“To
be deemed to be OK, to be part of the culture, that's the kiss of death. When
I'm pushing against something it helps me define what I believe. I've always
been led to see what's beyond, what's round the corner. The world tries to say
that this is what it is, and don't go any further, because out there are
monsters. But I want to see what they are.”
-Terry Gilliam
It all started with the
dwarves. It often does. Back yonder, in the days when we had to play
rock paper scissors each night to see who would light their clothes on fire to
provide light and heat, we also managed to have a luxury or two…although not
always at the same time. And one of said
luxuries was a grand and imperious invention that would serve as the John the
Baptist for the coming televisual revolution.
And it was dubbed Home…Box…Office.
And it was good. The first day.
And the Lord said “Let there be
films (one day, they’ll just call them ‘content’) for this raging imperious
prophet of the airwaves! But let’s not
go too overboard with how many, okay?”
And so the demigods of the budding universe they called “cable” worked
their dark arts and procured that divinely mandated limited number of films,
just enough so that their latent audience of television fiends would offer
forth their hard earned shekels for the monthly privilege of indulging their
visual cortexes (thus fulfilling the prophetic advice of Isaiah 67:24, which
reads “Hook thy brothers first with a meagre and free taste, for then shall
they chase the dragon with great ardour.”)
And so, in these murky and
mysterious times, did Home…Box…Office…acquire the rights to show a film about a
young and imaginative boy, his awful television addict parents, the pure
embodiment of evil…and a troop of thieving dwarves, who had stolen the MAP TO
THE UNIVERSE (the one that showed all the secret time portals) from the Supreme
Being (God, litigious soul that he can be, refused to license his nom de plume
to such an endeavor.) A film directed by
an American ex-pat who’d gained some modicum of fame from being an animator for
a British gang of comedy thugs. And for
being The American in this gaggle of Brits.
And so it was that my life was
irrevocably changed.
I remember watching Time Bandits in pieces when it debuted
on HBO. And quite frankly, I had very
little clue of what it was all about at first.
It just seemed a bit strange. And
British. Very British. But it focused on the adventures of a
kid! And when you’re a kid…well, I hope
you know that feeling. And the supporting
players were smaller than the kid! Do
you realize how gratifying it is when you’re a child to find humans who are
shorter than you, especially when they’re adults?
Time
Bandits
seemed to play on a pretty regular rotation back yonder, and my dad was a
committed enough cinema junkie that he often left HBO on in the
background. So slowly, I saw more and more
of this madcap flick. And I started to
see more of it from the beginning. Like
many formative experiences, it dug deep into my developing brain. And like many formative experiences, I didn’t
fully understand its impact until years later.
Over the years, I would
periodically catch Time Bandits when
it would briefly reappear on one cable channel or another, and even though I’d
enjoyed it as a child, I relegated it to a hazy and fond memory. It wasn’t even until the mid-‘90s that I knew
who Terry Gilliam was. But boy, when I
finally put it all together, there was no going back.
When I discuss my favorite
filmmakers with friends, there are easy names the roll right off my tongue:
Scorsese, Lynch, Altman, Romero, etc.
At this point, I think that I can access these directors so readily
because I own so many of their films, which is a nice visual mnemonic to
use. But give me a minute or two and
Terry Gilliam always comes to the forefront.
I’ve probably seen other directors’ films more times. I’ve definitely devoted more writing and
reading to the other ones. I taught an
entire class on Scorsese. But when it
comes to emotional and philosophical connections with film (and art, for that
matter), Gilliam is probably the director for whom I share the greatest
affection and admiration.
Some of you in the audience who
know me well will now commence with a resounding “No shit!” And yeah, I’ll own up to the similarities
that Terry and I have. Primarily an anti-authoritarian
streak a county wide. And the distinct
inability to keep our mouths shut when a little reticence would greatly help
(which oftentimes is also confused or overlapped with that most dreaded of
descriptors: a big mouth.)
And those qualities are equally
charming and damning when it comes to Gilliam’s career…and probably my
own. But my admiration for him lies much
more in his still-unyielding desire to be a dreamer. And not just a head in the clouds dreamer (Brazil is a fairly acerbic critique of
where that mindset can lead you). For
Terry Gilliam, dreaming is all about the activation of the imagination, the use
of it as a language, a tool, a transportation device to another world, a time
machine, a way to better understand yourself and ourselves. It’s imagination embodied in the intricate
production design of his films, some of which is never recognized by 90% of the
audience (The Hamster Factor, as the 12
Monkeys making-of documentary of the same name dubs it.) It’s a relentless romantic heart beating
underneath the cynical mechanics of the world (as in the enchanting Grand
Central Station fantasy waltz in The
Fisher King.) It’s touching the
outer atmosphere of sanity, and then questioning whether the real sanity starts
past that barrier.
Terry Gilliam’s films have the
capacity to affect me like no others. To
this day, Time Bandits reminds me of
the power and value of imagination in a consumer-driven world. At times, Brazil
depresses me to no end, but its cold beauty and laughter in the face of doom are
awe-inspiring. The Fisher King always reassures me that yeah, romance is a little
insane, but, as Nietzsche once said, “There is always some madness in
love. But there is also always some
reason in madness.” I think Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is one of
the most underrated films of the ‘90s, a hilarious, hallucinatory, troubling
voyage through the end of the American Dream.
And even though I’ve seen it at least ten times, the climax to 12 Monkeys completely tears me up each
time.
Over the next few weeks, I’ll be
going through Terry Gilliam’s filmography in (mostly) chronological order,
delving into each film in essays that…well, I’m not sure what form they’ll
take. But that should be part of the
fun. I’ll probably be sticking to his
solo directorial efforts, although maybe I’ll break down and write about Holy Grail and his short film for Meaning of Life. I’ll definitely be writing about Keith Fulton
and Louis Pepe’s Lost in La Mancha,
which might be the definitive Gilliam film (even though he’s just the star.) And we’ll see where it goes. Because sometimes, you have to strike out
into life without a definite plan to figure anything out.
Several years ago, a now-former
student asked me for my life philosophy in five words for a class project she
was working on. I told her “Always be
skeptical. Always dream.” I’d like to think that Terry Gilliam would
agree with me.
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