Three Men and a Piano

If you are a fan of the movie, The Piano, you may enjoy this interpretation which I wrote for my Introduction to Film Study class awhile back:

Three Men and a Piano

     Five people are seeking control of Ada McGrath’s life: Ada’s father , her husband, Alistair Stuart, her potential lover, George Baines, Flora, her daughter, and Ada herself. The bulk of Ada’s story will play out in 1850’s New Zealand, where she is compelled to relocate to in an arranged marriage.

      When we meet Ada McGrath initially, she indicates that she has not spoken since she was six years old, adding that no one knows why, even she. Her father attributes her muteness to a dark talent, which would include her strong will and her extraordinary ability to play the piano. It is obvious early on, however, that her muteness is one of the few things in her life which she herself could control. Ada is a single woman with young daughter who is married off to a man she had never met, by her father. This is a blatant demonstration of the lack of control which she has over her own destiny.  In the only scene in which he appears, Ada’s father is attempting to drag a reluctant horse which is carrying his granddaughter. This is representative of Ada and her daughter, and their subsequent move to New Zealand, where they will reluctantly take up residence with Alistair.

     Ada does not consider herself silent, as playing her beloved piano is her mode of expression. In a scene just prior to her departure to New Zealand, we are witness to Ada’s awesome ability to play. Her strong display of emotion is akin to that of an artist who expresses himself through painting or sculpture, or a writer, whose means of expression may be poetry or prose. Although when the time for departure arrives, she abruptly ceases playing the piano, and her facial expression transforms to that of muted dread.

     Stormy seas upon arrival in New Zealand are indicative of the stormy relationship that will exist between Alistair and Ada. Sitting on the beach awaiting his arrival, Ada slowly plays a sad melody on the piano, while her daughter sleeps peacefully in her lap. A sudden wave disrupts the quietude, symbolizing the effect Alistair’s arrival will have on their lives. While en route to retrieve Ada and Flora, Alistair pauses to view her picture.  Holding it in rough hands while combing his hair is a prelude to his treatment of her. Gentleness will be nonexistent, yet her affections sought after.

     Flora is a reluctant participant in this ill conceived of arrangement, and expresses to Ada that she will not even look at Alistair.  She has an alliance with Ada with which she is happy, that is of being the sole recipient of her mother’s love before, as well as during, the loveless marriage. That changes later on however, when Flora feels she is in competition with George Baines for her mother’s affection, whereas there was no competition between she and Alistair. Hence Flora betrays her mother, an act she comes to regret when she realizes the dire consequences it has.   

     Ada’s status as a non person is demonstrated throughout the film in the manner that she is treated by her father, husband, the natives, and the Aunties. For example, upon her arrival, Alistair does not even acknowledge her, except to orchestrate the transport of her belongings. Ada was consumed with the destiny of her piano, and Alistair completely ignored her concerns while discussing completely unrelated matters. As they are traveling to Alistair’s home, a native woman takes Ada’s shawl and wears it triumphantly. One of the Aunties dons Ada’s wedding garment, dancing around in it as if Ada herself is invisible. Ada’s status as a nonentity is further exemplified in a discussion Alistair has with Baines when they agree to swap the piano for land. Alistair refers to it as merely “the piano on the beach”, rather than Ada’s piano.  Conversely, he referred to it as her piano when informing her of the swap, an indication of his control over her as well as a reinforcement of her insignificant status in the relationship. Alistair subsequently commits to George that Ada will provide him with lessons, stating that he has in a letter that she plays quite well. Interestingly, Alistair would rarely hear Ada play the piano, although she played freely in George’s presence.  

    In a letter written prior to the marriage, Alistair misrepresented himself to Mr. McGrath as being noble in relation to Ada’s muteness, whereas this attribute was an attraction to Alistair, given his controlling nature. The instant they meet, a tension quickly becomes evident, as Alistair does not hide his disappointment.  He wastes no time in displaying his insensitive nature, as he expresses his contempt of her small stature to George Baines, a neighbor who is destined to become Ada’s lover. Alistair viewed Ada as no more than a silent workhorse, an assessment he shared with Ada’s father, which is alluded to in the aforementioned opening scene.

     George’s sensitivity is immediately discernable, as he indicates to Alistair that Ada appears tired. He exhibits a good deal of sensitivity later as well, when he accompanies Ada to the beach so she may play, and later on, once he assumes possession of the piano, by arranging to have it tuned, and additionally in the tender way he cares for it, realizing how Ada values it. Conversely, he too attempts to control Ada as he barters with her for possession of the piano, suggesting she may “earn it back”.  Contrary to Alistair, however, George’s motivation is not born of malice, but by a lack of self esteem. He is a poor, illiterate man, who came to love Ada very much, although he did not deem himself worthy of her. His low self esteem is subtly perceivable on the beach, when he looks at Ada, then turns and hangs his head as if in shame, and then turns and sheepishly looks at her again. Initially Ada did feel superior to George, but he eventually won her over. The opposite of Alistair, George utilizes the piano as a means of gaining her affections, whereas Alistair employs the piano purely as a means of control.

     The variance between the two men is also represented in the landscape where their homes are situated, as it is barren and dismal by Alistair’s, and lush and peaceful by George’s.  The brief encounter George has with his horse is also in direct opposition to Ada’s father, as George is gentle, and his horse, content.

     Various other scenes in the film are symbolic. For instance, three teacups on Alistair’s table, a large one opposite two smaller ones, represent the division between the three family members. He smashes the smaller one, which symbolizes the manner in which he rules, which is through sheer force. The lonely piano on the beach is representative of Ada’s isolation.  Without her beloved piano, Ada has a very limited outlet for her emotions.  Her anger is evidenced when she tears her wedding garment, and her sorrow, by her silent tears while she stands in the window pondering the state of the abandoned piano, which is subject to the elements.  

     The arrangement between George and Ada portrays him in a negative light. However, his sensitivity prevails as he interprets Ada’s emotions, realizing how unhappy she is. He is a direct parallel to Flora’s father, who didn’t require that Ada speak, “as she could lay thoughts out in his mind like a sheet”.  Ada was obviously unhappy with the arrangement, but was highly motivated.  After a number of visits, it becomes apparent that Ada is falling for George also, as his appreciation for her playing and his sensitivity and gentle nature win her over.

     The climax of the story comes when Alistair finds out about the love affair, and Flora allies herself with Alistair. In a final, desperate bid to control her, Alistair takes an axe and chops off one of Ada’s fingers, knowing this was the ultimate pain that he could inflict on her. He ultimately realized that her will is strong and insurmountable, and asked George to take her away, which he did, by boat.  Ada subsequently demanded that George discard the spoiled piano.  As he throws the piano overboard, Ada purposely tangles her foot in the rope and gets pulled under. Her will chooses life, and she manages to free herself.

     In conclusion, Ada McGrath is a strong willed woman who is willing to sacrifice all for her piano. However, once she is secure in George’s love, she has him discard it Ada slowly teaches herself to speak again, as George provides the love, support, and most importantly, the validation she always wanted. In her closing dialogue this is reinforced when she talks about her dream of floating lifelessly above the piano.  She indicates that it is a strange dream, but it is her own.

Mothers' Day

     Considering Mothers' Day is just weeks away, I feel it necessary to broach a subject that most folks don't want to believe or acknowledge.  There are bad mothers.  Not just the mothers you read about in the news who do horrible things to their children, but mothers we know.   Mothers in our families, mothers of friends, acquaintances.  Women who don't commit crimes against their children that warrant criminal charges, but nevertheless perpetrate abuse, which takes on many shapes and forms.  

     Just being a mother doesn't qualify a person for any special accolades.  Having given birth doesn't automatically relegate a woman to impending sainthood.  I find it tiresome reading ridiculous posts on social media indicating the marvelous phenomenon associated with being a mother.  Women who are inherently bad do give birth, and they do raise families.  Perhaps people are hesitant to believe that a mother can actually possess undesirable characteristics such as dishonesty or cruelty, but some do.  

     As children, we tend to grow up believing our mothers to be infallible.  As adults, we look back and realize they were only human, as we are.  However, being human doesn't excuse a mother from treating her child in an unkind manner.  Humans make mistakes.  The difference between being human vs. being an abuser is defined by the ability to admit having made mistakes and ask forgiveness, something the abusive mother will never do.  

     A mother's job is to, first and foremost, love her child.  How many mothers were disappointed in their child, and not disinclined to let the child know it?  I know of a mother who did everything in her power to destroy her daughter's sense of self esteem, and she was very successful at it.  She used cutting words to demean. She blatantly demonstrated favoritism to others.  She controlled.  She sabotaged.   She demonstrated an utter lack of respect for her daughter, as well as instilling that lack of respect in other family members, insuring that her legacy of unkindness would live on.  The resulting wounds run deep, and the effect lasted a lifetime.  The hypocrite put on a good show in front of others, as hypocrites do.  If her victim were to divulge the injustices that were heaped upon her in her formative years and beyond, who would believe her?  But ponder this.  How many abusers do you know that advertise it as if it were something to be proud of?   They don't.  In public, they overcompensate, creating an illusion, ensuring that their victim would never be believed when attempting to expose their abuser.

     I once read a post on social media which indicated that just because your mother didn't demonstrate her love for you, didn't mean that she didn't love you, only that she was incapable of showing it, for any number of reasons.  To that I say bull!  People make conscious choices.  Why make excuses for them?  Perhaps that post was written to make victims of maternal maltreatment experience less emotional pain.  Personally, I believe in facing facts.  So maybe she didn't love you.  That was because of her, not you.  Consider this.  Quite possibly you were raised in an abusive environment,  despite which you've grown into a fine upstanding human being, and are a wonderful parent yourself.  What does that tell you?  That you are a person of integrity. That you are resilient, strong, and determined to break the cycle of abuse, or whatever it was that you suffered at the hands of your mother.  That clearly demonstrates that the problem lies with her, not you, her unfortunate victim.  So this Mothers' Day, I propose we give credit where credit is due, an ambiguous challenge...

     One final thought on the matter: if a person chooses not to sing her mother's praises, maybe, just maybe, she has a valid reason, or perhaps she has many. 

Lab Life

While Mommy is at work...

Nothing to live for...

It's 4 P.M.  Do you know where your Mommy is?

Canine bliss!

                                           

Failed Communication

     Have you noticed how effective communication has taken a nosedive with the advanced technology that is a sometimes unwelcome constant in our lives?  Perhaps we should start over by listening to what other people have to say instead of  #dishing out shit.

"First Trophy"

     Politically speaking-I have a few things to say.  Note that I hold politically correctness in utter disdain, and I am not politically oriented, but I am somewhat observant, and at times, opinionated.  In the current race for President, among the candidates we have a real estate mogul, rather than an actual politician, as the front runner on the Republican side, and we have the wife of a former President, albeit not the front runner, on the Democratic side.  Has anyone taken a look at the spouses, I wonder.  Namely, consider past Presidential wives, women of substance, women whose reputations have stood the test of time, women whom many emulate and hold in high esteem.  For example, Dolley Madison, Sarah Polk, Abigail Fillmore, Eleanor Roosevelt, Caroline Harrison, Edith Wilson, Jacqueline Kennedy, Betty Ford, Rosalynn Carter, Michelle Obama.  They are dignified women who left their own personal stamp on history in their roles as First Lady.  Who does our future hold in that high profile role?  Possibly...Melania Trump?  Hmmm....  What will her contribution be, I wonder.  If she lands the role, I of little faith suggest changing her title to  "First Trophy".

     On the flip side, what would Bill's title be if Hillary Clinton were to be elected?  I would like to propose....drumroll...."First Lady's Man"!

     In all seriousness, I do feel compelled to take a stand regarding one of Trump's positions-on that of torture.  I strongly disagree with his opinion, as he is in favor of it.  Either we are members of a civilized society or we are barbarians.  We can't have it both ways.  We cannot behave as barbarians, and then try to justify it by intimating that other barbarians are far worse and therefore deserving of our maltreatment.   I say we take the high road, and seek a humanitarian means of fighting terror. 
     In the upcoming race, I don't know if I will vote for a Democrat or a Republican, a Libertarian or an Independent, but I do intend to vote.  We women need to exercise this right, which was not God given, but hard won by our ancestors-courageous women who had the gumption to demand that women receive the same voting rights as men.  We owe it to them, and to ourselves.  So tell me-are you registered?

On Turning Sixty

     "Ouch!"  That was the first post on my Facebook page on the momentous day (to me) when I turned sixty. 

     I would venture to say that everyone has fretted over a milestone birthday at some point in their lives.  I didn't-until I turned fifty.  I was somewhat dismayed, but it didn't last long.  Sixty however, was downright painful.  Not that I'm complaining-it's just a shock to the system.  It has been thirty years since I turned thirty, the first troubling milestone for many.  My son recently struggled with that one himself.  Personally, I thought forty was a piece of cake.  It didn't faze me in the least.  Again-fifty was somewhat troubling.  That year, I received a birthday card that indicated "50 isn't so bad.  It sure beats the hell out of 60!"  Truer words were never spoken.  Quite frankly, I am impressed that I can recall such detail.  

     What I didn't expect on the day of the big 6-0 was that someone would publicly berate me for my ill feelings about my age.  Yes-someone in her forties very blatantly let me know that I had no right to complain, since my age is a milestone that many folks never attain.  As if I didn't know that.  Here's a revelation: if I were the first person to have a mid-life crisis or struggle with aging, there would be no balding men driving bright red convertible sports cars, with young blondes in the passenger seat.  There would be no market for hair dyes or anti-aging creams.  There would be no dietary supplements, nor ever escalating gym memberships.  We are all fighting the inevitable, although some of us are fighting harder than others.

    In any area of peoples' lives, there are always going to be folks who are better off or worse off than we are.  I'm not so ignorant that I don't understand that, and I empathize.  However, everything is relative, and we all have our own individual struggles.  Getting old is a shock to the system.  Period.  When we are young, we think we will be young forever.  Alas, that is not true.  As we traverse the decades of our thirties and forties, those years still feel pretty good.  I can remember thinking "thirty isn't so bad", and "forty isn't so bad".  But when the fifty mark hits, realization creeps in and we are compelled to acknowledge that we are no longer young. However, that doesn't mean we have to "act" old.  When my mother was in her late fifties, she was retired.  She didn't drive, she didn't exercise, she smoked incessantly, and she drank a little to much beer for my liking.  She never colored her hair, and her makeup application left a lot to be desired.  Conversely, I am still working, and in fact, I just started a new position within the company I have worked for the past 11 years. I commute 40 miles daily to this job which I love.  I stopped smoking and drinking more than thirty years ago.  I walk regularly, am a voracious reader.  I am attending college, and  am in the process of buying a house.  I color my hair and  love (and wear) eye makeup.  I often think of my meddlesome mother, who wouldn't have taken a walk if her life depended on it. She frequently lamented that she'd only achieved a seventh grade education, yet I never saw her open a book.  She could read-she frequently read us the riot act.   But her little world revolved around attempts to control the lives of her adult children, rather than building her own life after we'd grown up and left the nest.   
     So, was I wrong in feeling a little depressed when I achieved the 6 decade milestone?  I don't believe so.  Being a little down in the dumps for one day is trivial when compared to the bigger picture that is my life.  Younger people have no right to judge me for the manner in which I cope with my age.  When the forty-something turns sixty herself, then she can offer up an opinion about it.  Of course, I will be in my seventies by then.  Unless you have lived my life, and know firsthand my joys and sorrows, I will thank you to keep your judgements to yourself.
     One of my biggest challenges at 60 is attending college  It's not easy being older than most of the professors.  Consider this: most of the students are young enough to be my grandchildren.  They show plenty of skin, skin that is smooth and with an abundance of tattoos, with shorts that ride too high, and blouses and jeans that venture too low.  I am out of my element, but I persevere.  It takes a bit of courage to do what I do.  I returned to college after thirty years, just nine credits into my degree.  I now have forty two.  I was foolish when I was young, and didn't attend college when I should have.  I consider my discomfort in the  present  circumstances to be my penance.  Perhaps some folks consider me foolish.  I know I am an embarrassment to a certain relative who shall remain nameless, but that's his problem, not mine.  I will not be deterred.  I have a goal, a number of them actually.  I will earn that diploma, and possibly a few more before I'm through.  I always was a late bloomer, a fact about myself that I have come to accept, and embrace.  If I didn't have this incessant drive, thirst for knowledge, and quest for higher education, I might turn into my mother, and make my adult children's lives a misery.  However, self enrichment is my priority, and it will remain so, as long as I am able.  Was I depressed for one solitary day in my sixty years about my age?  Yes, I was.  But as is customary for me, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and continue on my journey, in a (hopefully) dignified manner.  After all, I sill want to impress my sons, and I want to feel proud of myself, for overcoming obstacles, for meeting challenges head on, for being resilient, and for my enormous capacity to love and to be grateful for my blessings, which are many.  And now I must close.  I am off to school to take a math assessment test.  Move over teenyboppers, and make room for the old broad.  Oh-and I won't be bringing my smart phone to the test.  I will do it the old fashioned way, utilizing my brain instead of technology. 

Seeing Things

     It's just one more sign that my age is advancing, much to my chagrin (and relief, I suppose).  Welcome to my world-of floaters.  I thought I was having a retina detachment recently when I began noticing flashing lights (not lightning, as I originally thought) and floaters that resemble many things, including cobwebs, in my field of vision.  I immediately scheduled an appointment with my optometrist, who examined me and recommended that I see a retina specialist.  Before I left, he told me about his floater, his one floater (I have many).  His resembles a fruit fly, and he finds himself batting at it-fruitlessly-because it's not a fruit fly.  My sister also has one-her's resembles a house fly.  A fly swatter had become her constant companion, and she was getting quite the upper arm workout, until one day her daughter asked her what she was after...  She was surprised, to say the least. 

     So I  visited the retina specialist, and after having my eyes poked, prodded, dilated, and photographed, he indicated that he didn't believe a tear or detachment was on my horizon.  He believes I have an age-related degeneration. (I'm somewhat grateful for that diagnosis.  A tear would have been worse.)  My youngest son had driven me to the doctor and accompanied me while I was examined.  I quickly realized that this is another blatant example of our increasing role reversals.  Now, in addition to helping me with my homework,  and acting as my personal IT Department when I am technologically challenged (which is often) my sons are taking turns transporting me to various doctor's appointments. Well, okay. Two.  But that's still two more than it used to be!

     So there is nothing to be done about my floaters, except to become accustomed to them.  On a recent drive home from work, I was certain a coyote had crossed my path, until I realized that my floater decided to dart from right to left.  I leaped out of my bed one evening when I spied a spider on my headboard. (You would be surprised at how high a woman two weeks shy of turning sixty can jump!)  But no-it was just one floater emerging from another floater, the one that resembles a cobweb.  This morning while driving to work, I thought I saw a shooting star in the distance-it wasn't. I guess that wish isn't coming true. This is the best one yet:  the one time I was sure there was a floater in my field of vision, and proceeded to ignore it-it actually turned out to be a gnat on my glasses.  I figured that out when he flew into my eye-the eye with the floaters.  What the fudge!?!?!?!