Secret of Kells: When art becomes our only hope (contains spoilers)
I’ve been putting off writing this review mostly because this movie means so much to me. It was shown on week 6 of Art Film Club Nairobi hosted by my friend Bill Crandall and I’ve since rewatched it with my wife.
I’ve decided to write this now because I feel the darkness closing in on me. I look around and see despair. People glued to their screens. Nobody really able to hold a proper conversation anymore. And worst of all, AI slop everywhere. It might sound like hyperbole, and maybe things aren’t as bad as I make them out to be. I asked my wife and she shrugged it off saying, “nope, things are fine really.” Then again, she’s always been the stoic one in the family.
I can only speak from my experience. A meal with my extended family feels more like a poorly written column in a shady tabloid; too much gossip, too little insight. Even the internet is full of samey AI-generated content. Hollywood keeps rehashing plot lines from decades gone, tweaked for a modern audience.
I digress, but for good reason. It’s been a couple of months already since Bill left Nairobi and, honestly, I miss him. And I miss film club. It was the one place that made me feel whole again. And I haven’t really been able to recreate it, much like I couldn’t really recreate my yoga experience after my wife and I left Rishikesh some years ago.
But, as long as there’s people still making cool things in this world, without AI that is, there’s still hope. And that’s what I took away from Tom Moore’s masterpiece.
What’s it about
Brendan, a young monk, lives in a monastic setting with his Uncle, The Abbott, and a host of colourful characters. By day, the Abbott oversees the building of a wall to protect his people from the imminent arrival of the Vikings. Brendan’s whole life changes when Brother Aiden, a master scribe, arrives seeking shelter, bringing with him an enchanting manuscript that will later come to be known as the Book of Kells.
With the Vikings approaching, Brother Aiden’s only hope is to finish the manuscript, with the assistance of his new Protege, Brendan.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Truth be told, that’s a very simplistic overview of what the film is about. It’s an enchanting, magical Odyssey, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality, in a Kaleidoscopic display of breathtaking imagery, symbols and art. Thematically, it’s about how the beauty of art can truly save us in dark and difficult times. Think about when comic books came out during times of war and how they gave people something to believe in and look forward to.
The Vikings represent the soulless, the inhumane. And one scene perfectly encapsulates this. As Brendan and Brother Aiden escape into the magical forest, they find themselves surrounded by Vikings, who demand to see the book.
Side note: earlier on, Brother Aiden mentions that sinners would be blinded if they opened the book. This isn’t some holier-than-thou mumbo jumbo. What it implies is that those who can’t see beauty, will be blinded to it, even if it’s staring them in the face.
Throughout, anytime somebody interacts with the book, turning its pages, having a peek, it glows beautifully. But when the greedy Vikings snatch it from Brother Aiden, it remains inert, blank.
Whenever I find myself falling into depression, my litmus test to see if my soul is still intact is to listen to a moving piece of music or to watch a scene that usually brings me to tears, regardless of how many times I’ve seen it (think Episode 4 of Season 4 of Stranger Things). Without forcing the issue, I allow myself to be enveloped by the beauty of art, and when I feel something stirring deep within, I know that I’m still whole, still intact.
Facing darkness to find insight
To help him write the book, Brother Aiden uses the Eye of Colmcille, which he loses possession of while fleeing the Vikings. Brendan takes it upon himself to enter the cave of the Dark One and confront Crom Cruach, a serpentine monster, to retrieve a new eye, which will then allow him to accomplish his task.
A lot of great art comes from facing the darkness and coming away with insight. Think of this as enlightenment as opposed to a fierce battle between person and demon. When we truly face the thing that’s holding us back and don’t allow it to consume us, we transcend its influence and are able to translate this into art.
I feel like I’ve been in the cave for some time, trying to see what it is I’ve been avoiding for many years now. The reason my writing has become stagnant. Seeing Brendan come away with the Eye of Colmcille gave me renewed hope that all is not lost so long as there’s a story to be told. All it needs is patience and insight.
Create something that stands the test of time
If you’re worried that whatever it is you’re working on is taking forever, don’t sweat it. Keep writing. The Book of Kells took around 75 years to write. It was passed down from master to apprentice and is now proudly displayed at the Old Library in Trinity College, Dublin.
Da Vinci completed fewer than 20 paintings in his lifetime. But his work can still be found in museums and galleries the world over.
If you’re creating something, let it be enduring and wholesome. Trust the process. Be in the moment. And when in doubt, go back into the cave of the Dark One, and retrieve your own Eye of Comcille.
Perfect Days: Perfection (contains spoilers)
I’ve been trying to write this “review” for three days now. Somehow I just can’t get the right words out. So I’m going to just say exactly how this movie made me feel and hope it resonates. And if it doesn’t, please accept my apologies in advance.
Wim Wender’s Perfect Days is, in many ways, the perfect film. Great acting, great script, great cinematography. It’s sublime from start to finish.
So what is it about?
The long and short: it follows the life of a toilet cleaner in modern day Tokyo, who has carefully crafted a daily routine in which he seems to find peace and solace. He gets up at the same time every day to the sound of a man sweeping outside his house. He goes through the exact same motions from grooming to collecting his every day carry items and then heading out in his van to work, always with one tape or the other in the cassette player (yes our man Hirayama is pro-analogue even though it’s 2023).
Everything changes when his niece unexpectedly drops in on him. Truths unravel, his real identity comes to light and it leaves the viewer perplexed in the best possible way. Because in this perplexity are the answers we are all seeking about our own lives.
What if we had everything we could desire: a mansion in the Hills, ten Porsches, a gold watch. Would that really make us happy? Or can happiness be found in the little details, in rituals and routines. Do any of us stop to look up at the sky? Or the trees? Can any of us even wander around without experiencing life through a cell phone? Have we become so disconnected from the essence of life that what we perceive as happiness is in fact nothing more than an illusion that will someday just fall away to unveil bitterness and agony?
I loved watching Hirayama going through his routine. I loved watching how meticulously he cleaned toilets with an unparalleled sense of duty. I loved watching him go to the park, look up at the trees and take a picture with an old school camera that could fit in his breast pocket. I loved that he preferred silence, speaking mostly in grunts and gestures. Only when the occasion called for it would he actually say something and when he did speak, it was to the point and not caked in vague ambiguity.
Could Hirayama be Dharma in practice?
In Hindu scripture, there’s this concept of Dharma: dutiful action without attachment to the fruits. It means do what you need to do without thinking about the end result. It’s a simple enough concept to grasp, but how many of us actually practice it?
Think about the two main characters of the film, Hirayama and his assistant. While Hirayama goes about his job with that sense of purpose and duty, taking great care to wipe every surface with immaculate technique, his assistant:
- shows up late every day
- asks why Hirayama is taking the job so seriously when everything will just get dirty again
- half asses his way through the job
- is only after the pay check at the end of the gig
- doesn’t even last beyond a few weeks
One is acting out of Dharma. The other out of Adharma.
What does this mean in a wider context and why should we care about it at all?
Doing something with attachment to the fruits can often come at the detriment of the process. If you’re half assing it at your job, just waiting to get paid at the end of the month, you could be flagged for underperforming. If you’re shortcutting your way to starting a business, it’ll eventually collapse.
This brings another thought to me.
I’m imagining a scenario where Hirayama isn’t a toilet cleaner, but chooses to be a developer working for a tech company. I can see him writing every line of code, from start to finish, with that same sense of purpose and duty, without worrying about the end result and especially not thinking about his pay check. He’d show up every single day, log in, and just pick up where he left off coding.
Then I’m thinking about his assistant, who would show up late, half ass his coding and then ask an AI to fix it for him.
That’s what I’m observing more and more in the world. There’s no real sense of duty or purpose. It’s all about: how can I make the most money the fastest?
I’ve seen this with members of my own family. A cousin turns up for a job interview and blatantly lies about his qualifications with a memorised ChatGPT-generated script. He gets the job, asks AI how to do it and when he’s sussed out of it, he’s already made a few thousand dollars, enough to see him through to his next job. Where’s the sense of duty?
I had coffee with my parents over the weekend. My mum brought this up, asking “why don’t you get a contract like that, it pays X amount every week, look at how your cousin’s doing it.”
And that’s when I thought of Hirayama, how he moved through the day with grace and dignity, because he knew that he was good at what he did and he did the job well. I didn’t say anything, but I did walk away smiling, knowing that whatever it is I choose to do moving forward, it will be with that same sense of duty and without attachment to the fruits. And that’s what Dharma is all about and that’s important to me.
Going back to analogue
One thing I really paid attention to was how Hirayama embraced an analogue lifestyle. He bought physical books from a dollar bookstore. He listened to cassette tapes. He took pictures on an old school camera and had the film developed every week, storing them in these containers:
I didn’t even realised he had a phone (an old school flip phone) until much later in the film when he receives his first phone call from his assistant, telling him he’s quitting.
Seeing him live like this made me realise how much time I spend on screens. I made a little promise to myself to live more mindfully, to look up at the sky more, to notice the little things. Because those are the things that make life wonderful. Perfect even.
Antithetical to his family
I want to bring back the moment when his niece shows up. What I loved about her is that she was actually willing to learn from and work with her uncle.
And then her mother – Hiryama’s sister – shows up at his house to pick her up one evening. Let me repeat that. Hirayama’s sister rocks up in a chauffeured Beamer to get her daughter. In the build up to this moment, there’s already some clues that Hiryama is estranged from his family, like when his niece tells him that her mother changes the subject every time Hirayama comes up.
And then the sister drops this one line, when talking about their ailing father who’s in a nursing home and asks him to go visit, saying “he won’t act like he used to.” That one line tells us a lot about what we’re witnessing. Although it isn’t ever explicitly said in the film, it does leave a lot to the imagination.
Like in my head, I’m seeing a tycoon of sorts with millions in the bank who wants Hirayama to take over. Maybe Hirayama does, for a while, but he’s miserable. Everything feels so staged and contrived for him. Maybe he stops actually enjoying things. Maybe his curiosity and sense of wonder stop.
So he hands in his resignation, takes his final paycheck, buys a van kitted out with toilet-cleaning gadgetry, gets a studio in another part of the City and begins his new life. You can imagine the resentment this creates between father and son, with maybe a few words exchanged in the heat of the moment and this is where that “he won’t act like he used to” makes sense.
Pain disguised as duty?
Hirayama’s life seems perfect on the surface. He has his routine, his books, his music, his friends. But there’s also an undercurrent of pain that makes one wonder: is he doing all this to escape? Is it a way of coping? Is it avoidance of the deeper, more lasting issues? Or does it simply make him happier in a way that nothing else could?
Whatever the case, my main takeaway is that joy can be found in the little rituals, the routines and just remembering to stop and look up at the sky once in a while, all while showing up and doing what you need to do dutifully. Thank you Hirayama!
No country for old men: moral ambiguity at its finest (contains spoilers)
Is anything really ever black or white, good or bad, right or wrong? Or do we all live in the grey: a space where there’s good in bad, bad in good and neither bad nor good. It’s all relative anyway, right?
For our second showing at film club, we made a drastic shift from Bela Tarr’s thought-provoking Werckmeister Harmonies to the Coen Brothers’ cinematic adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s novel No Country for Old Men, starring Javier Bardem playing a ruthless cold-blooded assassin, pre-Thanos Josh Brolin taking on the role of an “oafish” welder and peak Tommy Lee Jones reprising the role of a jaded Sheriff.
The Good, the Bad and the Ambiguous
Javier Bardem is a killer. There’s no question about it. He goes about his job with a calculated coldness. At the same time, he has many admirable qualities. He’s a man of principle. He offers victims the chance to live with a coin toss. If the victim wins the coin toss, he keeps his word and they live. And if they lose the coin toss, he also keeps his word and they don’t live. He’s also highly meticulous, detail-oriented and precise. Granted he shouldn’t be killing anyone in the first place, but as far as his work goes, you could say he’s actually pretty good at it.
Josh Brolin shouldn’t be involved in any way. But after he stumbles upon a car packed with cash and coke, he’s as good as dead. Without trying to oversimplify things, Josh Brolin is the “good guy” in the film. Meaning he’s the one being hunted and has no intention of killing or hurting anybody. But unlike the killer, Josh Brolin’s character has no principles. He’s married, but still eyeballs other women. He’s also sloppy, leaving a trail wherever he goes and can oftentimes be frustrating to watch because of this sloppiness. A “good” guy that’s not very admirable.
And then you’ve got Tommy Lee Jones playing the jaded, soon-to-be-retired Sheriff. As far as Sheriff’s go… he just gives up. He recognises that he can’t keep up with this “new kind” of killer and resigns to the fact that his numbers are up and it’s time to step out of the arena.
A bad guy with principles. A good guy without principles. And a Sheriff who’s just given up. If this isn’t moral ambiguity, I don’t know what is.
Is intent the line between good and evil?
In the great ancient Indian Epic, the Mahabharata, there are two key figures; Krishna fighting for “good” and Shakuni fighting for “evil.” On the surface, their MO’s are pretty identical. Both use psychological warfare to gain advantage. Both play a zero-sum game and both use deception to further their side’s cause.
In fact, when it comes to it, Krishna is the very personification of moral ambiguity, breaking all the conventional rules of warfare, instructing Arjuna to strike down an unarmed Karna, deliberately manipulating a lie to defeat Drona and even using a human shield against Bhisma. Yet, he has been deified across several prominent cultures, raised to the level of a God, his name chanted the world over.
So what’s the difference between Krishna and Shakuni?
Whereas Shakuni was Machiavellian in pursuit of a petty vengeance against the Pandavas, Krishna used these methods to serve a higher Cosmic order, with no individual accolade or reward presented to him for his efforts.
This begs the question: does the end justify the means? Was Krishna right to break the rules? What about our killer in No Country for Old Men? Principled as he was, what motif was he serving other than his own Ego? And even if it was some Greater Good, is his killing in any way justified?
There is another Hindu principle: Dharma, doing one’s duty without attachment to the outcome. If the killer viewed it as his duty to kill as part of his job, does this justify the deaths of the ones who stood in his way?
Life is complicated
As a society, we’ve gotten into the habit of putting things into the “good” vs “bad” box, without considering the grey areas. Take the scene from The Morning Show on Apple TV, where a man has been incriminated for sexual misconduct and a group of female employees, none of whom were his victims, are passionately calling for his “balls to be chopped off.” That’s when one of the main characters, Mia, steps in and says:
First of all, how old are you? 24? Actually why don’t you try giving it 20 years (to see if you still want them to cut his balls off) and with all due respect, you’ve been at your job 18 months, what the fuck do you know about this show, what it’s been, what I’ve seen, what I’ve gone through since I’ve been on this show […] it’s not as black and white as you are stating it. This shit is complicated. People are complicated. Mitch (the one incriminated played brilliantly by Steve Carrell) was complicated. And he was a part of this show. And I care deeply for this show.
It brings to mind another scene from Do the Right Thing, which we saw during film club, which you can read more about here. In short, Sal has a pizzeria that becomes the centre of controversy after he refuses to have any famous black people on the restaurant’s “wall of fame” not out of spite, but simply out of choice. Sal doesn’t see black and white. He sees customers. Yet he’s wrongfully incriminated by a society hellbent on creating division and chaos, when all people should really be doing is enjoying the fucking pizza.
As for No Country for Old Men, I’ll leave it to you to decide what was right and wrong, who was good and bad. But if you’re able to stay in the grey, you’d have reached equanimity before GTA VI (can we still use that reference?).
Werckmeister Harmonies: even more relevant today
This was the first in a series of seven Art House Films with my good friend Bill Crandall. It was also – along with The Secret of Kells the one that had the biggest impact on me.
It was my introduction to Bela Tarr – master of the long shot – and it was definitely a red pill/blue pill moment. Take the red pill if you want to beat brain rot and see the world for what it is through a series of carefully curated films. Take the blue pill if you want to remain in the comfort zone of rehashed Romantic Comedies and doom scrolling.
I definitely took the red pill. And boy was I glad.
Side note: if you don’t know what I’m talking about with red pill and blue pill, you need to watch The Matrix.
What’s it about
Much like most of Tarr’s work, this takes place in some rural setting in Hungary. It’s a quiet town with a town square and residents milling about, going through the motions without a sense of purpose, waiting for the arrival of a “circus” comprised of a giant stuffed whale and a false prophet that we never actually see.
On cue, the residents descend into anarchy, destroying a hospital before the most pitiable scene stops the chaos and they all go back to their purposeless lives.
Open your eyes
Our main character Jànos, played by Lars Rudolph, is easily distinguishable by his intellect and deep, penetrative gaze. His eyes literally do most of the talking throughout the film. You see curiosity peak at wonder and then descent into disbelief, horror and – ultimately – total despondency as the film unfolds.
Curiosity as he explains how the solar system works
Looking the miracle in the eye with a sense of wonder
Disbelief that they can’t see it, when it’s right in front of them
Shock and horror at what unfolds
Total despondency as he’s institutionalised
We see the world through Jànos’ eyes. He – like the rest of the residents – is intrigued by the circus’ arrival. But unlike the rest of the residents, he’s more captivated by the giant stuffed whale than this so-called prophet who will supposedly perform some kind of miracle.
He claims that the whale is the true miracle. And he’s most certainly right.
A creature of such magnificence
World, can’t you see?
The miracle you’ve all been waiting for
Is right in front of thee.
Inspired by Jànos
This reminds me of a little anecdote from my own life.
Growing up in a staunch Hindu household, I was surrounded by people constantly looking for miracles in the sky. And every now and again, a so-called “prophet” would come into town and charge a lucrative amount to perform some kind of miracle.
Once, I accompanied my Mum to see one of these prophets. There must have been a thousand people stuffed in the community auditorium where the event took place!
Our rockstar prophet took to the stage. He wasn’t much to look at: scrawny, bald, long beard. But when he raised his hands, the entire auditorium went silent.
It turned out this man had an active “third eye” and could see into your future. I watched as he invited the ones with VIP passes to read their fate. It was all the usual bollocks: “yes, yes I see great fortune in your future” (man gambled his family fortune away and now lives on the dole in the UK). “Ah, a great romance awaits you” (divorced twice, lives alone in a small town).
At some point, I noticed a group of ants moving a bread crumb along on the floor. I stopped listening and just watched this incredible display of teamwork. And even though I was too young then to really grasp what was happening, looking back, I must have been like Jànos in that moment.
Here was a real life miracle happening right in front of my very eyes. A group of tiny creatures somehow being so coordinated as they move that piece of bread from one place to another. Instead, everybody is so focused on watching this “prophet” (wrongly) predict people’s futures.
My Mum noticed me not paying attention and elbowed me hard in the ribs. Back to the “prophet” it was.
The truth is, miracles happen right in front of us every single day. They might not be huge or biblical in any way. But they are still reminders that life is beautiful, that if we open our eyes and just take a look around instead of waiting for some great, big cosmic gesture, we might actually see something real.
To me, that was the essence of the film. Only one man could really see things for what they were. It seems to be a recurring theme in Tarr’s body of work.
Take Satantango for instance. A small farming commune waiting for a Messiah to lead them to the promise land, when their own lives are falling apart right in front of their eyes.
Most people are still waiting on that one miracle to bail them out, when the true miracle is in the day to day, how you live your life, whether you choose to open your eyes, or keep them closed.
Awakening
Watching Werckmeister Harmonies sparked something in me. Previously, when I had to go pick my son up from school, I’d rush out of the house, zoom down to campus, get him and zoom back. It was perfunctory, without a sense of purpose or even appreciation.
After the film, I consciously decided to slow things down. Literally and metaphorically. After getting my son, I took a longer, albeit more scenic route back home. I took it down from 70 plus to 40, put on the soundtrack (there are two) from Werckmeister Harmonies, and actually took a moment to see.
And that’s when I realised there’s so much we take for granted every single day. The two gardeners sharing a mandazi, donut, having tea in chipped mugs and laughing as they lounged on a grassy bank in the Sun. A lady, probably in her seventies, heaving a large basket of provisions to sell as she made her way slowly up the road. A family of monkeys going across the road, overhead on a wire, the baby hanging upside down, clinging on to its mother’s belly.
By the time I got home, I felt so enriched, so fulfilled, it was as though I’d taken my first breath in a long, long time.
Cinematic bliss
The themes and narrative aside, Tarr’s filmmaking prowess lies in the quality of the shot. Each frame feels like a moving black and white photograph and he uses chiaroscuro to really bring out the meaningful elements in every frame.
It was also the first time that I actually lived in the film. For example when Jànos and the pianist are walking down a road. And they’re just walking and walking and you’re walking with them for four and a half minutes of screen time. Another feature of Bela Tarr’s filmmaking. He lets scenes breathe and as a result, you actually get to breathe as well.
All in all, Werckmeister Harmonies is more relevant today than ever before. It takes one nudge to storm the Capitol or to unleash racist abuse on the internet targeted at black footballers.
And when people don’t see, they look to the sky (or their screens) hoping to find an answer, when the answer they’re looking for is actually right in front of them.
Do The Right Thing – Does Anyone? (contains spoilers)
It’s the hottest day in Brooklyn. The sweat-drenched inhabitants of the “Bed-Stuy” neighbourhood move about in a haze, while Sam Jackson (before he became Samuel L) plays some tunes on the local-local radio station that nobody seems to be tuned into.
Pick a beat and let me lay out a fresh verse.
Hot days and nights/ I swelter/ runnin from the fuzz/ helter skelter/ two hundred degrees don’t need no sweater/ blast Fight the Power on my sound dispenser.
Grab a slice at Sal’s/ I see walls/ wait a minute/ where’s magic Marley Marl?/ Fuck Sal/ Fuck up his joint/ Wait stop! What bout ma pizza? Man fuck yo pizza, this man don’t ‘preciate none of us brothers.
So what we gonna do? Boycott? Violence? What’s the right thing?
Left fist hate/ Right fist love/ Fight the Power/ A sign from above.
Call on X, call on Martin, one of these brothers/ They Do the Right Thing.
Does anyone do the right thing?
Let’s analyse.
Sal, owner of Sal’s Pizzeria, refuses to put up pictures of black men on his wall, despite majority of his customers being black. Is he doing the right thing?
Young Giancarlo Esposito wants to boycott the pizzeria because of this. Is he doing the right thing?
Radio Rakim wants to play his music inside Sal’s, despite being told not to. Is he doing the right thing?
The local old drunk saves a boy’s life. But he still gets shit for it. Did he do the right thing?
Three black men are bitter because a Korean family that only just came into town already have a thriving business. Is that the right thing?
Spike Lee, who works for Sal, takes the additional $250 thrown at him towards the end of the film, even though he didn’t earn it. Did he do the right thing?
My two cents
The truth is, nobody does the right thing. Nobody does the wrong thing. Right. Wrong. These are two bookends on either side of a whole lotta grey matter. And it’s that grey matter that actually… matters.
In fact, if you ask me, Sal sits perfectly at the intersection of these two extremes. He is equanimity personified (except for his final outburst).
He doesn’t really see black and white. He just sees customers. And his only job is to take care of these customers so they can keep coming back.
And he says so himself:
I never had no trouble with these people. I sat in this window. I watched these little kids get old. And I seen the old people get older. Yeah, sure, some of them don’t like us, but most of them do. I mean, for Christ’s sake, Pino, they grew up on my food. On my food. And I’m very proud of that.
So… do you think anybody actually does the right thing? I’d love to hear your thoughts! All said and done, this was a masterclass production by the one and only Spike Lee.
Let The Right One In – who are the real monsters? (spoilers ahead)
Imagine for a second living next door to a vampire. Let me say that again. Imagine that your next door neighbour is, yes, a vampire. And somehow… you knew?
Not just that. They appear “attractive” to you. They appear to be the same age. They don’t appear to be scary at all. And yet, at full moon, when blood lust is at its peak, they need to feed.
Now imagine all this taking place in a suburban neighbourhood in Sweden.
What I’ve just described to you is the plot of just about any vampire story. Boy meets girl, or girl meets boy. Boy/girl turns out to be a vampire. Will they. Won’t they. Can they.
More than just a “vampire” film
Tomas Alfredson’s eerie retelling of an age old story isn’t your typical “falling in love with a vampire” teenage drama. It’s so much more than that.
To begin with, Alfredson has done away with all the usual cliches. The fangs. The jump scares. The cheesy drama.
The fearful aspect of the film actually kind of creeps up on you in the most unexpected way. So much so, you don’t actually think about it until after you’ve seen the film.
Packed with moral ambiguity – a running theme throughout film club – it provoked quite a few existential questions.
Questions like: who really are the monsters? Take your pick: the negligent parents who don’t really know what their kids are up to behind closed doors. The aloof teachers who just stand by and let horrors aplenty unfold without consequence. The estranged, alcoholic father who’s all but given up on his family. Or – probably the most obvious one – the school bullies who go out of their way to make the misunderstood kids feel uncomfortable.
Note that in my list I haven’t mentioned vampires. Not once.
And that’s because, to me at least, poor Eli isn’t a monster at all. They are a victim of a great atrocity (there’s no real backstory in the film, but there’s a book for that) committed centuries prior. And they’re living with those consequences, doing whatever they can to survive. This is captured perfectly in this exchange between Eli and Oskar:
Oskar: I don’t kill people
Eli: No, but you’d like to. If you could… to get revenge, right?
Oskar: Yes.
Eli: Oskar, I do it because I have to. Be me, for a while.
Eli’s moral ambiguity
I’ve established that Eli isn’t inherently bad. They kill because they have no choice. If they don’t get blood, they can’t survive. But does that mean Eli’s… good?
Who’s to say. There are a couple of instances where Eli does kill. And it’s not to feed. I won’t say much more about this as those scenes (and the film) are worth watching, but it does beg the question: has Eli bent their rules before? Or are they doing it just for Oskar?
One thing’s for certain. The divide between good and evil is blurred. And I think I can capture it in a short verse inspired by the film:
Twelve in all perpetuity,
Thirteen I’d never been,
Yet all the world’s atrocities
With these eyes, I have seen
Unseen have I remained
Though strange I may seem
Only those stranger still
Will pay me any heed.
Centuries I have roamed this world
Centuries more I expect to roam
And though you may be twelve
And perhaps someday thirteen
I’ll keep you by my side
Until you perish, my sweet.
One last thing. If your neighbour turns out to be a vampire, give them the benefit of the doubt. They’re not the monster you should be afraid of.