Raznor's Rants

Costarring Raznor's reality-based friends!

Thursday, December 22, 2005

The New World
Posted by Ross

Like Terrence Malick's lyrical "Thin Red Line," there isn't so much a story you follow as a visual current on which you ride. And it's not so much dialogue you're listening to, as poetry. And you just sort of sail along, and forget yourself. So with that in mind, I will attempt not to betray any significant plot points, but as the film is historical in nature, and as there is no Kaiser Soze moment, I'm not even really sure I could do so if I tried.

The first thing I jotted down in my notebook was how much Colin Farrell, as John Smith, happens to resemble new Yankee Johnny Damon.

The second thing I jotted down was how grateful I was that Pocahontas (the name, by the way, is never uttered in the movie; though I've noticed that Variety, at least, refers to her thusly in their review) wouldn't break out into some Menken-esque song and dance cringe-fest. I'll tell you this much: You can't handle the colors of my wind.

Pardon the tired phrase, but it's appropriate, in this instance, to call this film a feast for the senses.

Among the many, there's a most stunning image of Farrell sloshing through this almost virginal river in a coat of armor while holding a pistol. As if the pistol is hearkening in the modern era of man, of global expansion, untapped wealth and lots and lots of death. And the armor is simultaneously hearkening back to the dawn of modern warfare. Then, on top of all this is the river, its natural majesty mocking the paltry accomplishments we might call human progress.

But here's the kicker: we sure as shit showed that smug river! And the proof was in our drive home, across the asphalt wasteland that is West Los Angeles. Hell, in our neck of the woods, if a river dare show its face, we just pave the fuck over it.

Take that, nature.

Smith refers to the tribe they meet as the "Naturals," and muses at one point, after sampling what it's like to "go natural", whether to "Give up this life for a true one. Give up the name Smith." Because they don't have names. They don't have things. They simply live as natural creatures on this planet. And their reality is compelling. As is the European reality. The only constant in the equation is that it's human life.

It's such a tragedy of physics that a superior military must be the constant victor.

And the last thing that was written in my notebook was done so by the Bekka, and it reads, "Which world is the new one?"


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