My Life as a Movie

Recently, I revisited a film I first saw around 30 years ago in Tucson, Arizona: My Life as a Dog (Swedish: Mitt Liv som Hund), directed by Lasse Hallstrom, a coming-of-age story which won several awards.

Laika the space dog

The movie juxtaposes the first animal to orbit the Earth, a Russian dog named Laika ("Barker"), with the main character, a young Swedish boy named Ingemar ("Ingemar"). In 1957, in order to beat the United States into space, the Soviet Union shot Laika into orbit with no intention of providing a safe re-entry. In the film, Ingemar, because of the terminal illness of his mother, is sent to live with his uncle and aunt in a small country village. The movie explores the themes of exile and survival by comparing the life of Laika with that of Ingemar: both are shipped away from their familiar worlds and left to fend for themselves with no expectation of return.

The adversities faced by Laika included solitude and overheating (which killed her a few hours into the flight.) Ingemar endures separation from his mother and brother, and chilling ostracism by his new compatriots. He maneuvers through unfamiliar landscapes, survives off-kilter social interactions, and deals with personalities quirky and puzzling. By the end of the story, his salvation lies in his acceptance of and immersion in this bizarre world, so different from what he has been taught to consider normal. What allows him to survive is adaptability: the hallmark of evolution.

The difference between art and life lies in structure. What happened to Laika simply happened as one event led to another. What happens to Ingemar simply happens as one event leads to another. That's life. The movie, however, is a presentation of those events about both the dog and the boy structured into a plot, something life doesn't have.

Two films that rank among my favorites are Gallipoli and My Life as a Dog. Self-sacrifice and self-discovery. What is more valuable in life? What more is there to art?

Art Transcendent

I've been trying to finish Audrey Neffenegger's The Time Traveler's Wife for quite a while now. It's taking me so long, not because it isn't an interesting book, but because there are so many pages to it. Which isn't meant to imply they aren't interesting pages -- I just don't understand why the author, editor, and publisher all thought some of the incidents were organic to the wholeness of the book. At any rate, that isn't what I want to consider right now.

Because I have such a faulty memory, whenever a reading presents me with something I don't want to forget, I have to write it down. One of the things I made note of in this novel was a character reminiscing about a famous singer, "... she could express her soul with that voice, whenever I listened to her I felt my life meant more than mere biology ..." Provoked by that thought, I scribbled a note to myself: "Art transcends mere biology. That's why pornography isn't art." To which I might add, "And why art isn't pornography" -- Michelangelo's David and Botticelli's Birth of Venus being prime examples which present nudity as inspiring emotions higher than lust.

Don't get me wrong. I like pornography. The mainstream of it, anyway, not bondage or mutilation or degradation; I mean the joy of biology. Which, in my opinion, is exactly the distinction Niffenegger is making. We live our lives in these cartons of flesh, so whatever raises our consciousness out of the rut of rutting, lifts us out of our animal selves. That transcendence is the object of art: not simply the depiction of a body which inspires lust, but the play of light, the beauty of color, the weight of composition. That is how art transcends biology.