I still wonder if it had gone differently had I been a little more present when they got on. These two men were the last two to rush aboard at Fourth and Pike, just in time now, right as the light turned green.

The first man was a squat and burly older figure with an ex-football frame, that familiar silhouette of muscular shapes gone plump. Shorts and a torn T-shirt, fifties, white. He asked if I go to Broadway. Yes, I answered distractedly, checking around to see if it was still possible to take the light. Just behind him the second man boarded, a tall, thin fellow in his sixties, dressed in a neutral beige jacket, khakis and walking shoes that curiously didn't identify any class  or status affiliation. He may have been homeless or a millionaire, European or American. He nodded as I said, "glad you made it." I closed the doors and said into the mic, "okay, we're gonna take this light here, hang on," smoothly accelerating away with six seconds left. Plenty of time. 

We continued up Pike without incident. Ex-football man sat up front watching the proceedings, grunting with satisfaction as I dove into the bus lane to skirt traffic. I thought about engaging him but didn't, enjoying a moment of quiet time. Maybe I should have. Beige fellow was seated next to him, but they didn't speak with each other and were clearly strangers.

At Bellevue and Pine, we rolled to a gentle stop for the red light. Football stood and came up to me, saying, "hey, can I get out right here? I kinda wanta go to that store, what is it, Benson's, back there on the corner."
"You know, I've actually gotten in trouble for doin' that, so I gotta say no, but there's a stop around the corner."
"But I wanna go to the store."
"Yeah, there's a stop just up the block here. Didn't you say you wanted to go to Broadway?"
"I know. I wanna go right back there."
The light is staying red, and staying red, and staying red. "I can let you out around the corner here, we got a stop just up the block."
"You can't let me off right here?"
"We're almost there."
"How about if I go out the emergency window?" He points at the first door side window that has a red emergency lever, which happens to be directly behind those first side-facing seats, where the neutral beige man is sitting.
"You can do that," I say, not expecting him to.

He stalks his squat frame over to the window and pulls down the red lever, pushing out the window, preparing to stick his leg through, but– there's one small problem. The beige guy is in the way, sitting right in front of him. He's been sitting there, oblivious to the above conversation, and now he's confused: there's a burly guy with a handlebar mustache standing right in front of his face, doing– what? Sticking his leg over my shoulder–

"What? What the fuck are you DOING?!" he screams.
"Outta my way," mutters Football.
"STAY THE FUCK OFFA ME!" Neutral Beige lifts his legs to his chest and shoves them with all his might into Football's stomach. Football is propulsively thrown backwards, crash-landing into the wheelwell right behind me. A girl sitting in the midst of all this stands up, disentangling herself, and walks to the back. I imagine she's thinking, since when did fights happen at the front of the bus? 

The burly man lunges forward– "STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME," from the the Beige guy, hollering at top volume– lunges forward and grabs the old man's legs and yanks backward, almost appearing to be trying to pull his legs apart from his body. Now the old man's waist and legs are on the floor with his top half following quickly behind. He is on the floor but not completely, his neck still pinned on the seat bottom, and Mr. Football is collapsing on top of him, going at it with his fist.  A right into the man's face or left shoulder, hard to tell, somebody's knee hitting the floor. Neutral Beige flounders with his arms, blocking, rotating rather ably out from underneath, shouting in stammers. "Get the, fuck off...fucking asshole...." We're moving into the language of grunts.

All this has been less than ten seconds. That red light is still red. I open the front door, saying loudly, "guys, guys, guys, okay," and Football stands, extricating himself from this mysteriously capable older fellow and running into things on his way out the door, howling in tongues, throwing scraps of paper at me, trying to get back inside but I'm closing the doors, yes just in time, thank you, and the light is mercifully now turning green. I roll slowly away. He's out there still, like a fairy-tale monster who just won't go away, still chasing after us, smashing his fist into the front side window, shattering it into a thousand spiderwebs. So much energy. Where does it come from? Why do fights always happen over the most picayune matters?

Eventually, of course, he's gone. Neutral Beige is gathering himself, talking to the others around him. I ask, "how ya feelin'? Can I call the police for ya, if you want to make a statement...?"
"Nah, it's up to you."
"You sure?"
"Oh yeah, I'm fine."

I looked at him. He was sitting there, much like before the incident, but there was something new in this scene. His being was completely energized. He exhaled with a relief that couldn't fully hide his excitement. 
"You feel alright?"
"Oh, yeah, it's nothing."

Actually, he felt great. 

You could smell it. Exhilaration was coursing through his veins, and he was no longer old or young or tall or whatever; he was the original version of himself, the invincible youth we all remember being, and his quality had just been proven to himself in no uncertain terms. Wouldn't you feel great? The worst thing you could imagine, the worst-possible scenario had taken place on his bus ride home. He was attacked by a younger, bigger, stronger man without provocation, and he had held his own with no assistance. I've still got it, you think to yourself, and everything is in its right place. It's not something you discuss with others. He just sat there, trying not to smile.

"I hope you have a great rest of the evening," I told him when he got off. 
"Oh, I will," he said, allowing himself a small grin, the vitality beaming through. I think he was the happiest person on the bus.

I'm walking through a group of men on my way back from the "comfort station." Comfort Stations are what we Metro folk call bathrooms. Not all routes have bathrooms at the terminals, and I do my best to only pick those routes which do. You can imagine what a relief– what a comfort, if you'll allow me– they are on the long nights.

On the sidewalk tonight in Rainier Beach, just outside the Comfort Station and between the bus and myself, is a cluster of three men, ranging from perhaps thirty-five to fifty-five. It's dark out, they're all wearing black, their skin is dark, their eyes are dark– but I can still see the glint of light in their pupils. How is it, that it's never too dim to see that spark?

Two of them are East Africans, and the third is African-American. Although these two ethnicities tend not to intermingle, this trio seems to be getting along just fine. The third man, the American, is dressed in a black cape and tights. After I greet them all he tells me in a tipsy voice how much I remind him of a TV personality he knows. "Look it up on your Google," he says, adjusting his cape. I recognize the Africans and we all shake hands. One of them is Dealer One, and the other is Elbee. In the way that politicians need to do a little gladhanding to get votes, I need to do a little acknowledging to keep up the decorum, and be able to go to and from my bus without worry. Kindness is stronger than a bulletproof vest.

"Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay," the caped man is saying.
I don't know how to respond except, "You watch a lotta movies! Movies and TV."
"What?"
"The Warriors, I remember that. 1987. Or was it 1979?"
"Naw man, I've lived it. I've lived it. Seal Team Six. We went anywhere, over water, under water, didn't matter."
"Respect. Thanks for serving." The important thing right now is stay on the good side of these fine fellows.
"But we had a Black Hawk Down, man." The husky storytelling voice. "We couldn't get there fast enough. Couldn't get there, Mogadishu, Somalia. Black Hawk Down, man, the rotor blades spun out flat."
"I remember. 1993."
Superman nods.
"Oh! Yes!" Says Dealer One, who's Somalian himself. By his tone I can see he remembers the event. 
"The rotor blades spun out flat," Superman says to Elbee, leering a bit into him. I'm thinking, that's not really a sentence that makes sense to a non-native English speaker. Does Elbee have any idea what this guy is saying?
"Yeah. October," Elbee says. October 1993.
"Yeah, October!" 

Somehow, a feeling of solidarity swept over us. We realized we all knew of the significant event Superman was discussing. Across the street in the Saar's supermarket parking lot, the Tchaikovsky tinned out from the loudspeakers. A Korean kid and three black guys...two Americans and two Africans...how ever you wanted to shake it, there were four people standing next to a garbage can on Rainier Avenue around midnight, nodding and smiling in a forgotten corner of our great city, accomplished in the the humble feat of understanding each other. 

As I walked away I thought, how lovely, that these men, ostensibly on opposing sides of the former conflict of which they speak, understand that they themselves are not countries but individuals, and have no cause to quarrel. 

Image courtesy of 20th Century Fox.

There is a lot of discussion taking place regarding this film right now (trailer here). Here are my thoughts:

If the American Dream is predicated on the search for achieving and plateauing out on a steady, static state– marriage, children, home ownership, the indefinitely extending job, and the rest– then David Fincher's Gone Girl is a meditation on the collapse of such structures in a world too complex for such simple stability, by forces outside the protagonists' understanding. 

On the surface, the story opens with Nick Dunne (Affleck) waking up on his five-year anniversary to discover his wife missing, and subsequently having the darndest time proving he didn't kill her. Although the plotting is intricate (please, please see it before your friends spoil the twists), Fincher has more in his sights than merely a competent genre exercise. This is his Scenes From a Marriage, and though it is not as painful or direct as Bergman's masterpiece, it probes the notion of marriage with a disciplined eye rarely seen in contemporary mainstream film work. 

He perfectly captures the "how did we get to this" trajectory of a downward-spiraling union, sketching quickly in broad but carefully observed strokes. More than one audience member may find themselves nodding in rueful understanding. How do we get to that mysterious and disappointing place of bringing out the worst in ourselves with those we love? How did we stray so far from the person we really did think we were? In the film we see and hear thoughts from both husband and wife, and the dual– shall I say dueling– perspectives are sobering. The concept of the unreliable narrator is taken to new extremes here, and this makes the viewpoints expressed even more thought-provoking. 

There is the truth of what happened and what didn't, and then there are the deeper truths that are not about who killed who, but rather with the gradual undoing of love and time, the narrowing of who we are, until finally we're trapped in a prison we willfully stepped in. More than once the notion is propagated that marriage is a state of living people take on for show, or to fulfill concepts they wish to live up to, rather than out of love for another. 

If Fincher's Fight Club (1999) was about the disillusionment of males in a society that no longer has a place for them, Gone Girl is about marriage in a culture obsessed with facades. Both films are about myths; Gone Girl doesn't set out to decry marriage, but rather to offer a more clear picture. The myth of the perfect couple is peeled away, to no great surprise; but let us remember that the "battle of the sexes" concept is also a myth. What lies beneath manages to be more disturbing than the ramifications of either– the gradual subjugation of one's identity in the name of preserving something which only makes sense when seen from the outside, from a distance.*** Who do we choose to present to those we wish to seduce?

Such questions might easily serve as the meat of an entire film, but Finch has even more on his mind; there is the matter of the media's gaze and our obsession with its version of the truth, the lower class's rejection of the middle class, the middle class's of the upper, the fact that certain bonds may run deeper than that of marriage– I'd like to reveal more, but doing so would be an injustice. The pleasures of the story's tortuous path are not for me to give away.

Suffice it to say that this is a film, like all of the director's work, to be savored more than once. Some films are about finding out what happens next; for those interested in only that, Gone Girl will satisfy. But others in the audience will be having a richer experience. The film is about people, not just event sequences. Consider the opening titles. Only later do we learn what Dunne was thinking at the time, but what an eloquent series of images to convey that state of mind. Elsewhere, asides and juxtapositions have us pondering the tough questions, even as we're thrown from side to side by the thrill of the whodunit aspects. 

Whereas Scorsese likes to play with subjectivity and objectivity in the frame, Fincher prefers compositions that stray as far into an objective portrait as possible in the medium. Editor Kirk Baxter notes that Fincher likes to remove the human element from camerawork, shooting wider than necessary and cropping in during post to stabilize the image. The locked camera also allows for split-framing to maximize different takes of performances.** His gaze is clinical and dispassionate. Some have written that he watches the proceedings as an alien would consider the strange human race, and although that stretches a point in order to make one, I'd argue that the camera is still very much attached to the psychology of the characters. The camera doesn't wave around for flash, or to liven up the proceedings; Fincher might be the only filmmaker today making films without any handheld work. Gone Girl contains one handheld shot, and the lack of any others highlight its impact all the more. 

Like Kubrick, there'll be a reason the shot is from over here, and the decision to put a figure at the far edge of the frame will be a conscious one. The super-wide frame is locked down and composed with intention. When the camera does move, it'll be because Finch feels he can communicate something by doing so. Cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth describes him as a 'constructionist,' who has the film already edited in his mind by the time he arrives on set, with very clear ideas about what he wants and how shots will fit together.* He also tries to avoid closeups as much as possible, using them only when their impact is most necessary. The pace is kept up not with flash but rather through editing, with a large quantity of very short scenes. Both Fincher and Baxter come from the tradition of commercials and music videos, wherein packing a lot of information into a few seconds while still maintaining clarity is critical (notes Baxter: "we've always been about trying to get the most information across in the least amount of time.").

The great pleasure of watching the work of such a precise filmmaker– Fincher famously did ninety takes of The Social Network's opening scene– is that you can take in all the details, knowing everything is there for a reason. Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross' score is equally exemplary, an unsettling series of ambient tones and instrumental cues which never tell us how we're supposed to feel (witness a particularly effective series of bass tones during a climactic scene, timed with repeating fades to black). 

At the end of the day, Gone Girl  is an experience that engages on many levels and appeals to a wide variety of conceptions of what a movie can be. It manages to be a pulpy paperback thriller, provocative think-piece, and a work of consummate technique without apparent contradiction. And what to make of that ending? I'll be intentionally vague: it can be seen as inspiring in the sense that it functions as a call to action, a wake-up call asking us to confront our own issues. Nick and Amy Dunne's dilemmas are ours, and I daresay that the "we" in the film's final words are intended to include us, the audience. 

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*Cinematographer Jeff Cronenweth on the camerawork.
**Editor Kirk Baxter on the editing (video, 31 mins).

***In Fincher's own words, as told to Film Comment (full interview here):

"But, look, it’s not healthy to have an idea in your head of who your mate should be. Who your mate is should be revealed to you through interaction, the quality of the person’s character, the behavior they exhibit. But I certainly know that early on in my life, I had ideas that I could fix someone. But then the thing you realize, if you’re remotely sane, is that I can’t fix anything about anybody else, and I need to look at that part of myself that thinks this is who I need to see myself with, and also, what length did I go to, how much did I betray who I really am in order to seduce that person and lead them to believe that I was a suitable mate for them. Forget how much I was lying to you, how much was I lying to me? There are all kinds of narcissism that a modern cultural intersection needs to address, but this book was on a frequency or a channel that I hadn’t seen before."

I'm doing lunges at Henderson, down and up the inside of the coach, when a girl in sweats and horizontal zebra stripes comes forward, tentatively peeking in with her two dogs. My door is open.

"Hi," I say.

"HIIIIII!," I say again, recognizing that late-teen face– it's Celia. She used to ride the 4. We catch up on the sidewalk outside. I tell her about my shows and book, I ask about her time in California ("that was a long time ago!," she says), and how she's back here now with a close friend with whom she traveled with. 

Blue eyes can have a way of lasering right through you. Hers pierce with a self-reliance emblematic of the heady youthful energy best captured in Walt Whitman's Pioneers! O, Pioneers!, that burgeoning self-assurance which settles in after the teenage years wind down, when confidence relaxes into something more balanced. The need to prove oneself isn't so predominant anymore. 

Celia's always been way ahead of that whole game, though. Her gaze contains a carefree kindness that's uniquely her own. We stand in the late afternoon light, grocery store lot in front of us and soccer field behind. She speaks passionately about the proposed new youth jail, an expensive Orwellian monstrosity more concerned with containing problems than solving them. She talks about a grassroots "No New Jail" movement, meetings, and how doubling the size and upping the ante are not the solution. 

Standing there I'm taken by her ardor. The pervasive fashion of "coolness" has so much to do with irony, with apathy and uncaring. The cool thing is to lean back on the chairs in the back of the classroom not knowing the answers to the questions. The cool thing is to pretend you don't have feelings, to traffic in the peak of fake, always with that guard up, impenetrable. The Wall. 

I've said this before, but I think it's worth repeating: that's easy. The Wall bores me. I say, dare to open yourself up to hurt and love, and explore the uncharted in life. Be bold enough to take that guard down, and let yourself really feel something. Venture as we go the unknown ways, as Whitman wrote. Standing there listening to Celia speak with focus and passion, I'm struck by how comfortable with herself she is. There is no wall. Her eyes are full, alive, watching you, learning about the world with each passing minute. I aspire for that. Here is a young person who cares.

Her dogs tug at the leash, barking at a high pitch intermittently. The sun is hidden but nearby, somewhere over there behind the buildings. I feel deeply satisfied, and afterwards I realize it's because she, and the other great young people I know, represent the possibilities of the open future. It is not all impending doom. When something is new and good, and here to stay, you feel a tremendous weight lifted. We know there was always strife in the world, but there has also always been goodness. Neither is going anywhere.

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Here's the Whitman poem in full.
Don't have time to read it? Check out this Levi's ad, which admirably interprets the energy of the opening lines.