One.
There's been a good deal of backtracking, preening smugness, and obstinate defiance in the aftermath of the Terri Schiavo autopsy. Although hardly comprehensive, I have a couple directions in which readers could go:
1) CNN, autopsy findings, key quote:
Jon Thogmartin, medical examiner for Florida's District Six, which includes Pasco and Pinellas counties, said the cause of death was "marked dehydration." Thogmartin said that the autopsy did not determine the cause of her collapse.
He said his examination turned up no sign of abuse or trauma -- allegations leveled by Terri Schiavo's parents, Bob and Mary Schindler, against her husband and legal guardian, Michael Schiavo.
A report from a neuropathologist who served as a consultant to the autopsy said Schiavo's brain was "grossly abnormal and weighed only 615 grams [1.35 pounds]."
That weight is less than half that expected for a woman of her age, said the report written by Dr. Stephen J. Nelson.
'Irreversible' brain damage
Schiavo's brain damage "was irreversible, and no amount of therapy or treatment would have regenerated the massive loss of neurons," Thogmartin said.
"Her brain was profoundly atrophied," he said.
The vision centers of her brain were dead, he said.
2)
NYTimes, initial editorial. Key quote:
The autopsy results released yesterday should embarrass all the opportunistic politicians and agenda-driven agitators who meddled in Terri Schiavo's right-to-die case. There is no evidence that Ms. Schiavo's husband did any of the awful things attributed to him, and no hope that her greatly damaged brain would ever have recovered. The courts were right to conclude that she should be allowed to die after 15 years in what her doctors described as a persistent vegetative state with no hope of recovery.
2)
National Review,
editorial, with the key quote:
About the main arguments against killing Terri Schiavo, the autopsy had nothing to say. Many people believed that it is wrong deliberately to bring about the death of innocent human beings, whatever their condition; that it is especially wrong when there is doubt about what that person wanted, and when her family members are willing to provide care for her; that Mr. Schiavo was too compromised to make this decision; that a law enabling the killing of people in a “persistent vegetative state” should not be stretched to cover people who might be “minimally conscious”; and that the Supreme Court should not have established the current lax standards for denying incapacitated people food and water. Nobody who believed these things has any reason to change his mind based on this week’s evidence.
4)
Bill Frist,
backpedalling, furiously:
WASHINGTON, June 16 - The Senate majority leader, Bill Frist, who drew criticism earlier this year after reviewing images of Terri Schiavo on videotape and then suggesting that she was responsive, defended himself on Thursday, a day after an autopsy report showed that she had suffered irreversible brain damage.
"People said: 'Bill Frist, you're making a diagnosis. Doctor, you're trying to wear your white coat on the floor of the Senate,' " said Dr. Frist, a heart-lung transplant surgeon. "I never made a diagnosis. I wouldn't even attempt to make a diagnosis from a videotape."
(the inimitable
Jon Stewart observed the other night that
Frist acts like he's unaware CSPAN has cameras on the senate floor...)
5)
Jeb Bush, not giving up, dammit!
TALLAHASSEE, Florida (AP) -- Gov. Jeb Bush said Friday that a prosecutor has agreed to investigate why Terri Schiavo collapsed 15 years ago, citing an alleged time gap between when her husband found her and when he called 911.
Bush said his request for the probe was not meant to suggest wrongdoing by Michael Schiavo. "It's a significant question that during this ordeal was never brought up," Bush told reporters.
In a statement issued by his lawyer, Schiavo called the development an outrage.
"I have consistently said over the years that I didn't wait but 'ran' to call 911 after Terri collapsed," Schiavo said in the release.
In a letter faxed to Pinellas-Pasco County State Attorney Bernie McCabe, the governor said Michael Schiavo testified in a 1992 medical malpractice trial that he found his wife collapsed at 5 a.m. on Feb. 25, 1990, and he said in a 2003 television interview that he found her about 4:30 a.m. He called 911 at 5:40 a.m.
"Between 40 and 70 minutes elapsed before the call was made, and I am aware of no explanation for the delay," Bush wrote. "In light of this new information, I urge you to take a fresh look at this case without any preconceptions as to the outcome."
So, basically what you'd expect. The "pro-lifers" are in their bunker, the pro-autonomy folks are dancing around with rifles, everyone's still fucking pissed. Except, I guess, poor
Terri Schiavo who is at peace. In any case, there's nothing I could add to any of this commentary that hasn't already been said, much more elegantly, by the fine
William Saletan,, writing for
Slate.
Saletan's valedictory article about
Terri, written after the autopsy and focusing on the primary videotapes, is superb:
According to Terri Schiavo's autopsy report, her "lateral geniculate nucleus (visual) demonstrated transneuronal degeneration with gliosis." Or, as the medical examiner put it in plainer English, "Her vision centers of her brain were dead. Therefore, Mrs. Schiavo had what's called cortical blindness. She was blind, could not see."
That isn't what Schiavo's parents, pro-lifers, and congressional Republicans told us all these years. They said videos showed her eyes following people and objects. "In the video footage, which you can actually see on the Web site today, she certainly seems to respond to visual stimuli," Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist declared three months ago as he spearheaded a congressional invasion of the case.
To pro-lifers, the meaning of the videos was as plain as the eyes on your face. "Streaming video of Terri Schiavo apparently glad to see her mom," one Web site advertised. "Terri looks over, sees her mom and gets a huge smile on her face," reported another. "As you can readily see, Terri is obeying commands," said a third. Several sites posted a common list of video links that began with Terri watching a balloon and Terri's alert eyes. "Seeing is believing," they concluded. "Now that you have seen, do you believe that this woman deserves to be starved and dehydrated to death?"
But now we know she was blind. She didn't see her mom. She didn't see the balloon. Her eyes weren't alert. We didn't see in her what we thought we saw.
Saletan, it seems to me, is positing a
King Lear moment: the triumph of
love over reason.
Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stones:
Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so
That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever!
I know when one is dead, and when one lives;
She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;
If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,
Why, then she lives. (V.3.303-309)
I feel a little strange using the greatest tragedy in English for such a petty,
Floridian, moment, but bear with me.
Shakespeare is addressing the primal nature of grief, the obstinate refusal to accept death. Cannot poor
Cordelia, be, perhaps, PVS?
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,
It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows
That ever I have felt. (V.3.313-315)
Played properly, we identify with
Lear's refusal to coldly face facts. He has, after all, through his blindness, destroyed his kingdom and caused the death of those near, dear (and true) to him. "She lives!" is the triumphant exclamation of delusion. We know, through the stage direction, that
Cordelia is no more. What do we make of
Lear's conviction, then? We pity him;
Saletan argues convincingly we should also pity the
Schiavos:
Let's look back at some of those videos. Start with Terri watching a balloon. It shows her eyes gliding up, down, this way, and that as a doctor entreats her:
Look over here. Terri? Terri—there you go. Can you follow that, Terri? There you go. Can you follow that at all? Terri? Come on. Terri, no, no. Over—come on. I'm using both sound and—can you follow that? Huh? Can you see that? Okay. Look over here. Look over here. That's fine. Look over here. Okay. Look over here. That's it. Look at there. Now, come on over here. Now, come on over here. Oh, you see that, don't you, huh? You do follow that a bit, don't you, huh? Okay. Look up here. That's good.
You can watch the video and draw your own conclusions. But what's striking in retrospect is what you can't see: the balloon. Without it, you can't tell whether she's following it. In fact, her eyes dart back and forth too quickly to reflect the movements of a balloon, even if it were jerked by a human hand. It's easy to overlook this, because your brain succumbs to the audio: "You see that, don't you, huh? You do follow that a bit, don't you?" You didn't see her eyes following the balloon. You heard that you saw it. And when you see the full text of the doctor's words—"Terri? Come on. Terri, no, no. … I'm using both sound and"—you can catch the warning signs you didn't initially hear.
Then there's the clip Schiavo's parents made, edited, and released two years ago in violation of a court order. Pro-lifers said this video "shows Terri apparently interacting with her mother and trying to speak." But watch it closely. Schiavo's mother stands off to the left, pleading with her daughter: "Can you look over here? … Come on. Over here. Look over at Mommy. Hi. Can you look this way? Huh? Can you look this way? Hey." The reason Schiavo's mom keeps pleading is that Schiavo doesn't respond.
Isn't this a refusal to see? From the begining, the
Schiavos were being fed what is obviously (now) a cock-and-bull story about their daughter's health and prospects for recovery. Because of the extensive legal wrangling, there hadn't been a decent evaluation in years. In the overheated political climate these (heavily edited) video clips were being used as ammunition to bolster claims that
Terri was just a few hours of PT (cruely denied her by her "husband") from health. Yeah. Some doctors are villians in this story:
Bill Frist, pompous former heart surgeon, pontificating outside of his specialty by observing selective video clips; the doctors that kept the
Schiavo's hope alive instead of providing realistic diagnosis. The judges, especially
Greer, are vindicated by the autopsy, shown to have reviewed the available literature carefully and made a measured and intelligent ruling. In the end, we should just be sad it all had to end this acrimoniously:
Same thing with the balloon clip. The judge in the Schiavo case notes that elsewhere on the hours of videotape her father "tried several more times to have her eyes follow the Mickey Mouse balloon but without success." The Times reports that at one point
her father gets gruff while trying unsuccessfully to get her to follow [the] balloon. "Come here, Terri, no more fooling around. No more fooling around with your dad." He pokes her in the forehead to make sure she's awake. "No more fooling around with your dad. Listen to me. You see the balloon? You see Mickey?" Later, he apologizes, telling her others have admonished him for his tone.
This is what happens when you deny reality. First you lose your senses, then your mind, then your soul. It isn't Terri Schiavo who's refusing to see what's happening in that awful scene. It's her dad. And it isn't her defect, or her husband's sin, that's revealed in the autopsy report. It's ours. We were blind. We could not see.
Maybe the best commentary about the whole, sordid, affair was offered by the smartasses at
South Park.
Kenny, in a PVS, had a living will that stipulated that if he ever ended up in such a state he wouldn't want to be exposed to national media attention. Perhaps the truest epitaph to the whole situation has been the general stampede towards getting finalized, legally-binding,
living wills. Whatever people thought about
Schiavo, they don't want oleaginous politicians scumming around their deathbad or showing video of them on the Senate floor. Good for them.
Two.
Saw two films today, viva Netflix. I've heard from several sources (including my colleague Nealus) that the new Batman Begins is excellent. It has certainly garnered a wide spectrum of critical praise, including the lovely Manohla Dargis praising the film for star Christian Bale's noblesse oblige:
As sleek as a panther, with cheekbones that look sharp enough to give even an ardent lover pause, Mr. Bale makes a superbly menacing avenger. ...What Mr. Keaton couldn't bring to the role, and what Mr. Bale conveys effortlessly, is Bruce Wayne's air of casual entitlement, the aristocratic hauteur that is the necessary complement of Batman's obsessive megalomania.
I can't wait.
Two Aye.
I did not, of course, see Batman Begins today, although I did catch the end of Batman on tee vee along with the climaxes from Raiders of the Lost Ark and Last Crusade, but I did have a great day at the (home) cinema. I saw both Zulu, the kind of populated with British stage royalty kind of action picture that nobody would dream to make today, and The Taking of Pelham One Two Three which is a pardigmatic, lean, '70s movie that also wouldn't be made today, unless it was made with Vin Diesel, a 150 million dollar budget, and a lot of "edgy" jump-cuts.
Zulu is a 1964 Cy Endfield production, and has a voiceover from (Sir) Richard Burton and the debut of Michael Caine as the aristocratically fopish (but tremendously brave) Lt. Gonville Bromhead, VC. For those unfamiliar with the Anglo-Zulu war, it was a smashing bit of imperialism that had some spectacular battles (Isandlwana, Rorke's Drift, and Ulundi) and ended up the way everything seemed to in late 19th century South Africa, with a lot of dead black people. (Those searching for more information on Rorke's Drift or the Anglo-Zulu War should consult the linked material.)
It would be an injustice to the superb Zulu to flippantly describe it as Blackhawk Down 1878, but superficially the films show similarities: hordes of black folk, few brave white folk, lack of reinforcements, lot of dust. However, unlike (Sir) Ridley Scott's dreadful bit of war porn, Zulu is explicit in its respect for the bravery and humanity of the Zulu enemy, even including an extra-historical scene in which the braves return to salute the (victorious) British survivors. The film takes some time to set up the Zulu assault, allowing enough time for character development and some (semi) good-natured feuding between the commanding officers. Although Caine's Bromhead had been in command, he was outranked on pure seniority by the engineer John Chard who assumed control of the garrison. Their interaction, as it moves from resentment to admiration, is one of the highlights of the film. In any case, it is a stirring war film, packed full of great performances (James Booth as the malingerer-turned-war-hero Henry Hook, VC, for one) and truly spectacular cinematography. Zulu was filmed on location in Natal, and the setting is breathtaking. When the film concludes with Burton listing the eleven Victoria's Cross recipients from the battle (the most awarded in a single engagement in British military history) you feel exhausted, as if you endured the siege right along with the men. A hell of a good show, and highly recommended.
Two Bee.
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three is a delightfully lean '70s action film, starring the wonderful Walter Matthau. Four terrorists hijack a subway car and 18 passengers in the hopes of getting one million dollars from New York City. This film has been obviously influential on several careers, not least the fine Quentin Tarantino who borrowed liberally from this gem to make Reservoir Dogs. Yeah, the bad guys have color code-names: Blue, Green, Grey, and Brown. Brown's got a stutter, Grey's a sociopath, and there might be a undercover cop onboard! Yeah, Quentin, Joseph Sargent wants some royalties, alright.
In any case, I loved it. Matthau was memorable, wearing some hideous plaid shirt with a bright yellow tie, a much-younger-looking Frank Costanza was playing a deputy police chief, and there were gobs of bad language, racial epithets, stereotypical Japanese tourist-types (one had a Nikon, obviously) played broadly for laughs, and a great evocation of a dirty, dangerous, and barely livable New York City. After all, the deputy mayor, convicing the mayor to pay off the hijackers, barks out that "we're trying to run a city, not a goddamn democracy!" Splendid. Really. Two thumbs up for a lean, suspenseful, and new kind of action film. It is neatly claustrophobic in all the right sorts of ways, and the ending will surprise you. They really don't make 'em like this, anymore.
Two Cee.
All of this leads me to my big question for the night: why don't they make 'em like this, anymore? Why can't you get a dark, aggressive, taught action film without pretensions, anymore? Take John Carpenter's Assault on Precinct 13, recently remade as some large-budget disaster with Ethan Hawke. There was such a casual economy to the Carpenter flick, a level of zombie-esque brutality on the part of the bad guys--they just keep on coming--relatively bland characters, sure, but it was gritty and a hell of a lot of fun. Most of all, there's just a level of reality in '70s cinema. They didn't have much in the way of special effects, so they either had to hint at it (use your imagination) or do it live action, best of their abilities. Makeup, not CGI. Feels more real.
Great article, this week, in Slate on the decline and fall of the Shark Movie. Even though Jaws gets a lot of bad press, it is still a great '70s movie, lean, and frightening. You don't see a lot of the shark, for one, and what glimpses you catch are more terrifying for that. There's also an incredibly vivid performance from Robert Shaw as the Ahab-esque "Quint" that certainly transcends anything that follows it. The article concludes, pessimistically:
With this kind of excess, it's not a surprise that an authentic, low-budget shark movie would be hailed as a revelation. Open Water was supposed to be the big scare film of the summer of 2004, but at the end of its paltry 79 minutes, the man sitting behind me got up and said to his wife, "That was it? I'm going to ask for my money back." He spoke for the nation. Real sharks, like the gray reef and bull sharks used in Open Water, are smaller and less impressively toothed than Hollywood sharks. Perhaps seeing them on the screen reminded the public that real sharks are disappointingly benign. They don't normally eat people or have vendettas against island towns or underwater research stations. As the old saw goes, we are far more of a threat to them than they are to us.
Not that this will stop Hollywood, which has now tried big sharks, smart sharks, freshwater sharks (in the Lou Diamond Phillips/Coolio 2003 TV movie, Red Water), and real sharks. All considerations of pacing and characterization aside, Jaws' success seems like a matter of timing—the movie worked because technology was just good enough to make the shark, and pre-CGI audiences were just green enough to scream at him.
I don't think that's it, though.
Jaws suceeded where
Deep Blue Sea didn't for one overriding reason:
Jaws was a great movie, suspenseful, and ultimately character driven. The shark, scary though it was, was there to be hunted by rich, complete, complicated
human characters. In later, glitzier films, the CGI is reason enough. I leave you with
David Edelstein, who I love:
Let me change gears here. I want to tell you about the day I saw Jaws—the first day it opened in 1975. I was 15, staying at my friend Richard's house on Long Island, and we headed to the theater (not a multiplex) with a third friend, Craig. There were still tickets, but the line went around the theater twice. Despair. Then the ballsy Craig casually strolled up to the third guy in line, pointed at the marquee, and said, "Richard Dreyfuss—you see him in American Graffiti? He was great. I love that movie." The two chatted for a minute about American Graffiti and then Craig said, "Hold my place a sec, will ya?" and waved us over. I was cringing as Craig, Richard, and I became the fourth, fifth, and sixth people in line—but it was better than having to sit in the front row. When we got inside, we planted ourselves dead center in the huge theater, the perfect spot to experience the full kinetic effect of the film and yet be totally aware of the crowd. And so I guess, in a strange way, I owe my prime seat at one of the great nights of my moviegoing life to George Lucas (and Craig).
Jaws is still one of my favorite movies. I didn't know I could be manipulated like that—so wittily, so teasingly, in a way that made me laugh at my own fear. (The only Hitchcock film I'd seen in a theater was Frenzy, which was too sick to appreciate in the same vein.) What clinched it was that unbelievably brilliant sequence that begins with a high-angle shot of Roy Scheider dropping fish entrails in the water as shark bait. He was resentful; he said to Shaw and Dreyfuss, "Why don't you guys come down here and shovel some of this shit?" And we started to laugh—he said "shit!" heh-heh—and then the head of the shark appeared in the water (no music, no foreshadowing), and I felt my mind detach from my body and my laugh turn into a shriek and merge into the collective shriek of everyone in that huge theater. I literally shook for the rest of the movie: Every cut by the late Verna Fields had me poised to leap out of my seat. (I really learned to appreciate editing from Jaws.)
Yeah. I haven't felt like that in a while, and I certainly didn't feel like that at
Lucas's antiseptic
ROTS. I haven't been at a movie that really felt
real in quite some time.
