On the day I got my driver's license, gasoline was selling for 89 cents a gallon. I remember, because my dad has always been super sensitive to gas prices - squirming anxiously/angrily when they rise, expelling a sigh of incredulous relief when they fall, and forever certain there's some small but powerful group of plotters that controls the world's oil supply with the sole intent of keeping us all dependent. Driving to the gas station for the first time as a newly legal driver, I felt a compulsion to carry on his legacy. To the scrawny, acne-ridden sixteen-year-old I was then, 89 cents a gallon was outrageous, simply because it was outrageous to my dad.
Two weeks later, the Exxon Valdez crash-landed on the pristine Alaskan shoreline, dumping 10.8 million gallons of crude oil into Prince William Sound. As a result of this disaster, gas skyrocketed to over a dollar per gallon, to everyone's shock and dismay.
It never went below a dollar again. Not where I lived.
A year or so later, during the first Gulf War - particularly the tension-filled six months leading up to the imposed January 15 deadline for Saddam Hussein to pull his troops out of Kuwait - gas prices spiked again. I remember this vividly, because it was about the time I purchased my first car, and bitching about gas prices was no longer just a matter of parroting my dad. Now I was directly affected by it, and I began to understand the painfully simple equation he'd been talking about my whole life: the more I was stuck having to pay for gas, the less money left in my pocket to get me through the weekend.
My first car was a 1977 Chrysler Newport. About as long as a football field, its big 400 engine had a powerful thirst, and when Saddam Hussein defied the world order to vamoose, I was frustrated by the resulting jump in gasoline prices. When our military went in and ousted him from Kuwait and he set all those oil wells on fire, the price spiked once more and my dad and I went into a tizzy together.
That spike created a new bedrock: the price of gasoline never again dropped below $1.20 per gallon in my area after Desert Storm.
Throughout the 1990s, I worked a variety of gas station attendant jobs. I was, for many years, 'that guy behind the counter', ringing up your gas, cigarettes and lottery tickets. For most of that time, the price of gas hovered around $1.25, almost conspicuously stable and comfortingly predictable in its habits. No matter what was going on in the world, at home or abroad, it could be relied on that gas prices would spike around Memorial Day, inflate to what we thought was the point of bursting ($1.45/gallon! Yikes!) through the heavy travel summer months, then invariably fall back after Labor Day.
I came to realize during those years that my dad wasn't the only one super sensitive to gas prices, or who believed there was a secret cabal keeping us hooked. Whenever the odd spike came along, I, manning the register, bore the brunt of customers' indignation. The first time gas rose over $1.50 was a downright unpleasant day for my co-workers and me. People seem to think, or choose to believe to satiate their desire to blame someone, that the cashier behind the counter is responsible for gas prices. I was often treated as though a) I alone determined the price of gasoline, b) I was, as a mostly part-time employee whose biggest responsibility was hosing down the carwash and restocking the cooler at closing time, secretly part of that cabal my dad spoke of. Yes, I was in on the jacking up of prices; I was privy to price gouging meetings in smoke-filled rooms; I was happy to stick it to the working man for my twenty-hours a week at minimum wage.
I guess I should have been flattered; they attributed much more influence to me than I will probably ever actually have in the world.
The next spike I remember came September 11, 2001. That night, area convenience stores were besieged by gas hoarders. Vehicles were wrapped clear around the block waiting for their turn at the pumps, back seats and truck beds stuffed with red gas cans intended to be filled before - so the rumor was spreading - gas spiked to $8 per gallon. It was a surreal scene; an unfortunate ending to an already horrific day.
Gas prices did spike a little after 9/11. Not to $8 per gallon of course, but $1.50 was suddenly the new bedrock. I don't think it ever dipped much below that again.
Since 9/11, and since the Iraq war began in 2003, there haven't been spikes so much as a steady, unending climb, coupled with a slow but unstoppable erosion of the aforementioned stability. It hit $2 per gallon in 2004, and that was shocking. $3 per gallon sometime in '06 and '07, and that was worrisome.
Now we're on the precipice of $4 per gallon (by the end of this Memorial Day weekend, it might very well have cleared that tower), and $8 per gallon no longer seems to be merely the fiction of some panicked rumor monger. Rather, analysts are talking in serious, level-headed tones about 12 - 15 dollars a gallon in the next five years.
That's the worst part of all this - the resignation in the voices of oil industry experts who are supposed to be making us feel better. They're not even trying to calm frazzled nerves anymore, not alluding to the possibility (at least!) that things might level off after Labor Day, or after the Chinese Olympics (China being a country whose demand is in part to blame for the high prices), or not even indulging in the vague hope that things will get worse before they get better...but they will get better...
No, they're just throwing their hands in the air and saying, sorry folks, get used to it...
None of the presidential candidates, nor the current president, are saying anything different. We're not even getting hopeful (albeit bullshit) rhetoric from our politicians in an election year! They're talking about lifestyle changes, about buying new vehicles (a hybrid, perhaps?), about driving less, riding bikes, walking, car pooling...proponents of light rail have a new fire in their belly...it's all about adapting now, rather than waiting around for things to get better.
Maybe that frankness, that honesty, is what we need, but it's not what we (I) want to hear.
I am certainly ripe for a lifestyle change in terms of what I drive. Sadly, my current vehicle, a '01 Dodge Ram pick-up, gets no better gas mileage than my '77 Newport years ago. It takes over $100 to fill it now, so I simply don't. And I don't drive it much either.
I don't claim to know or understand the reasons for the spike in gas prices/crude oil. It seems to be complex, almost depressingly unintelligible, like an experiment gone horribly awry, control of the situation long since wrested from our grasp. Strong world demand (as opposed to short supply) and the weak U.S. dollar are routinely listed as major factors for the mess by talking heads, and yet, still, no solutions or ideas are advanced. And even with short-term fixes like suspending the gas tax or starting to drill in places we never have before, it would take months or years before any relief would be felt.
At the risk of oversimplification, I do not understand how it is we can build robots that sport human emotions, that can intuit and beat us at chess; we can manufacture cell phones the size of thumb nails; we can send billion dollar probes millions of miles into space and land them by remote control on distant worlds to start searching for life, and send us back pictures. We've eradicated diseases, marshaled the sky, controlled weather, been to the moon. All this fantastic ingenuity as a species, yet we cannot find or develop some kind of substance to combust internally in an engine to replace - or at least relieve - our dependency on crude oil. One would think with all our technological breakthroughs over the last century, we'd be at a place in our history where we can run an engine on used kitty litter if we want to, or garbage...throw a banana peel in the tank like in Back to the Future.
Something! Why are we still desperately digging into the ground for energy like they were 2000 years ago, when in every other facet of our lives, truly space-aged technology blooms all around like flowers in a summer field?
We've made synthetic motor oil, why not gasoline? Synthetic fuel as a concept certainly exists, and there are pockets of production going on here and there around the world, and things like biofuel continue to show promise. And of course, electric cars are all the rage now. But nothing is seriously being done to advance this, to make it mainstream and affordable, or, in the case of hybrid cars, attractive. I'd love to sit down for coffee with someone who designs those vehicles and pitch some ideas. Seriously, make one of those things - just one model - that has lines like an old Corvette, and it just might sell to the American consumer. Nobody wants to drive something that looks like an egg.
What kind of crap is going on, exactly, that we don't know about?
Was my dad and his cronies right all this time? Is there a cabal?
I don't mean in geo-political terms - 'us against them', America against OPEC. I ask, are ALL the oil producing nations and concerns really in cahoots, and deciding where and when we get oil, and what technologies science is allowed to pursue in lieu of oil? Are they waiting, as my dad has indignantly asserted many times over the last 30 years, until every drop of crude is sucked out of the ground BEFORE they even THINK of looking at alternatives, at which time they will be able to seize control of that burgeoning industry too?
This Memorial Day, among other things, I remember the men and women who have died to preserve my freedom to think these things, to wonder, to doubt, to question and challenge everything. And when it comes to the oil industry, and its ongoing stranglehold on our lives, our heroin-caliber dependency on the black gold, that right should be exercised frequently and loudly by all of us.
Enough really is enough.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Can't You Smell that Smell? Remembering My School Days, When Teachers Were Grown-Ups
This morning, I had occasion to go to my kid's school for a teacher conference, and found myself shuddering the moment I entered the building and caught a whiff of the distinct school smell I left behind so many years ago.
Doesn't matter the grade level or the location; the typical American public school, K through 12, has an unmistakable odor. It's like nothing else in the world, an amalgam of many different smells, yet as singularly recognizable as peanut butter. Carried on the zephyr created by the steady flow of students making their way through the hallways is a bouquet part cleaning agent, part ground-up eraser fragments, part chalk, part sweat, part septic and part cold pasta water, with just the ever-present soupcon of urine.
What I remember about school, that is, what I'm reminded of whenever I walk into one and get a fresh blast of the smell, might best be summed up in the final scene of the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off, when the principal, Mr. Rooney, is forced to ride a school bus home. He climbs on board, surveys seat after seat of the worst high school stereotypes - jocks and geeks and sluts and nose-pickers, all sweaty, pimply faced and awkward. You can almost smell the BO and dirty gym socks, see the boogers smeared on the back of seats, hear the ripping sound as your shoes attempt to escape the clutches of the sticky floor boards.
I still feel restless in a school, still get claustrophobic like I did when I was a kid, and I sense that same stress among its current inhabitants, student and staff alike. As a boy, I didn't understand it, only knew that I didn't like school. But now as an adult on the precipice of middle-age, I think I understand:
There's an unnatural orderliness to public schools.
Around the time of the industrial revolution, the modern school system was modeled after the assembly line, linear in motion, and to this day it strikes me as a tiredly ritualistic (standardized) place, where results and expectations hold little hope of ever making contact, a vestige of framework our nation no longer relies on, but more importantly, may never have made much sense.
Kids don't view their world in lines, do they?
Perhaps it doesn't help that my son is going through the same school system I went through 25 years ago; so my aversion to the smell, to feeling trapped, is informed by a host of personal memories; every playground fight I ever had, every dull classroom project I knew I would never finish, every nasty school lunch I knew I would never finish, every teacher I didn't like or who didn't like me...
There are still some familiar faces there, as a matter of fact. The first thing I saw today was Ray the janitor pushing the floor waxer across the cafeteria right after lunch. He's the same guy who was doing it when I was there decades ago. He's a little grayer now, a tad paunchier than when it was my milk stains and pizza boat crumbs he was cleaning up off the floor, but he's still there, still hard at it; still has the same lanyard of keys hanging from his belt loop. Still wears an almost handlebar mustache.
He even walks the same way, a kind of bow-legged saunter, his eyes alertly scanning the perimeter of the room with an animated (dare I say owl-like) rotation of his head. When I was young, I thought he was watching for kids causing trouble, ready to pounce (he had a way of appearing out of nowhere whenever one of us thought of doing something we weren't supposed to). Now I think he's just looking for something he missed, a pile of trays to be brought back to the kitchen perhaps, or a scuff on his beloved linoleum. Maybe he's not thinking at all; maybe the rotation of his head is merely to loosen the muscles in his shoulders, shake off the boredom of what doubtless has been a mind-numbingly repetitive job over more than a quarter century.
I always say hello to him, and he smiles with what I think is recognition, but he hasn't said my name yet. In actuality, he hasn't said my name since 1980, when he bitched me out (fairly hardcore, in full 'pounce' mode) for placing a milk cup down on the floor and stomping on it with my foot, creating an explosive popping sound that got everyone's attention, and, for a moment, made me a star amidst my squirmy grade school compatriots, but resulted in my being kept after school and forced to pop an entire garbage bag full of spent milk cups as punishment. I smile when I think of that incident, and weep a little at how much time has passed, especially when I consider that 'Ray' isn't that much older than me...fifteen years tops. He was only a very young man just starting his career when I was crushing milk cups beneath my Keds.
Interestingly, while the staff at my old school appears to be relatively unchanged ('Ray' the janitor, 'Susan' the lunch lady, 'Sharon' the woman at the front desk), most of the teachers and administrative staff I remember are gone. This is true not only in the elementary school, but middle and high school as well. The custodial staff stick around in a way teachers don't seem to, or haven't. Nearly all that I remember have either retired, moved away or passed on, giving way to a new generation of educators, who are all so damn young now!
Teachers aren't supposed to be in their twenties, are they? They're not supposed to be cute women who smile crookedly, or strapping man's man types who look you square in the eye when they talk and you just know spend their weekends doing rugged, outdoorsy things...
Are they?
When did that change?
Where are the dowdy, middle-aged spinsters, sporting plate-sized glasses, their wiry hair in a bun, mired in adulthood, in authority? Where are the scrawny, balding men in blue suits we used to laugh at?
I guess the mythos of the teacher as I remember her/him/it, was shattered for me quite a while ago, when I was in my early twenties and dating a teacher at the middle school level. I can't say I'm sad that she's out of my life (it was the epitome of a fling), but she was kind of sweet, and silly. She was a good time, and I mean that in a respectful (playful) way. We always had a good time together. There simply could never have been a future for us.
One evening I accompanied her to a school-sanctioned winter carnival, where we huddled on a park bench drinking hot apple cider. At some point, a few of her students, squealing middle school girls with their whole lives before them, ran by us.
One of them cried out, "Hi Miss 'Vervain'!" as she passed.
At that moment I realized, oh my God, I'm dating a teacher.
I was dating 'Miss Vervain!'
To me, she was 'Shelly', with a nice butt, a propensity for laughing when she didn't mean to, and an ability to drink anyone under the table when she got going. That isn't meant to paint her as some drunk, or suggest she should not have been a teacher. She was a great teacher, that I could tell anyway, dedicated to the well-being of her students (the enthusiasm with which those three called out her name was evidence of this). I'm only suggesting that she wasn't just a teacher. She was also a human being, full of complexities and frailties.
She was a girl who had grown up hating her parents, but had just recently started rebuilding a relationship with them, admitting that it was on account of her maturity that it was happening. She liked cats, and Seinfeld, certain kinds of coffee over others (a coffee snob, she called herself). Had a way of breathing deeply when she slept; she was mostly a Democrat, but a hunting-rights activist and pro-life at the same time. She had dreams and aspirations and sexual fantasies and things that pissed her off and made her cry and made her laugh or roll her eyes. She liked old music...old movies not so much. She had blood coursing through her veins. She was human. A warm, affectionate, mostly normal girl.
But to her students, she was all about lesson plans and overhead projection and chalkboard instruction. I remember 'Shelly'. Those girls who ran past us (now well into their twenties), only remember 'Miss Vervain.'
Perhaps that would have made my school days a little more pleasant, made me feel a little less trapped seven hours a day.
Though it probably would not have done much about the smell.
Doesn't matter the grade level or the location; the typical American public school, K through 12, has an unmistakable odor. It's like nothing else in the world, an amalgam of many different smells, yet as singularly recognizable as peanut butter. Carried on the zephyr created by the steady flow of students making their way through the hallways is a bouquet part cleaning agent, part ground-up eraser fragments, part chalk, part sweat, part septic and part cold pasta water, with just the ever-present soupcon of urine.
What I remember about school, that is, what I'm reminded of whenever I walk into one and get a fresh blast of the smell, might best be summed up in the final scene of the movie Ferris Bueller's Day Off, when the principal, Mr. Rooney, is forced to ride a school bus home. He climbs on board, surveys seat after seat of the worst high school stereotypes - jocks and geeks and sluts and nose-pickers, all sweaty, pimply faced and awkward. You can almost smell the BO and dirty gym socks, see the boogers smeared on the back of seats, hear the ripping sound as your shoes attempt to escape the clutches of the sticky floor boards.
I still feel restless in a school, still get claustrophobic like I did when I was a kid, and I sense that same stress among its current inhabitants, student and staff alike. As a boy, I didn't understand it, only knew that I didn't like school. But now as an adult on the precipice of middle-age, I think I understand:
There's an unnatural orderliness to public schools.
Around the time of the industrial revolution, the modern school system was modeled after the assembly line, linear in motion, and to this day it strikes me as a tiredly ritualistic (standardized) place, where results and expectations hold little hope of ever making contact, a vestige of framework our nation no longer relies on, but more importantly, may never have made much sense.
Kids don't view their world in lines, do they?
Perhaps it doesn't help that my son is going through the same school system I went through 25 years ago; so my aversion to the smell, to feeling trapped, is informed by a host of personal memories; every playground fight I ever had, every dull classroom project I knew I would never finish, every nasty school lunch I knew I would never finish, every teacher I didn't like or who didn't like me...
There are still some familiar faces there, as a matter of fact. The first thing I saw today was Ray the janitor pushing the floor waxer across the cafeteria right after lunch. He's the same guy who was doing it when I was there decades ago. He's a little grayer now, a tad paunchier than when it was my milk stains and pizza boat crumbs he was cleaning up off the floor, but he's still there, still hard at it; still has the same lanyard of keys hanging from his belt loop. Still wears an almost handlebar mustache.
He even walks the same way, a kind of bow-legged saunter, his eyes alertly scanning the perimeter of the room with an animated (dare I say owl-like) rotation of his head. When I was young, I thought he was watching for kids causing trouble, ready to pounce (he had a way of appearing out of nowhere whenever one of us thought of doing something we weren't supposed to). Now I think he's just looking for something he missed, a pile of trays to be brought back to the kitchen perhaps, or a scuff on his beloved linoleum. Maybe he's not thinking at all; maybe the rotation of his head is merely to loosen the muscles in his shoulders, shake off the boredom of what doubtless has been a mind-numbingly repetitive job over more than a quarter century.
I always say hello to him, and he smiles with what I think is recognition, but he hasn't said my name yet. In actuality, he hasn't said my name since 1980, when he bitched me out (fairly hardcore, in full 'pounce' mode) for placing a milk cup down on the floor and stomping on it with my foot, creating an explosive popping sound that got everyone's attention, and, for a moment, made me a star amidst my squirmy grade school compatriots, but resulted in my being kept after school and forced to pop an entire garbage bag full of spent milk cups as punishment. I smile when I think of that incident, and weep a little at how much time has passed, especially when I consider that 'Ray' isn't that much older than me...fifteen years tops. He was only a very young man just starting his career when I was crushing milk cups beneath my Keds.
Interestingly, while the staff at my old school appears to be relatively unchanged ('Ray' the janitor, 'Susan' the lunch lady, 'Sharon' the woman at the front desk), most of the teachers and administrative staff I remember are gone. This is true not only in the elementary school, but middle and high school as well. The custodial staff stick around in a way teachers don't seem to, or haven't. Nearly all that I remember have either retired, moved away or passed on, giving way to a new generation of educators, who are all so damn young now!
Teachers aren't supposed to be in their twenties, are they? They're not supposed to be cute women who smile crookedly, or strapping man's man types who look you square in the eye when they talk and you just know spend their weekends doing rugged, outdoorsy things...
Are they?
When did that change?
Where are the dowdy, middle-aged spinsters, sporting plate-sized glasses, their wiry hair in a bun, mired in adulthood, in authority? Where are the scrawny, balding men in blue suits we used to laugh at?
I guess the mythos of the teacher as I remember her/him/it, was shattered for me quite a while ago, when I was in my early twenties and dating a teacher at the middle school level. I can't say I'm sad that she's out of my life (it was the epitome of a fling), but she was kind of sweet, and silly. She was a good time, and I mean that in a respectful (playful) way. We always had a good time together. There simply could never have been a future for us.
One evening I accompanied her to a school-sanctioned winter carnival, where we huddled on a park bench drinking hot apple cider. At some point, a few of her students, squealing middle school girls with their whole lives before them, ran by us.
One of them cried out, "Hi Miss 'Vervain'!" as she passed.
At that moment I realized, oh my God, I'm dating a teacher.
I was dating 'Miss Vervain!'
To me, she was 'Shelly', with a nice butt, a propensity for laughing when she didn't mean to, and an ability to drink anyone under the table when she got going. That isn't meant to paint her as some drunk, or suggest she should not have been a teacher. She was a great teacher, that I could tell anyway, dedicated to the well-being of her students (the enthusiasm with which those three called out her name was evidence of this). I'm only suggesting that she wasn't just a teacher. She was also a human being, full of complexities and frailties.
She was a girl who had grown up hating her parents, but had just recently started rebuilding a relationship with them, admitting that it was on account of her maturity that it was happening. She liked cats, and Seinfeld, certain kinds of coffee over others (a coffee snob, she called herself). Had a way of breathing deeply when she slept; she was mostly a Democrat, but a hunting-rights activist and pro-life at the same time. She had dreams and aspirations and sexual fantasies and things that pissed her off and made her cry and made her laugh or roll her eyes. She liked old music...old movies not so much. She had blood coursing through her veins. She was human. A warm, affectionate, mostly normal girl.
But to her students, she was all about lesson plans and overhead projection and chalkboard instruction. I remember 'Shelly'. Those girls who ran past us (now well into their twenties), only remember 'Miss Vervain.'
While there should always be a level of detachment between student and teacher as a matter of course, it might be a good idea to remind our children that teachers are human beings; not beyond what's appropriate, but just enough to get them to listen a little more. Thinking back on 'Shelly' makes me wonder about many of my old teachers, and wish I'd known some of them on a more personal level.
Perhaps that would have made my school days a little more pleasant, made me feel a little less trapped seven hours a day.
Though it probably would not have done much about the smell.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Movie Review (sort of): 'Grizzly Man' a universally human story
I recently watched Grizzly Man, a documentary by Werner Herzog about self-proclaimed 'eco-warrior' Timothy Treadwell, who was mauled to death and consumed, along with girlfriend Amie Huguenard, by a grizzly bear while camping in Alaska's Katmai National Park in 2003.
I'm not much of a movie buff; it's always been too passive an activity for me. I'm even less a fan of documentaries that put forth information on touchy or controversial topics, because too often I cannot help but resist, merely on account of the 'in no uncertain terms' with which they do so. But this film is truly (yikes!) fair and balanced in its approach to what has become the mythos of Treadwell, and it has touched me in a way no other piece of cinema in recent memory has. Part of this is Herzog's doing; his smart, capable editing of Treadwell's video journals and poetic narration thereto have a way of compelling the viewer to not miss a thing.
Part of this is also on account of Treadwell himself.
I first discovered Grizzly Man on YouTube, where someone had posted it - probably illegally - in parts, and was eventually moved to buy the DVD after my interest in Treadwell's story intensified.
Treadwell spent 13 summers in Katmai, communing with Alaskan brown bears in a manner that many wildlife experts and park rangers considered reckless. But as those who knew Treadwell personally claim in Grizzly Man, it would seem his behavior in the park was as much testament to his fearlessness as his recklessness. One trait is to be admired, the other is to be discouraged, but perhaps they cannot help but go hand in hand. They certainly did in Treadwell's case, and served him well until the horrific night of October 5, when his and Amie Huguenard's luck ran out, and they crossed paths with a bear that didn't back down, didn't respond to Treadwell's self-styled displays of dominance and/or affected simpatico.
During his time there, he obtained an extensive knowledge and understanding of the bears he believed - or at least proclaimed - he was protecting. He shot over 100 hours of video footage, snapped thousands of astounding photos of his bear companions and other wildlife. Some of his video footage was used in Grizzly Man, to help paint a more intimate (and for this, more accurate) portrait of an emotionally complex (sometimes unstable) man.
Treadwell seemed to really be an eco-warrior, totally committed to the welfare of the bears and to educating people, particularly children, in the interest of demystifying the animals, quelling people's innate fear of them. He was a tough son of a bitch, that's for sure, enduring 13 summers mostly alone in harsh (or spartan, at least) conditions, and by all accounts - in the documentary and other literature published before and after his death - was much smarter and more knowledgeable than people gave him credit for.
But he was also troubled, and as much a Barnum and Bailey-style self-promoter as environmentalist. He fashioned his own national celebrity through his organization Grizzly People, and wound up a guest on various talk shows such as David Letterman, Rosie O'Donnell and The Discovery Channel to discuss his bear adventures and the good work he was doing.
The bears he claimed to be protecting, however, were really under no threat from anyone. Katmai is a large, federally protected preserve, most of which is only accessible by float plane, and incidents of poaching are rare. He had his supporters, and while no one seems to have doubted his sincerity or good intentions, there were many outside of the Park Service who felt he was overstepping not only the law, but implied and understood boundaries.
In his documentary, Herzog addresses these boundaries, interviewing park rangers, wildlife experts and a member of the local indigenous people, but he also endeavors to shed light on Treadwell's more vulnerable characteristics - the tightly woven fabric that bound Timothy Dexter (his real name) to Timothy Treadwell, his celebrity persona.
To that end, the title, Grizzly Man is a bit misleading, suggesting a very different persona than was actually the case. It evokes images of a burly, heavily bearded mountain man with a Gary Cooper way of (not) speaking, who comes to the woods on an Thoreau-esque quest for self-awareness and peace.
Treadwell had a few addictions, some minor skeletons in his past, and the bears, in the beginning, were an antidote for that; indeed, a quest for peace and self-awareness. But he was no Gary Cooper meets Charlie Daniels. He was skinny, blonde and balding; he spoke in a high-pitched, nasal voice even when he wasn't talking to the bears (then his voice would rise in pitch and timbre even further, as a means of technique); he had a way of giggling gleefully at times, and was not afraid to bear (no pun intended) his emotions. There was in every photo I've seen and throughout the documentary, something unavoidably 'California' about him. A handsomeness and a kind of passivity that stood in stark contrast to the tough environs into which he flung himself every summer. One might doubt a guy like Treadwell could hack it in the Alaskan wilds; but he did, year after year, increasingly devoted to his bears. Herzog seems to choose Treadwell video that would make this contradiction apparent.
He also endeavors to paint Treadwell as a conflicted man who may, just may, have had a death wish. I'm not so sure of that, but I am certain of Treadwell's emotional instability. It's impossible to miss, and for Treadwell's effort, quite easy to simultaneously empathize with and dismiss him outright. Moments of extreme emotion, from profanity-laden tirades against the Park Service (whose ultimate goal was not interfering with what he was doing, but merely keeping him safe) to child-like crying jags over leaden realities we all must face sometimes and are preponderant in nature (death, violence, selfishness) were captured by his own camera as readily as inflective moments of self-examination, when Treadwell talked about himself much more than he talked about bears. In these moments, he revealed himself to be an alienated soul who had become repulsed by the human world to such a point he was seeking refuge, and acceptance, among the bears. During none of this does it occur to me that he wishes to die. He seems willing to die for sure, if need be, but not wanting to, and not ready to.
In other words, I don't think Treadwell was crazy, naive, stupid or suicidal, as many have said (especially on YouTube, where posts left by viewers of Herzog's film are almost always ignorant, sometimes startlingly cruel). He was just disturbed; very disturbed. And lonely; very lonely.
I agree with Herzog, narrating the film, that there is little in the way of communication or understanding, little in the way of 'refuge', to be found in the faces of these magnificent creatures, which Treadwell could not help but anthropomorphize to reckless proportions and occasionally got disturbingly (if compellingly) close to. 'A half-bored interest in food', Herzog says, was all he could detect in the eyes of these bears, and he's entirely right. Such is as good as can be expected from nature, and for that reason all nature, particularly predators, and especially the world's largest land predator, must be viewed and appreciated from a distance. Presages of Treadwell's demise can be found in much of his own video - either bears getting too close, making bluff charges at him (this happened more than once), or Treadwell's own ready talk of the possibility of being eaten and consumed by one of the animals at any time. It's no secret Treadwell enjoyed that possibility. He may not have wanted to die, but without question he got off on the possibility that he could.
But in any case, it's Treadwell's vulnerability that is the star of the show, his pathos - a mixture of exasperation, restlessness and anger (with himself as much as the human world in general) - that has left a deep, deep impression with me.
I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I have recently gone through my own personal and professional loss, felt a little disaffected, alienated and angry myself, or perhaps it's something that's always been inside me; but I can relate to Treadwell. I understand fully being gripped by two opposing forces: a desire to drop to my knees and cry, and a desire to start punching something and not stop until I can't feel anything in my knuckles but the blood pouring out of them. I too have understood Treadwell's obsession with nature, understood how its (seeming) simplicity can appear to be the only thing that really matters, the only place I'd like to find myself, and have been moved to search for some higher meaning, some lesson learned I sense is lurking just inside the placid exterior of nature's house.
I too have sat and imagined a kinship with certain animals (although far less dangerous) in my midst - squirrels in trees, birds at the feeder, rabbits living under my deck. I have at times, with no small amount of emotion, wished to be part of their simplicity, wished for an out from humanity's impossible schedule, impossible dreams, impossible failures; I have, at times, considered the mere act of getting out of bed in the morning a laughable hubris.
I know that I will never take my life to the extremes Treadwell did. Truth be told, I could never endure the physical challenge of living in such a harsh environment. Two or three days of leaves for toilet paper and bathing in a cold stream, and I'd be searching for the nearest bed and breakfast. I'm much more grounded, have much more to live for, it seems, than Treadwell. And more significant, I have always come out of my funks, usually with a refreshed sense of faith in humanity and, more importantly, myself. Treadwell had lost all faith in humanity, and his place amongst it.
But as Grizzly Man beautifully makes clear, Treadwell's legacy is not the bears. It is that which was missing in his heart that drove him to seek something so important, and so unattainable, from them. For that reason, Treadwell, whether he knew it or not, still had an unbreakable tie to, and much in common with, the human world.
I'm not much of a movie buff; it's always been too passive an activity for me. I'm even less a fan of documentaries that put forth information on touchy or controversial topics, because too often I cannot help but resist, merely on account of the 'in no uncertain terms' with which they do so. But this film is truly (yikes!) fair and balanced in its approach to what has become the mythos of Treadwell, and it has touched me in a way no other piece of cinema in recent memory has. Part of this is Herzog's doing; his smart, capable editing of Treadwell's video journals and poetic narration thereto have a way of compelling the viewer to not miss a thing.
Part of this is also on account of Treadwell himself.
I first discovered Grizzly Man on YouTube, where someone had posted it - probably illegally - in parts, and was eventually moved to buy the DVD after my interest in Treadwell's story intensified.
Treadwell spent 13 summers in Katmai, communing with Alaskan brown bears in a manner that many wildlife experts and park rangers considered reckless. But as those who knew Treadwell personally claim in Grizzly Man, it would seem his behavior in the park was as much testament to his fearlessness as his recklessness. One trait is to be admired, the other is to be discouraged, but perhaps they cannot help but go hand in hand. They certainly did in Treadwell's case, and served him well until the horrific night of October 5, when his and Amie Huguenard's luck ran out, and they crossed paths with a bear that didn't back down, didn't respond to Treadwell's self-styled displays of dominance and/or affected simpatico.
During his time there, he obtained an extensive knowledge and understanding of the bears he believed - or at least proclaimed - he was protecting. He shot over 100 hours of video footage, snapped thousands of astounding photos of his bear companions and other wildlife. Some of his video footage was used in Grizzly Man, to help paint a more intimate (and for this, more accurate) portrait of an emotionally complex (sometimes unstable) man.
Treadwell seemed to really be an eco-warrior, totally committed to the welfare of the bears and to educating people, particularly children, in the interest of demystifying the animals, quelling people's innate fear of them. He was a tough son of a bitch, that's for sure, enduring 13 summers mostly alone in harsh (or spartan, at least) conditions, and by all accounts - in the documentary and other literature published before and after his death - was much smarter and more knowledgeable than people gave him credit for.
But he was also troubled, and as much a Barnum and Bailey-style self-promoter as environmentalist. He fashioned his own national celebrity through his organization Grizzly People, and wound up a guest on various talk shows such as David Letterman, Rosie O'Donnell and The Discovery Channel to discuss his bear adventures and the good work he was doing.
The bears he claimed to be protecting, however, were really under no threat from anyone. Katmai is a large, federally protected preserve, most of which is only accessible by float plane, and incidents of poaching are rare. He had his supporters, and while no one seems to have doubted his sincerity or good intentions, there were many outside of the Park Service who felt he was overstepping not only the law, but implied and understood boundaries.
In his documentary, Herzog addresses these boundaries, interviewing park rangers, wildlife experts and a member of the local indigenous people, but he also endeavors to shed light on Treadwell's more vulnerable characteristics - the tightly woven fabric that bound Timothy Dexter (his real name) to Timothy Treadwell, his celebrity persona.
To that end, the title, Grizzly Man is a bit misleading, suggesting a very different persona than was actually the case. It evokes images of a burly, heavily bearded mountain man with a Gary Cooper way of (not) speaking, who comes to the woods on an Thoreau-esque quest for self-awareness and peace.
Treadwell had a few addictions, some minor skeletons in his past, and the bears, in the beginning, were an antidote for that; indeed, a quest for peace and self-awareness. But he was no Gary Cooper meets Charlie Daniels. He was skinny, blonde and balding; he spoke in a high-pitched, nasal voice even when he wasn't talking to the bears (then his voice would rise in pitch and timbre even further, as a means of technique); he had a way of giggling gleefully at times, and was not afraid to bear (no pun intended) his emotions. There was in every photo I've seen and throughout the documentary, something unavoidably 'California' about him. A handsomeness and a kind of passivity that stood in stark contrast to the tough environs into which he flung himself every summer. One might doubt a guy like Treadwell could hack it in the Alaskan wilds; but he did, year after year, increasingly devoted to his bears. Herzog seems to choose Treadwell video that would make this contradiction apparent.
He also endeavors to paint Treadwell as a conflicted man who may, just may, have had a death wish. I'm not so sure of that, but I am certain of Treadwell's emotional instability. It's impossible to miss, and for Treadwell's effort, quite easy to simultaneously empathize with and dismiss him outright. Moments of extreme emotion, from profanity-laden tirades against the Park Service (whose ultimate goal was not interfering with what he was doing, but merely keeping him safe) to child-like crying jags over leaden realities we all must face sometimes and are preponderant in nature (death, violence, selfishness) were captured by his own camera as readily as inflective moments of self-examination, when Treadwell talked about himself much more than he talked about bears. In these moments, he revealed himself to be an alienated soul who had become repulsed by the human world to such a point he was seeking refuge, and acceptance, among the bears. During none of this does it occur to me that he wishes to die. He seems willing to die for sure, if need be, but not wanting to, and not ready to.
In other words, I don't think Treadwell was crazy, naive, stupid or suicidal, as many have said (especially on YouTube, where posts left by viewers of Herzog's film are almost always ignorant, sometimes startlingly cruel). He was just disturbed; very disturbed. And lonely; very lonely.
I agree with Herzog, narrating the film, that there is little in the way of communication or understanding, little in the way of 'refuge', to be found in the faces of these magnificent creatures, which Treadwell could not help but anthropomorphize to reckless proportions and occasionally got disturbingly (if compellingly) close to. 'A half-bored interest in food', Herzog says, was all he could detect in the eyes of these bears, and he's entirely right. Such is as good as can be expected from nature, and for that reason all nature, particularly predators, and especially the world's largest land predator, must be viewed and appreciated from a distance. Presages of Treadwell's demise can be found in much of his own video - either bears getting too close, making bluff charges at him (this happened more than once), or Treadwell's own ready talk of the possibility of being eaten and consumed by one of the animals at any time. It's no secret Treadwell enjoyed that possibility. He may not have wanted to die, but without question he got off on the possibility that he could.
But in any case, it's Treadwell's vulnerability that is the star of the show, his pathos - a mixture of exasperation, restlessness and anger (with himself as much as the human world in general) - that has left a deep, deep impression with me.
I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I have recently gone through my own personal and professional loss, felt a little disaffected, alienated and angry myself, or perhaps it's something that's always been inside me; but I can relate to Treadwell. I understand fully being gripped by two opposing forces: a desire to drop to my knees and cry, and a desire to start punching something and not stop until I can't feel anything in my knuckles but the blood pouring out of them. I too have understood Treadwell's obsession with nature, understood how its (seeming) simplicity can appear to be the only thing that really matters, the only place I'd like to find myself, and have been moved to search for some higher meaning, some lesson learned I sense is lurking just inside the placid exterior of nature's house.
I too have sat and imagined a kinship with certain animals (although far less dangerous) in my midst - squirrels in trees, birds at the feeder, rabbits living under my deck. I have at times, with no small amount of emotion, wished to be part of their simplicity, wished for an out from humanity's impossible schedule, impossible dreams, impossible failures; I have, at times, considered the mere act of getting out of bed in the morning a laughable hubris.
I know that I will never take my life to the extremes Treadwell did. Truth be told, I could never endure the physical challenge of living in such a harsh environment. Two or three days of leaves for toilet paper and bathing in a cold stream, and I'd be searching for the nearest bed and breakfast. I'm much more grounded, have much more to live for, it seems, than Treadwell. And more significant, I have always come out of my funks, usually with a refreshed sense of faith in humanity and, more importantly, myself. Treadwell had lost all faith in humanity, and his place amongst it.
But as Grizzly Man beautifully makes clear, Treadwell's legacy is not the bears. It is that which was missing in his heart that drove him to seek something so important, and so unattainable, from them. For that reason, Treadwell, whether he knew it or not, still had an unbreakable tie to, and much in common with, the human world.
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