I used to be shyer than I am now. We drove in silence for a while, he and I. It's this young man and myself, as we deadhead back to Atlantic Base. He was along Rainier and knew I'd be passing through Chinatown. So here we are. His 'fro is tied back in a thick ponytail, with a sweater cap on top; dressed in a collection of grays and heavy blues, thick fabric. I'm guessing late high school.

He's the first to speak. After several minutes of us cruising up the boulevard, whizzing under I-90, he says in a friendly tone, "this bus don't sound too good." 
I was just thinking that. "Yeah, it sound like it's 'bout to blow up! I just need it to, if it can hold together about ten more minutes, then it's all good. Takin' it home. How's your day been?"
"Good. I was talkin' wit' my bro. He's about to ship out, goin' to Afghanistan."
"Oh wow. That's intense. You see him often?"
"Sometimes."
"Is he older or younger,"
"Older."
"Okay. Man, Afghanistan. How's he feel?" 
You can sense this boy warming up, opening himself, the space shifting from neutral to actively welcome. "He's excited. He wants to go out there. Always wanted to join the army."
"Hmm."
"Yeah."
"Man."
Silence. Then I just blurt out what's on my mind: "I don't know if I could do that, dude. Goin' out there."
"Yeeeah, man. He's a little messed up in the head, man. He' just… angry." 
"Oh man, that ain't no good."
He was looking at the floor when he said, "yeah, he just really wants to kill people." 
I'm reminded of a military wedding I once attended, eavesdropping on the groom, who was bragging to his friends about the men he'd murdered abroad. "Dude, ugh." 
"Right?"
"I couldn't do that man, I care about people too much! I'd be thinkin' about their moms, their kids…."
"Yeah, that's me too! I couldn't do it!"
"Dude, that's a good thing, man. We need folks like yourself."

You felt a gentle wave of relief wash over you, listening to the timbre of his voice, halfway between a child and the future. After all the posturing, the hard stares and high guards, the uncool and deep-seated urge toward human goodness lives on. To find spaces where we can share the truer sides of ourselves is one of life's more noteworthy pleasures.

I'm inbound at Graham, shortly after 10pm. I'm looking for things to hold me up. It's very important to not be early. As operators, we don't get penalized for being late, since anything can make a bus late, but if we're more than thirty seconds early, it's over for us. That's a conversation in the boss's office, because as a passenger there's nothing worse than being on time, walking out to the bus stop, punctual and ready to catch it– and then seeing it fly past you before you can get to the stop, taillights already fading in the distance, even though you did everything right. So, I park it at Graham, sitting out the next light cycle.

"Ay ay hold up," a couple of figures exclaim, materializing out of the dark.
"It's cool." After a pause I say, "How's your night goin?"
He looks grateful for the acknowledgement of equality, and offers his fist for a bump. "Aw man, jus tryin' ta stay smart like you!"
"You and me both!"
He waves a handful of bloody napkins in the air, gesturing. "Yeah my girl tore her foot open, so she takin' a minute."
"Oh I'm sorry. It's all good, no rush. We got time."
"Thank you." She pulls herself onboard, and they choose a seat, sprawling out on the largely empty bus.

As we ride further into town more folks get on, some who know me and others who don't. A middle-aged man storing a basketball under his shirt is happy to see me again after a long time. "Excuse my foot," the lady says to him, her wounded limb sticking out in the aisle, as he sits across from them. The napkins are falling everywhere. One floats up to where I am, and I ponder the daubs of blood at a red light.

Although she spends most of the ride speaking loudly and profanely, I don't make an issue of it. People with open wounds deserve a free pass sometimes. When you should really be in a hospital and all you've got is the 7, you deserve a break. Although at first it seems she's merely arguing with another passenger about which of their brothers died more horribly, it gradually becomes apparent something of greater emotional resonance is taking place. As her male companion retreats to the back of the bus, away from her, she implores him with a despondent "sit the fuck down. Where you goin'?"

She tries to understand his behavior, asking, "you wanna go back?" But his better angels are fading. There's no reason in him now, just alcohol. As he avoids her, she keeps saying, "a drunk ain't shit. A drunk ain't shit. Figure it out, slut." Referring to him. "A drunk ain't shit. Figure it out, slut. A drunk ain't–" 
"We're rollin' out," I say into the mic as we pull away from a zone, passengers still walking down the aisle.
"Yeah, le's roll, I gotta be at 5th and Jackson in five minutes," she says.
Piece of cake. That's three minutes away. "I do what I can."
"Listen, a drunk ain't shit," she says to the back of the bus. A drunk ain't shit. Figure it out,"

I look at the bloody napkin on the floor and decide to say something. Distract her. 

Loudly, confidently: "How we doin' tonight?"
"Good. My brother just passed."
"Oh, I'm sorry!"
"Thanks."
"That's heavy."
"It is heavy."
"Oohh, I'm sorry." I mean it.
"I'm sorry too. We was close. And then mah daughter..."
Her friend comes up to her again, saying, "hey, gimme a hunnerd real quick." He's standing over another man, perhaps interested in a transaction of sorts.

"I don't know what he's talking 'bout," she says, ignoring him. "I gotta catch that 41."
"Oh yeah, the one comes at 10:42, what is it? 10:38?"
"10:38 DAYUMN, you know whas' UP! You coo'!"
"I used to live out there, so I'm on that 41 all the time."
"Oh, tight. You know all the shit."
"Aw. Well. I hope it's a better rest o' the night!"
"Thanks, you too!"

It all boiled itself down into that beautiful phrase, the closing phrase of so many moments. What matter is the strife which came before, if we can work it down, parse it down to the simple equal goodness of a genuine "Thanks, you too?"

From what creative well do the good people of Seattle turn to to keep coming up with these names? I never thought it would get beyond one list of names people call me, but here we are on our third (here is the first list, and the second). I can't quite decide on a favorite. 

King bus driver
Big juice
Killer
Family
Lord
Ass
Pilot
Pretty Lady
Waa Waa (as in an infant, crying)
Doc, Doctor
Foo
Boo
Boss
Stephanie
Harry Potter
Kim Jong Un (incredibly, as a positive designation, I think)
Pardner
OG
Koneecheewa
White Faggot
Girl
My Nigga
Nigger Nate
Sir
Babe

--

PS also- a humbled and hearty thank you to all those who bought nearly everything I put up at my most recent show!

Hopefully you didn't ride any buses last weekend. For forty-eight less than glorious hours, a supplementary audio announcement system was in use on all coaches. After every zone, and every five minutes on top of that, three new announcements were played: one asking passengers to hold on in three languages, another asking folks to stand behind the yellow line, and a third informing that illegal activities were being monitored and recorded and would be reviewed later.

These played in addition to the usual announcement fare, normally a mixture of automated stop announcements and prerecorded PSAs played by the driver when appropriate ("please move to the rear" on a full bus, etc). The result was a blistering cacophony of unending noise, interfering with operators' ability to give good customer service and all but destroying any semblance of a relaxing ride for customers. Incredibly, the operator had no control over the volume, frequency, or sheer existence of the announcements. 

Passengers were instead left with continuous reminders of things which at best were obvious (hold on) or rarely pertinent (stand behind the line). The worst offender, however, was having to hear every five minutes– not an exaggeration– about how illegal activities were being monitored and recorded for subsequent review. A second ago you had a bus full of people who weren't thinking about crime, but now they were, while being implicitly told they were in a hostile and unsafe environment. The accusatory tone could legitimately be termed insulting. 

However, I don't want to harp on the negatives here. I'm impressed by the two things which happened next: the overwhelming public outcry against the announcements, and Metro's immediate execution in addressing that outcry– the PSAs began on Saturday, and were eliminated by the Monday morning commute. 

The first of these two points admirably flies in the face of the lie-down-and-take-it passive-aggressiveness Seattle is sometimes accused of. Thank you for expressing your voice, you thoughtful masses. That's how history gets made. 

The second point puts a human face on a bureaucracy. There are people in positions of power at Metro who care, who genuinely care about the welfare of the ridership. I've met some of them. For every scheduler who thinks you can get from 12th & Jackson to 5th and Jackson in two minutes, and every planner who thinks transferring more than once is a good idea, there are ten other employees who spend their days thinking of how to benefit the largest number of people, especially those who sorely need the service, with the limited resources available. These faces receive no thanks and minimal exposure, but they are there.

RapidRide first launched on Pac Highway instead of Bellevue even though both were ready at comparable times because starting the service in a low-income, working-class area meant something. It was a statement. It said, Metro's best service is not for the elite. It's for everyone. It is offered without judgment, that people of any stripe may prosper and contribute to our growing city. Metro just resurrected the 47– "newly resuscitated," as I told the passengers when I drove it yesterday– due to customer requests. They didn't have to. Years ago they brought back the 9, and reworked the 345/346 routing at the suggestion of the community. Right now we're in a boom time, with significant new service all over the network (I cannot express how useful new night runs on the 5, 40, and 41 are). It feels good to see bus changes that aren't reductions.  

If anything, the ill-fated PSAs were examples of the overzealous to urge to invent something simply because one can, rather than because one needs to. For the fine folks overseeing the project: we've made it this far without those things, and Metro's place is to set new standards rather than follow them. The obvious solution is to have the PSAs be playable at will by the operator when (s)he deems it appropriate, like our other PSAs. The yellow line and illegal crime notices in particular are usually unnecessary. Noise pollution leads to noise ignoring, and not having manual overrides for any new technology is inexcusable. 

People appreciate being acknowledged, whether it's the driver greeting you or an organization responding with alacrity. On the 47 yesterday, I didn't just have passengers telling me they were glad the route was back, although that was appreciated. I had people throughout the afternoon literally yelling from across the street, waving and hollering about how glad they were to see the route back in the neighborhood. I'd never seen anything like it. They were thanking me, though I have nothing to do with it. That thanks goes to Seattle voters and to you mavens, the good folks upstairs. 

This show is a lot of fun, and happens once a year. It's called 100 Under 100, and it's a hundred works of art of all types by different artists, with each piece retailing for only $100! The opening is Thursday evening, and I'll have six pieces on display. This is the only way to buy works of mine at this price. Perhaps I'll see you there! Special thanks to two greats, Dara Solliday and Jane Richlovsky, for this wonderful opportunity.

More information!

Image courtesy Cinema Guild Pictures.

UPDATE: The Grand Illusion has decided to hold this over until June 4th! It's still viewable!

In 2009, a new Iranian film was making the rounds at the festivals. Most Americans at the time didn't know who Asghar Farhadi, the director, was, and I don't just mean the ordinary moviegoing populace. Even the stuffy film literati of that year wouldn't have recognized the name. Farhadi had only made three previous features, one of which never made it past a few small European festivals– and I don't mean the ones we hear about, but tiny affairs in Denmark and the Czech Republic– while the other two films had blink-and-you'll-miss-it releases in France and Greece. If you were inside Iran, the government didn't want you knowing about the guy; if you were outside, well, you'd probably never heard of him anyway. 

About Elly,* however, was making larger waves. Farhadi's latest movie starred well-known beauty Golshifteh Farahani, among other highly reputed Iranian actors, and came wreathed in Audience and Director awards from Iran's own Fajr Film Festival. That wasn't enough to attract the interest of the international film scene, though. People in Paris and LA don't pay attention to Fajr Film Festival. It wasn't until the movie debuted to absolute raves at Berlin, where it picked up the prestigious Silver Bear, that the international community took notice. After winning Best Narrative Feature at Tribeca and racking up awards at Viennale, Chicago and elsewhere, Regent Entertainment Group acquired it for a future platform release stateside. Things were in motion for US audiences to finally get a glimpse of what the raves were all about. Terrific.

That was in 2009. In early 2011, Regent got slapped with a $90 million lawsuit which effectively threw 100 of their titles, both library and unreleased acquisitions, into limbo. The lawsuit, placed by Bank of America and Merrill Lynch, was the first step in what ultimately ended in Regent, as it was set up at the time, going out of business. About Elly continued to gather dust, sitting on a shelf on Wilshire and seen by no one. 

Meanwhile, Asghar Farhadi kept working. In 2011, his A Separation** opened to worldwide acclaim, with an absurd 113 nominations and wins at various festivals, becoming the first Iranian film to win an Oscar (Best Foreign Film, also nominated for Original Screenplay) and placing director Farhadi and Iranian film in general on the map in a way it had never been before. 

Everyone (except the Iranian government, which forbade Farhadi to celebrate his Oscar win upon returning to his native country) loved A Separation, which managed the unique feat of being a domestic drama that felt like a thriller. Something about the way he carefully disseminated information to the viewer throughout the movie kept viewers on the edge of their seats, and it all felt so relatable and real, thanks in large part to killer performances and a lack of music or other sentiment-inducing tropes.

Two years later he would direct The Past,*** starring actor Berenice Bejo (fresh from The Artist) in a searing lead role. She won Best Actress at Cannes, arguably a bigger deal internationally than the Oscars. Both films are about divorces, but they approach that thorny topic from very different angles. This one was shot in France and filmed in the French language, doubtless easier for Farhadi than wrangling with an uncooperative, anti-art bureaucracy back home. The Past also received rapturous praise, though it lacked the surprise factor of A Separation's splash-landing. 

All this was fine, but it made everyone ask, what about that other movie he made back in 2009? Starring who? Leo DiCaprio's character's girlfriend in Body of Lies?**** What was it even called? And why, in this day and age, was a movie that's less than five years old and directed by the most famous Iranian director in the world completely unavailable? All there was to read about it were the raves from Berlin and Tribeca, and pictures of Farhadi holding the Silver Bear. Everybody was curious about About Elly, but there was no way to see it. 

Which brings us to 2014. Cinema Guild made headlines when it acquired About Elly for North American distribution in November of that year, wresting it back to life from a six-year coma. A premiere was scheduled at the New York Film Forum for April of 2015, followed by a limited release in May. Finally, finally, US audiences would get a third Asghar Farhadi film to salivate over. They were getting his work out of order, but hey, who cares. The reviews promised sliced bread, and the director's recent track record seemed to indicate the same.

Sooooo. How's About Elly?

Let me just say two things. I'll try to be brief. One is that About Elly really is sliced bread. I sat in the front row, gobsmacked and unwilling to move as the end credits rolled. I see a lot of great films, but only a select few– and this is no criticism of the many others– only a select few pictures pierce through all the analysis of form and content and strike me on a deeper level, the level of real and felt emotions, strong emotions that burn and heal and leave me a more thoughtful person. Says Farhadi, "Classical tragedy was the war between good and evil. We wanted evil to be defeated and good to be victorious. But the battle in modern tragedy is between good and good. And no matter which side wins, we'll still be heartbroken."

About Elly is not about politics, or plots, or monsters, or explosions, or even resolutions, but something much more complex: people. Somehow it's all the more relatable for taking place in a very different country than our own. What you end up focusing on are the similarities– the universal human tendencies towards laughter, sadness, love, belonging… it's all thrown into high relief, and the everyday realism allows points to be made (I'm thinking of some indictments towards patriarchal attitudes in Iranian society) with more effectiveness.

The second thing is that the less you know about the film's story going in, the more effective it will be. If you must know an inkling of the setup, it starts off being about a group of college friends taking a short vacation at a villa, and then expands its emotional scope when one of the friends mysteriously disappears. It's tense. Like A Separation and The Past, it's a drama but it's structured like a thriller. This gives you the relatable relevance of drama alongside the tight, edge-of-your-seat fascination of a thriller framework– amazingly, without apparent compromise to either approach. Farhadi is one of the best artists working today. It feels good to be in the capable hands of a master.

About Elly plays at The Grand Illusion– and nowhere else in Seattle– only until June 4th. Go now. You won't regret it.

--

I'm compelled to share with you an excerpt of Farhadi's 2012 Oscar acceptance speech, which expresses a thought of mine better than I ever could:

"At this time many Iranians all over the world are watching us, and I imagine them to be very happy. They are happy not just because of an important award, or a film, or a filmmaker, but, because at a time of talk of war, intimidation, and aggressions exchanged between politicians, the name of their country, Iran, is spoken here through her glorious culture; a rich and ancient culture that has been hidden under the heavy dust of politics. I proudly offer this award to the people of my country; the people who respect all cultures and civilizations and despise hostility and resentment."

****Actress Golshifteh Farahani's supporting role in Body of Lies is more significant than most people realize, in that it was the first appearance of an Iranian actor in a Hollywood production since the 1979 revolution. Due to a couple of scenes where Farahani doesn't wear a hijab, Iran confiscated her passport and ultimately banned her from acting and returning to her country. She now resides in Paris.

*Trailer for About Elly. If you must– reviews.
**Trailer for A Separation.
***Trailer for Le Passe (The Past).