~the beast inside~
October 18th, 2006
There is a scene in Dead Man where Johnny Depp comes across a dead fawn. He touches the wound, a small arrow hole on the deer’s neck, and draws on his face with the blood. He marks himself, and in doing so, gives in to his destiny, becomes himself.
Now, it’s true that I can watch dear Johnny do just about anything, especially ponce about in 1800s drag smeared in deer’s blood, and I’m more forgiving than most when it comes to what others might call pretentious (tho I don’t care for the newer work of Mister Jarmusch). Still, this scene is a splendid no-dialogue-necessary illustration of owning who you are, just digging on You: The Good, Bad, and Ugly.
A running joke in the film is that people keep wanting Depp to be William Blake the poet, not William Blake the accountant. When asked for the millionth time about his possible writer/celebrity identity Depp replies, “Yes I am. Do you know my poetry?” Then he shoots the inquirer.
But in my mind what Blake has to accept is his himself (which could certainly include the poet Blake), and his own death. When the film begins, he is marked, he is dead already. Like all of us, I spose.
There’s another Western film, Tombstone, staring Val Kilmer, another actor I could watch do just about anything (tho I gather dinner would not be pleasant. Still, this has never been a prerequisite of my favorite artists, or presidents: on my planet, private is private, work is work.) Kilmer, playing Doc Holiday, slowly wastes away from T.B. I think, and pale and sweaty, seems the only one who can accept his fate. There is a lovely moment where he, with a sly, faint smile, tells his would-be assassin, “I’m your huckleberry.”
This is again about the power inherent in accepting your destiny, unremorsefully being who you are, even if that means being the best target in the saloon.
It’s interesting that both examples that came to mind are (Western–what’s that about?) about embracing mortality, being oneself in near-death, letting go of the ego. These characters have looked in the mirror, finally they have nothing to lose.
What is it we fear about showing our ‘true’ selves?
About letting our hair down, speaking our minds or hearts?
Unlovability? Mortality?
And to whom are we afraid to be revealed? Family? Friends? Lovers? Or ourselves?
Beyond appearances and the deals you make with the world,
what about the deals you make with yourself? What of those?