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I couldn’t deny that it was tempting. With us being locked down and Rachel avoiding me like I was already infected, I was getting the chance to live the dream. Albeit in a limited and controlled environment. Like people who like pain during sex but only do it with a trusted partner in the context of a scene. Where they know everything is safe and there are pain-killers, ointments and cuddly blankets close by.
The pan was still on the stove when I got there. Subtle evidence of cooking present in the lovely kitchen. Either Rachel had the same penchant for nighttime snacking as Amelia, or she was doing her best to avoid me.
Waking up before most sane people would and dashing away like fawn at the first sign of potential trouble. Either way, it was kind of cute.
Trying to keep things quiet, in case the princess had returned to slumber land, I pulled together my closest approximation of a full English breakfast. I’d had people ask how I stayed so lean. Few people fully comprehending the full effects of stress.
Setting things at the table an odd notion struck. I flashed back to English class and Shakespeare of all people. The Merchant of Venice to be precise. Lots of people decided to take it as anti-Semitic in theme. Leading me once again into the world of the contrarian. Everyone, including the teacher, insisting the portrayal of Jews as intractably villainous and me pointing out that Shylock was the one and only example of a ‘villainous’ Jew in the entire dramatis personae. Wondering if we had all read the same play.
Some persisted of course. Saying one villainous Jew was one too many and the kind of thinking that led to the holocaust. The fact that this was mostly said by privileged Gentiles was not lost on me.
Eventually, I would be pushed into pulling out the ace in my sleeve. While they were questionable at best, Shylock’s actions were motivated, as encapsulated by his impassioned soliloquy, about the basic humanity of Jews. Crying, bleeding and dying like anyone else. It was a lesson which needed to be taught again and again, rarely being fully grasped. The ones who really did comprehend the very reason to keep trying.
Filling up on fried and toasted goodness, I washed my dishes as well as the pan and set my mind to more immediate matters. Returning to my quarters, to begin work on the labors of the day.
The administration had made good on their promise to put most of the classes online. The more practical ones like Chemistry and Landscaping had to be done with limited class-time. Everyone at least six feet apart and wearing a mask or face-shield the second they were out of their dorms. Cameras had been installed at the end of each corridor to enforce the issue.
Part of the film course going on was a continuation of the in class discussions. A feat achieved by the imposition of a class forum, where students could post and reply to comments. Everyone had to post a minimum of three comments per film we watched. Those who did ten got five bonus marks.
The only catch was that every one of the comments had to be relevant to the overall discussion as decided by the instructor. An element that made sure everyone paid really close attention to get everything they possibly could.
Most of what I would say was already in the notes I gave to Rachel. Scorpio and Fingered the first two films in the initial section on ‘transgressive cinema.’ Personally I would have started with 1947’s Fireworks.
Reputed as one of the very first films to openly break societal taboos, particularly around sex and sexuality. Something Anger could have literally been arrested for at the time. Not least because he was gay, which was still listed in the DSM as a mental illness back then. My best guess was that the instructor was going more for the artistic angle rather than agitprop.
I wasn’t looking for her. At least not consciously. Yet, as though steered by forces from above, or below, my attention wandered to Rachel’s posts. Or, rather the lack there of.
She seemed to be struggling to get to the minimum number, let alone the ten required for bonus points. It was likely that she had fallen into the age-old trap of assuming that, because it superficially involved watching movies all day, Film Studies was easy.
Nothing could be further than the truth. Film was an art form like any other and as with English Lit and to a degree to deeper forms of History, required a lot of very precise analysis.
At least if it is going to be done properly and there were, of course disagreements about which interpretations were best. Going so far as to contend that even what the filmmaker says they meant wasn’t the final word. Taking a page from Roland Barthes and the Death of the Author.
