A while back, a co-worker told me about Blood Meridien by Cormac McCarthy.
This guy was older than me, like most of my co-workers at the time. He was thin, and had a kempt beard as long as I knew him. He had a bleak sense of humor, and as I got to know him over the couple of years I appreciated it more and more. He and his counterpart co-worker used to leave this mannequin in various hilarious poses. It was funny to find Al, as they called the dummy, sitting in chairs, wearing ties, bivouacking in a file cabinet. But, mostly, that damn mannequin made me jump out of my skin when I caught him out of the corner of my eye where nobody was supposed to be.
Anyway, this co-worker of mine was quite the reader. And, it took even longer for me to catch on he was quite the writer, too. Turns out he was a playwright and screenwriter, and a local director filmed his movie. I still haven't seen his movie. I really want to.
They laid him off one day about two years ago. He had great taste in books, and he and my old boss used to exchange notes. They let me in on the gag once in a while. I had to go look up his name, because I forgot it. It was two years ago, and I forgot. It's funny how long something feels when you get wrapped up in a place like work.
I picked up Blood Meridien right before he was laid off. When I did, a newer novel of McCarthy's caught my eye. It was No Country For Old Men. That was in my Western buying phase. I bought several novels I thought would help inspire me for Dust Devils, a Western role-playing game I created. So, I made a note that it looked like a good candidate for later on.
Fast forward many months. Last year, I was strolling through my favorite used book store, and I found a nice trade paperback edition of No Country For Old Men. It was a little worn, but it sure was cheap. I'd heard a movie was coming out, and I wanted the edition before all the copies were blasted with movie marketing and actors for the cover. It's a small vanity, I know.
I read it. I strayed from my reading list, but I wanted to have it in my brain before the movie tainted anything. More vanity.
I was taken with with that book -- the kind of adoration you feel when something hurts you, moves you out of comfort to confront some hard ideas. It stuck to my ribs. I couldn't get it out of my head, because I was very troubled by the fate of Llewellyn Moss, and even more troubled by Ed Tom Bell, the sheriff whose story it really is.
I knew I wanted to see it in the theater when the movie came out. So, two weeks ago, on a cold and blustery friday, I found myself alone from my wife and kids. She took them to her sister's for supper and movies with the girls. After work, I shuttled around in the winter weather for a quick bite of tacos, then off to the theater to stand in a long line that nearly made me walk away for fear of missing any part of the movie.
I watched it alone, seated in the second row to the right. It was marvelous. As close a match as any novel-to-film translation I've seen.
When it was over, there was silence. Dead silence. The end scene took the air out of the room. I don't know all the baby boomer couples there with me were as shocked I felt them to be. But, it seemed to me they sat theredumbstruck, as though they'd been tricked into watching a "good movie" and gotten suckerpunched instead. For me, having read the book, it was no shock. Just another kick in the soul. That's how I described it to my wife.
I can't really describe it here. It disturbs me greatly. Oh, yes, the book and the movie are disturbing. There's terrible, heartless violence, and the tale doesn't end well. But, that's not quite what I'm getting at. Not quite. What disturbs me is that I have no quibble with it. I have nothing to add. I just have to shrug and nod and think, yep, that's how things are.
I would be a damn fool to think no one else is affected as much as me. That's more vanity, and really awful vanity at that. But, still, No Country For Old Men resonates with me. It hits close to home. I can say I admire the film and the novel, and I say that because I find it both to be powerfully true as art. I believe they hit close to home to me especially (among others, no doubt). But, in very brief and few discussions with others, they seem less affected, less troubled and more wowed by a great movie they're enthusiastic about. Maybe I just need to talk with others more.
I do not think I'll be able to see the movie again soon. I feel as though it spoke directly to someone like me, someone with my particular impression of the world. It's not because my life is teetering on the edge of violence like that in the novel and film. But, it hits me harder and closer than any other art I've experienced.
And, I hate that idea, that I'm just one of those suckers who sees some movie and tells all his friend it changed his life. That's so useless to me. It didn't change me. I didn't walk out the door and think, you know what, I really out to go climb a mountain before I die. What horseshit that'd be.
I just drove home with the radio off. Felt like thunder in my chest for a little while there. Going alone was probably both the wisest and the stupidest thing I could have done.
At midnight, When my wife brought the kids home -- one asleep on her shoulder and bundled up, the other staggering half-awake -- she said "What's wrong?" She knew I really wanted to see it. "Didn't you like it?"
I couldn't form an answer. I don't like it. It's not something I can talk about like I can with other movies. I don't love it. It haunts me. I told her I didn't want her to see it, ever. I said it was because I think I'm afraid of what she'll think, and that it might ruin some secret hope I have that maybe I'm wrong about it all. Like seeing it might take away her innocence or something.
If you've seen the movie, and think anything like I do about it, you'll know it's a false hope.
She looked at me like I was crazy, but then she shrugged. "Well, I don't want to see it now!"
And, I think I'm fine with that.
