, enjoyed some detail of the walk and tried to regulate my breathing.
There were so many beautiful details. It started with my new shoes, which, after ten days of walking in the dust of the Pharoahs and the Imams, look ten years old but still feel brand new. The night noises, filtered through my own music also got my attention. Then, of course, the Maadi trees captured me and my heart. The last bit, down road Fifteen was the best. I stood at midan moustafa kamal (known by some as the gay garden) and looked down the street. The Sycamore Figs form a canopy, actually a long tunnel all the way down the street. I was leaving the confines of the great wide world and gradually entering the narrow freedom of my personal cave. I was exchanging the refreshing brisk miasma of Cairo for the filtered warm cleanliness of the hearth. Hera, that peacock, would be proud. As I turned into my building, I said goodnight to the guard, and promised to write Athena a letter.
Well, this is what comes of seeing The Prestige, do so at your own peril.
*In the interest of accuracy, I need to mention that a taxi ride and a decaf mocha cappuccino (flavored with cinnamon) broke up the narrative here. I omitted them for purely poetical reasons.
Anyway, in this movie (didn’t I say that I sucked at reviews?), I found the twist to be pretty easy to predict, but my enjoyment only increased at watching it unfold. For me, the enjoyment was in seeing the replicated patterns (almost Shakespearean in its duplication of archetypes). The movie also succeeds by asking some very difficult questions and not trying to answer them.
When it comes down to it, though, I have only one empirical measure for a good movie; it is both absolute and impossible to define. When I leave the theater having just seen something wonderful, I feel larger than life, even than the planet. I feel as though I am walking on a very small globe (like the Little Prince), or I’m several miles tall. This happens whether it is a happy or tragic ending. I first noticed this when I left the Hunt for Red October (I know, not a great movie, but I was 16). I was standing outside Kipling Theaters, waiting for my dad to pick me up, and the lamp poles seemed like match sticks. The sky seemed like the top of a pup tent.
Tonight, I walked out of the Galaxy Theater, in Manial, and wanted to walk forever. Nightlife here in Cairo is just starting to pick up around midnight, so I put in my earbuds, played a Norah Jones album and started walking. There were a bunch of cafes along the Nile and small groups of guys were walking down the street, laughing and joking. On the main thoroughfare, the bright lights and fast moving traffic energized me. There were little sheesha joints, and kushri shops with a scattering of customers*. Once I got to Maadi, the wide, leafy streets, the occasional security guards and the pollution haze all combined to enhance my mood. I started taking long measured steps to stretch out my legs, put my hands in my pockets and walked home. Occasionally I would get into my grandfather's bulldog style of walking, head down and working more on speed than style, but when ever I noticed this, I slowed myself down, enjoyed some detail of the walk and tried to regulate my breathing.
There were so many beautiful details. It started with my new shoes, which, after ten days of walking in the dust of the Pharoahs and the Imams, look ten years old but still feel brand new. The night noises, filtered through my own music also got my attention. Then, of course, the Maadi trees captured me and my heart. The last bit, down road Fifteen was the best. I stood at midan moustafa kamal (known by some as the gay garden) and looked down the street. The Sycamore Figs form a canopy, actually a long tunnel all the way down the street. I was leaving the confines of the great wide world and gradually entering the narrow freedom of my personal cave. I was exchanging the refreshing brisk miasma of Cairo for the filtered warm cleanliness of the hearth. Hera, that peacock, would be proud. As I turned into my building, I said goodnight to the guard, and promised to write Athena a letter.
Well, this is what comes of seeing The Prestige, do so at your own peril.
*In the interest of accuracy, I need to mention that a taxi ride and a decaf mocha cappuccino (flavored with cinnamon) broke up the narrative here. I omitted them for purely poetical reasons.
Labels: Biographical, Egypt, Film
posted by Jonah at 2:14 AM
5 Comments:
Dude,
What a beautiful post. For about five minutes you just transported me from corporate cubeland. Thanks.
But, just so don't get too big a head: It's Hestia, not Hera, that tends the hearth.
Thanks -for the complement- I won't take the correction because, although Hestia was the first born, she was the youngest (and a virgin). Also, she didn't like peacocks.
Yeah, really nice post. :) Made me wish I had been there to walk with you. Of course having company probably would have totally ruined the moment, but...
And there I was, thinking you'd walked all the way from Manial to Maadi... about to be very impressed!
Tis one of the things I miss most - being able to mooch around for hours, whatever time of day or night, just watching the world go by. (Do you have the word "mooch"? Another one for your British dictionary if not.)
we do have mooch, but in a slightly different way. I think I like yours better. On a sidenote, my classmates often called me "The Mooch" because I begged their food so much in high school.
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