Examined Life

There is a famous moment in history little discussed. In 155BC the Greeks had surrendered to the Romans but Athens did not want to pay tribute to Rome. They asserted that their hundreds year long intellectual tradition benefited civilization to such an extent that their tribute was in effect already paid. To make this point they sent philosophers to Rome whose public exhibitions proved very popular. The philosophers were extraordinary debaters who could make excellent arguments to both sides of a question, so they would take opposing sides and then switch positions. The Elder Cato, a senator of great stature, was appalled at this sophistry and sent them packing. Rome never became famous for philosophy.

To insure in this post-literate age that philosophy never becomes important to America, one only has to watch the documentary “Examined Life “ A more eloquent argument for living life without examination has never been made. The absurdity of the American practice of philosophy is completely on display. After watching this documentary one can thank one’s lucky stars that one is not like those oddly arrogant creatures who comprised completely of uncommon sense imagine their endeavors worthwhile. The phrase dreadfully smart takes on its true meaning after the camera introduces you to these personalities. If only there were time enough to watch this film over and over again searching for the those few moments of silence wherein “Rocky Horror” style one could squeeze in the right interjection to exemplify how truly idiotic these people are.

The sophistry of these practitioners of philosophy is different from those that Cato experienced. These folks are not capable of arguing opposite sides of the same question. For the Romans that was a great wonder. Here you are left to wonder, what did these people suffer to end up like this? My guess would be a complete lack for any sense of the holy.

Unmistaken Child *****

This is an enchanting documentary that definitely leaves you thinking.

“Unmistaken Child” follows the physical and spiritual journey of Tibetan Buddhist monk, Tenzin Zopa, as he seeks to identify the child who is the reincarnation of his deceased master, Lama Konchog. In the process to find his master, a “Rinpoche” or reborn, enlightened Buddhist, Tenzin relies on astrology, the ash remains of his master’s cremation, and dreams. However, Tenzin is chosen for the job of finding his master not because of his great skill at interpreting these signs, but because of his great love for his master and the close relationship that he had to him all of his life. Rinpoche literally means "precious one"

A the beginning of his journey Tenzin has mixed emotions. He is happy at the prospect of the rebirth of his master, but he is filled with trepidation about being chosen to identify this reincarnation. How will he know? And once he does find “the unmistaken” child, he must convince the parents to release the child and let him become the guardian.

Tenzin looks for signs and he finds them. The film is filled with beautiful and moving scenes. We see Tenzin’s grief at the loss of his dear master and the mixture of pride and anguish experienced by the parents who make the difficult decision to release their child in his care. Perhaps most haunting, however, are the images of the “unmistaken child”. It is truly a bit unnerving to see a toddler so poised and quite inexplicably showing a very grown up interest in, the daily watering of an apple tree (which we later learn was planted by Lama Konchog).

But are these signs really what convinces Tenzin in the end or is it something else…something intangible and only recognizable by him? The ones we love, our precious ones, are more, much more, to us than simply the sum of their parts that reads like a personal ad. Let’s face it “blonde hair, blue eyes, enjoys walks on the beach and sushi” isn’t going to cut it when you are looking for the soul inside the body of a child. So what does?

I have a picture of my husband that I keep on my nightstand. It was taken over 40 years ago (that’s before I was born). He was a student at Columbia in NY and is standing on the street looking over his shoulder and smiling. I love that picture because for whatever reason, I’m convinced when I look at it that he is smiling at me. It is the look in his eyes, that indescribable something that I have seen now a thousand times, was there before and will be there always. Would I recognize it coming out of someone else’s eyes? When I asked him “How would you find me?” he replied, “Oh, I’d know by the shine coming out of your eyes”.

The Order of Myths ****

I am a bit of a documentary junky - perhaps because I really do believe that the truth is often stranger than fiction. My husband tolerates the docs with me, but they aren’t his thing. This one, however, had us both somewhat transfixed.

“The Order of Myths” chronicles Mobile, Alabama’s Mardi Gras celebration. Dating back to the 1700’s this Mardi Gras celebration is the oldest in America (who knew?). While the event is the focus, this documentary explores the city itself, its people, its mystical societies, its race relations and its obsession with masks and Moon Pies.

While it starts out as “quirky” there is an eeriness about the deeply rooted racial tension, the secrecy of the mystical societies and the genuine reverence for the Mardi Gras “royalty” that sneaks up on you. The film covers the Mardi Gras events of 2007, but in many ways you feel as if you have been transported back to the deep South prior to WWI. Segregation is not only alive in Mobile it is “well” and being elaborately played out in the Mardi Gras celebration events which are run by two separate associations – white and black, each of which produces its own “King and Queen” of Mardi Gras.

But this isn’t a “political” documentary nor can mere “political correctness” make sense of the rich complexity of Mobile’s myths and the way they play out in its current culture. Let’s put it this way, if Robert Graves were to have a home in the deep South, this would be it. At one point in the film the head of the “white” association exclaims “we love our trees…I mean, we’re not Druids or anything, but we love our trees…” Indeed, the trees have grown so well they have uprooted the sidewalks. Progress itself seems uprooted in Mobile, while the roots of southern tradition grow wider and deeper through the community.

While Mobile may be home to the last vestiges of segregation, there is nothing “black and white” about this engrossing and thoughtful portrayal that leaves one wondering if the masks of carnival reveal masks worn year round.