“Heard joke once: Man goes to doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says, "Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says, "But doctor...I am Pagliacci.”
~Alan Moore, Watchmen
To state that I have been in a place of self-absorption lately would be akin to saying that chocolate is delicious, driving fast is fun, and listening to loud music is cool—these are statements of inarguable accuracy and fact.
As my increasingly sassy ten year old daughter would say: “Duh.”
[While I’ve always enjoyed the rough waters in my inner seas
of self-examination and ascribed to Socrates’ view of introspection as a means
of self-rectification, the truth is, I’ve keep this obsessive compulsion to review
my own head under a fairly tight rein—but, how does one create an online
diary-blog…or, as I like to view it…a
love letter to the world…WITHOUT bathing in the muddied waters of
narcissism?]
Frankly, I’ve never been a terribly altruistic person—I try
to live the best life possible, helping all that I can and spreading humor and
hearts and flowers wherever I go, but honestly, if you look closely, most of
the choices that I make that appear kind and noble have actually benefitted my
life immensely:
Seriously. I am kind
and compassionate with wait staff because I know they deal with shitty
attitudes all day and could use a little kindness—but also because I know I get
better treatment and food that has not been inserted into their crotch before
my consumption.
I am respectful and fun with my daughters’ friends because
their monstrous behaviors indicate that they are not receiving adequate
parenting at home and if I’m remotely kind and loving to them, perhaps they
won’t steal shit from my house or go home and reveal to their parents the
freakshow realities of my home,
behind closed doors.
I teach because I am really good at it, I adore working with
the kids, and because I hope to make the world a little better for my children
by helping make the world better for someone else’s children.
So, you see how most of the "upright" and "principled" actions I
conduct are little more than personal needs coated in magnanimity. I’m not proud of this fact; I am just trying
to be candid.
For those unfamiliar, the Elysian Fields were believed by
the ancient Greeks to be a place of utter bliss, harmony, and contentment—an
afterlife reward for the decent and valiant.
Ironically, although Elysium was to be the final resting place of the
good and the virtuous, its ruler was Hades, the god who was not inherently evil
or cruel, but deeply feared and loathed by the Greeks because he fully exemplified
the inexorable nature of death.
Death and decay are everywhere in this film; "Elysium" is set in in the steam-punk ruins of a future Los
Angeles that looks like something from a Trent Reznor video, in a world where
the privileged have purchased their refuge from our burned and broken planet
and are secreted safely and securely upon a glossy hub anchored in the sky
above our scorched and sick minds and bodies.
Their mass exodus to a better standard of living taunts the denizens of
earth with the health and wealth and opportunity only a nineteen minute shuttle
ride away…if we were lucky enough to be a Citizen of Elysium, that is.
You see, simply being a human being or a native resident of
earth affords no entrance to the harmony of Elysium—your only ticket to ride is
encoded into a DNA tattoo that is scored into your flesh. And lest you think that black market DNA
stamps are all that would stand between you and the eternal happily ever after,
be warned that the gates of this paradise are fiercely guarded by two of the most
serenely vicious and uncompromising characters in recent cinematic history—Jodie
Foster as the sublimely wintery Secretary Delacourt, and her mad merc-on-a-leash,
Sharlto Copely as Agent Kruger.
Delacourt is hell-bent on totalitarian rule of her beloved utopia and
Kruger is only too happy to bathe in the blood of anyone she directs him toward
in her quest. Delacourt’s strength upon
Elysium depends wholly upon Kruger’s brutality upon Earth—and upon the digital
prowess of the Elysium citizen who created the network of codes and armament
that protects the Elysium Citizens from our filthy Earthling invasion, Carlyle,
who is played with brilliant robotic indifference by William Fichtner.
As if their clean, coiffed hair, silvery-white clothes, perfectly
dermabraded skin, and lustrous abodes did not do enough to differentiate the
haves from the have-nots in this film, the movie goes to great lengths to make
it clear that upon Earth, we speak a mix of English and Spanish exclusively—but
upon Elysium, the Citizens speak in strange and deeply affected English, occasionally
lapsing into a charmingly fluent French…and, if ordering mass murder, perhaps
even a touch of guttural German.
Matt Damon plays Max Da Costa, the orphaned-ex-con-with-the-heart-of-gold
archetype kind of role that usually goes to the Channing Tatums of the
Hollywood food chain—but Damon handles the role deftly, with a quiet dignity
and an emotional stoicism that most modern action stars simply could never
convey. Seriously. Max Da Costa follows amiably along trails blazed
by fellow reluctant fictional sons of heroic anarchy like Eric Draven, Thomas
A. Anderson, and Tyler Durden. [From “The Crow,” “The Matrix,” and “Fight Club,”
respectively. And, respectfully, if you
didn’t already know that, why the fuck are you even reading this blog…?]
Without giving too much away, I will share that there is a
glaring, ironic, and unavoidable disconnect in the fact that Max labors for
scab wages, trying to earn his parole and his soul, in Carlyle’s company, Armadyne—the
very defense factory that creates the machines and weapons that control, abuse,
and enslave his people. Consider
yourselves warned: Be prepared to leave the theatre drenched in shame of
capitalism and reeking of the stench of corporate greed. A terrible thing happens to him on the way to
work and a terrible thing happens to him when he is at work and…well, hell…spoiler alert: Max is given five days to live.
Now here is where that whole inner-conflict/ self-absorption
issue came to bear for me. Like most
indulged, first-world inhabitants, I’ve played the “What if…” game a million
times. What would you do if you had no
wife, no kids, no responsibilities, and you were given five days to live, your
freedom, and a pint of potent painkillers?
The answer, for me, would likely never have been the path that Max takes—but
his Darwinian prime-directive for survival demands that Max never lose hope as
he drives himself to near-annihilation to exhaust every possible avenue for his
own preservation…which means making his way to the healing medical “bays” that
come standard to every Elysium home. These
medical bays are miraculous pod-like devices with the power to detect, analyze,
and cure everything from leukemia to mending broken bones in less time than it
takes to nuke a frozen dinner upon our planet. 
How the story unfolds becomes complicated and weighted with
the emotional gravitas of Max’s childhood friend, the beautiful Frey, played
with solemn compassion by Alice Braga—the fellow soul whose place in Max’s
youth he has tattooed upon his flesh and in his heart, based upon his childhood
promise to one day take them both to the big miracle in the sky. Without giving away more than would allow you
to enjoy the film on your own, I will only say Max becomes the unenthusiastic
courier of precious cargo that serves as his key to the Elysium kingdom, but
Frey’s presence brings the burden of choice and consequence, hammering home the
message of what, if anything, we owe to ourselves, our families, our friends,
and our fellow man.
I’ve read interviews where Damon, good-naturedly, reduces this
film to a “summer popcorn flick”—but I’d venture so far as to say that he has
deeply undersold the greater significance of this movie. The only thing I can say, without giving away
more than I already have, about my emotional and intellectual response to the
conclusion of “Elysium” is that I
have never felt more acutely aware
of my personal privilege, nor have I ever
felt more grief in a movie that had nothing
to do with romance and everything to
do with renovating a broken system to distribute all opportunities equally to
all people. I never thought I could weep,
not once, but twice, at a story without relationships between lovers or
heartache between broken souls—but Elysium awakened my love for principle
and my heartache for my fellow man.
As the brilliant film “District 9” (both films were written and directed by Neill Blomkamp) was a
parable for apartheid and mistreatment of immigrants, so “Elysium” becomes an
analogy for the spoils of wealth, privilege, immigration, and health care
reform—all neatly packaged in one hell of a kick-ass dystopian sci-fi narrative
filled with action that was actually interesting. (And this is no small thing and well worth
noting, as I tend to zone out in elaborate action sequences, especially when
cliché or overly lengthy. “Elysium”
struck the perfect balance of innovation and emotion in each of its carefully
crafted fight sequences.) This allegory
translates to a personal journey for each viewer as we ponder what we would do
to save those we love—as well as forcing the viewer to grapple with meatier
issues like the basics of human rights (how
do we define or uphold these for some but not all if, by definition, they are
inalienable for all humankind?), constructs of social responsibility (do we even have it?) and more
philosophical questions (like: “If
everyone could be healthy and wealthy...why would that be special?” or “If
everyone had universal access to excellent physical care, how would we control
our population?”)
Between seeing the film for the first and the second time, I
read that the earthbound slum scenes were filmed in dumps outside of Mexico
City and that the scenes of the wealth and privilege of Elysium were filmed in Vancouver,
Canada. I wasn’t trying to draw any
conclusions or cast aspersions in one direction or another based on this
information, but you can be assured that I was gnawing on that bone throughout my
second viewing. As the lights came on in
the cozy theatre where I had lain (yes,
there were soft couches and blankets and pillows, oh my…), sipping vanilla Manhattans
and noshing on shrimp and Caesar salad, it took me longer than the usual moment
to adjust. As I wiped away my tears for
the second time in less than a month, my server—Hector—graciously folded my
blanket for me and cleared away my glasses and dishes with a warm smile,
inquiring if I’d enjoyed the film.
(Sometimes even 20% will never, ever feel like enough.)
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