Anyway, last night I watched "Bad Santa," and I give it 4.5 stars. For one thing, it is insanely, marvelously profane--so, really, it's more like 4.5 fucking stars, goddamnit.* The thing is, it takes several cliches--the reprobate who is reformed by the love of a good woman; the reprobate who is reformed by the love of a kid; the wacky sidekick; the kid who learns how not to be bullied; the dysfunctional family (and that one gets a workout in several dimensions)--and twists each one of them just enough so that I didn't feel like I was being battered by them. (For example, the "good woman" is clearly a little wacko herself, though she's not a particularly well-developed character, all in all, which is par for the course in movies.) I also really liked the heart of the movie. BillyBob starts off by telling us what an asshole his dad was, but not because he wants any sympathy at all for that. Nevertheless, that information is absolutely crucial to everything else in the movie, pretty much, which doesn't become apparent until much later. For me, the payoff of the whole thing was when he told the kid, "Hey, don't ever talk about yourself like that," when the kid is berating himself and rather unemotionally calling himself the names the neighborhood kids call him. That line only works because of the rest of the movie. So, if you haven't seen it, go fucking rent it somewhere, goddamnit.
kStyle basically gave me two or three posts worth of material in her comment below, but the one that's been rattling around in my brain is the Joyless Yogis (which is a perfect name, btw). Or yoginis, in most cases, but that may be because more women practice yoga, not because women are "naturally" more ascetic. They seem to be looking for a prescription--they've rejected the mainstream religions, but they still want to be told what to do, in part because they do not fundamentally trust themselves to develop a discipline that works for them. Seriously, people; do you need to be told to alter an asana if it's painful? Not difficult-painful, but painful-painful. Yes, no matter what you do, bad shit is going to happen; it's unavoidable. Practicing yoga (or meditation, or any other discipline) isn't going to change that.
A couple of months ago, my yoga teacher told us a personal story (she has to share sort of circumspectly, because, in addition to being a yoga teacher, she's a columnist for the local big newspaper--remember the "wear sunscreen" column that everyone attributed to Kurt Vonnegut but he didn't write? she wrote that). Her frail, 80-something mother had a medical emergency, and, as my teacher was at the hospital with her mother, she realized that it was for times like that that one practiced yoga. That is, the yoga did not change anything about the situation, except--and it's a big except--the tools my teacher had on hand to deal with it.** And that, I think, it what comes with the practice--not happiness, per se, but a set of tools that enable one to center oneself, to breathe--to be able, when everything is in chaos, to figure out the next thing to do.
On the other hand--and this actually speaks to the movie again--I'm extraordinarily lucky in terms of my family. Yes, my mother is a tool of the patriarchy, in the sense that she has tried--for nearly half a century, now--to get me to be More Ladylike, and our disagreements have been heated on more than one occasion, and not just about that. Of course, part of the reason she has failed so miserably with the Make Narya Ladylike Project is that my father emphasized that I am fine--and loved--exactly the way I am, and even my mother loves me uncompromisingly, despite her endless efforts to Improve me. I think my father is actually the better feminist in multiple ways, as well. I understood my parents' love for me in an even deeper way when my sister died--and I realized that the love my mother had for my sister was the same as the love she has for me, even though my sister was, not closer to my mother's heart so much as wrapped around it in a different way, and in a way that was easier or more comfortable for my mother.
I'm babbling here, but what I'm trying to say, I think, is that the yogic disciplines come more easily to me, and I feel like joy is easier for me, because of the love and support I got from my parents (and grandparents and aunts and uncles). I didn't have to fend off abuse--verbal or physical--and I had my parents' examples in front of me. The older I get, the more I realize just how rare that is. At the same time, I was not exposed to a religion that told me I am inherently flawed or sinful, or a religion that privileged men--both of which affect the Joyless Yoginis, I think. I did learn how to incorporate the golden rule into my daily life--the times I have felt worst about my own actions is when I have done something that caused harm--and I learned how to deal with the inevitable mistakes. I did not learn, for example, that I would be loved IFFI I was perfect.
The Joyless Yoginis don't trust themselves, on some fundamental level, and they're looking for some other structure, or person, or being, to tell them they're doing the right thing. Some are probably hoping that if they do the right things, then they'll be happy, while I don't see the same causal connection there. I do want to do the right things, and I know that I am happier when I am able to do the right things, but mostly I'm happy for no very good reason at all, because, why not?
Actually, to riff on something that Ann and kstyle have been discussing on their respective blogs, part of the reason the magazine/catalogues they're discussing are so annoying to me is the nearly explicit connection those publications make between material things and happiness. (Yes, I recognize, as best I can, that I am speaking from the privileged position of someone who knows where the next meal--and the next bunch of meals, and shelter, and so on--are coming from, i.e., I already have more material comforts than many people.) Those Lifestyle Rags have an almost weirdly Calvinist ethos--beautiful material stuff is presented as proof that one has acted properly (when, given the wealth necessary and the capitalist culture in which we live, the reverse is more likely to be true, IMHO). If one does not have such beautiful material stuff in one's life, then it is proof that one is not worthy of such beauty. Which, of course, is a vital belief to sustain capitalism, but we know how I feel about that.
Okay, I've gone on for too long, and have successfully avoided doing any editing this morning. I did clean my apartment last night, however, so it is no longer a
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*IRL, I tend to curse like a longshoreperson--I've tried to modulate somewhat, at least in my current office environment, and even with some success, but, in general, I've had several jobs (the bakery and the substance abuse organization, for two) where the people around me cursed rather freely, so my tendencies have been encouraged rather than stifled, for the most part. It is not a trait of which I am particularly proud--my father regards cursing as a lazy way of getting one's point across, and I see his point--but I don't lose much (read: any) sleep over it, either.
**I used to try to help Chuck understand that he could not change his ex-wife's behavior, he could only change his own reaction to it. While he has yet to fully incorporate it into his dealings with her, he does understand that.
3 comments:
I may not like "motorsports," but I do know that IRL also means the Indy Racing League! Aren't you proud of me?
If you haven't seen The Lives of Others, add it to your queue. At least 4.5 stars, and so much more engrossing and emotionally rich than the "East German Stasi officer" plotline promises.
I am! proud of you, and going to add that flick to the queue.
Interesting post! I wish I had a moire insightful comment that would continue the discussion, but I'm tired. Maybe later...
Whoa...myjdvrmt? I think? It's in a weird font. Here goes nothing...
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