The Taking

 

John Ford on the set

Stagecoach (1939)

My Darling Clementine (1946)

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949)

The Searchers (1956)

Back to the Future III (1990)

Road Runner cartoon

Forrest Gump (1994)

Director Alexandre O. Philippe

THE TAKING            B+                                                                                                            USA  (76 mi)  2021  d: Alexandre O. Philippe

Even though I have a little fun with John Ford, this intent is also not to trash John Ford.  The intent is not to trash the function of myth.  Myth is important, and the idea, as false as it may be, of this false narrative about the American west, still carries a lot of values that I can relate to.  The crux of it is that we talk a lot about cancel culture these days, and that bugs me a lot.  I would like us to be in more of a context culture.   —Alexandre O. Philippe interview from Moviemaker magazine, January 31, 2023, The Taking Director: Don't Cancel Problematic Westerns 

This is a film that is not at all what you expect, as so many critics simply laud the praise on John Ford and his Western aesthetic, some even describing him as the greatest American director ever, where he is certainly regarded as one of the most important and influential filmmakers during the Golden Age of Hollywood.  But the director brings a thought-provoking edge to film criticism, exploring the affinity both audiences and filmmakers have with the location of Monument Valley, while also investigating how this affinity had affected those who lived on the land long before filmmakers like John Ford came along, introducing viewpoints not often heard, listed at #9 by Jonathan Rosenbaum in his best films of 2023, The best films of 2023 – all the votes | Sight and Sound.  Alexandre O. Philippe is a Swiss-born American film director who has made acclaimed documentaries exploring the cinematic myths in three horror films, Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), Ridley Scott’s Alien (1979), and William Friedkin’s THE EXORCIST (1973), now turning to Monument Valley for his latest inspiration, where everything is up for discussion, including the Valley itself, the Western genre, John Ford, Anthony Mann, as well as Indigenous people and how they were treated in Western movies.  Monument Valley is about the myth of the American West, where a mythic landscape actually engages the imagination in a different way for generations of viewers.  These easily identifiable sandstone formations are identified as “monuments,” something humans erect to remember important times in our history, but these monuments have existed since the beginning of time, something huge, permanent, and sacred, and have come to represent the rugged individualism of the West, becoming, in essence, the quintessential American landscape, serving as a source of inspiration for others, with a vast openness that is uniquely distinct from any European counterpart, offering a glimpse into the unknown.  America was imagined as the New World, where the myth of America is the search for an ideal, and the search for a better life.  Hollywood is part of the myth of the American West, where the myth of Monument Valley comes out of the films of John Ford, making seven Westerns using the infamous backdrops to films that have not only captured the imaginations of notable filmmakers with its epic grandeur, like Orson Welles, Akira Kurosawa, or Sergio Leone, figuring prominently in Filipino director Kidlat Tahimik’s Why Is Yellow the Middle of the Rainbow? (Bakit dilaw aug gitna ng bahag-hari?) (1993), but also successive generations of viewers who have seen these films, including Stagecoach (1939), My Darling Clementine (1946), Fort Apache (1948), She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949), the first film that was entirely shot there, and in glorious Technicolor, THE SEARCHERS (1956), SERGEANT RUTLEDGE (1960), and Cheyenne Autumn (1964), where it’s easy to become mesmerized by the panoramic beauty.  This film is about the cinema and visual grandeur of John Ford, while also exploring the use of Monument Valley in film and advertising, exploring the impact of how a fictionalized cinema has captured a view of history that actually supplants in people’s minds the real history that is continually being erased and ignored.  Racism is embedded in American society, where whites and white consciousness-only are at the center of these narratives at the exclusion of Native American history, as Indians are always viewed as a threat from the perspective of white settlers, continually seen as a dark and savage enemy that they must continually fight, with the future of civilization at stake.  According to Liza Black, a member of the Cherokee Nation and author of Picturing Indians: Native Americans on Film, 1941–1960, “The West is a white idea entirely generated by a culture industry in the United States to tell a particular story of the American past in which whites are heroic, brave, and innocent.”  Yet it is not viewed as a mythic landscape in the minds of the Navajo, or Diné people, where Monument Valley epitomizes all the struggles they’ve been through because of the United States, yet that is not what most people see, and that is because of the influence of John Ford and his glorifying romanticization about the West.  In other words, these are implanted memories that belong to the imagination of someone else, as opposed to those who historically lived there.    

Monument Valley is located on the border between Utah and Arizona and is on sovereign Navajo land, the largest and most populous tribe in the country with about 14 million acres, yet it is more known as the location for the continual defeat of Indigenous peoples by Anglo settlers, where the Valley’s significance to the Navajos is completely absent from Ford’s Westerns.  This is the familiar story Americans have grown up with for generations, and the essence of childhood “cowboys and Indians” games.  In the movies, white settlers are constantly besieged on all fronts, where the Indians are always the bad guys.  Monument Valley was simply the theater where these childhood games played out.  In 1939 when Ford filmed Stagecoach, most Americans had never visited or even heard of the place, as there was no paved road through Monument Valley, opening up viewers to a brand new world that had never been seen, like an 8th Wonder of the World, not that different from the ruthless exploitation by the reckless adventure film director Carl Denham (Robert Armstrong) depicted in King Kong (1933), known for shooting wildlife films in remote exotic locations, a world where fantasy and fiction outweigh reality.  From a Navajo perspective, “John Ford’s films validate a particular vision of the American past in which white Americans were entirely innocent of genocidal treatment of Native people,” a view that becomes ingrained in generations of people watching his films, yet this was Indian land that was being trampled upon and stolen from them, where they had to be pushed aside by force to make way for the Manifest Destiny advancement of the “white man,” where white humanity is viewed as the only race that matters.  Some may contend that the Western is more of a balance between individualism and community than a matter of conquest, but that takes a blind eye towards the self-serving purpose of Manifest Destiny (Manifest Destiny and Indian Removal) and the forcible removal of Indians from their lands by the military, including a continuing series of massacres (When Native Americans Were Slaughtered in the Name of ' ...).  The larger narrative of the conflict between the United States and Native people is also inaccurately depicted, as the movies blend together very different tribes with very different histories, not just Navajo but Apache, Cheyenne, or Comanche characters, yet somehow they all repeatedly congregate in Monument Valley, an area of just five square miles, which has nothing to do with any of the tribal stories they are telling, used as a stand-in for southern Arizona in My Darling Clementine, Texas in the SEARCHERS, and even Oklahoma and Nebraska in Cheyenne Autumn.  Yet it’s so easy for audiences to accept the idea that this place, Monument Valley, can be all these different places, and tell stories of all these different tribes from so many different regions.  Between 1945 and 1967, Navajo families in the Valley worked in the uranium mines, where there was a wholesale disappearance of men who have been wiped out by cancers associated with the uranium.  Similarly, they lost their livestock for the very same reasons.  Navajo people were left without a means of subsistence, leaving them few choices if they wanted to remain there.  One of those choices was to work for wage in John Ford movies, yet none of this is addressed in the mythological landscape, where many Navajo still live without running water or electricity, where the contrast between the grandiosity of John Ford’s epic vistas and the miserable living conditions of those living there is indisputable.  In the Hollywood version of Monument Valley, the Navajo people don’t even exist, as their reality is never acknowledged by either the tourism or the film industries, yet Indigenous people have such a deep, spiritual connection to the land that it is inconceivable to go live someplace else.  The American government’s gross mismanagement of Indian lands and resources have done a tremendous injustice to Navajo people, stealing their gas leasing money through the Bureau of Indian Affairs, which only aggravates generations of tremendous poverty, a postwar practice that lingered for more than half a century before a massive legal settlement was reached in 2014 (Navajos to Get $554 Million to Settle Suit Against U.S., the largest ever for a single American Indian tribe). 

Philippe’s cinematic essay deftly scrutinizes how a site located on sovereign Navajo land came to embody the “Old West,” becoming a space pregnant with meaning, replete with self-perpetuating falsehoods, while also explaining why it continues to hold such mythic significance in the global psyche, as Ford’s ability to make Monument Valley look mythical, dangerous, and romantic at the same time, is unparalleled to this day.  With over 100 film clips used, including commercials, cartoons, photographs, and paintings, editor Dave Krahling has done a yeoman’s job stitching these clips together in such a comprehensible manner, with quietly ruminative music by Jon Hegel, along with input from a diverse selection of historians and experts in cultural history from the United States (none are seen on camera), most with Ph.D’s, including Jennifer Nez Denetdale, a specialist in Navajo history and the first person of Diné descent to earn a Ph.D in History, while the biting comments from the aforementioned Liza Black are particularly pronounced, as she’s speaking from a longterm, historical perspective of false, inaccurate, and distorted depictions of Native American Indians.  Western mythology is based upon the idea of expansion and exploration, which simply captures the idea of imagination.  Each time that landscape is photographed, it extends the cultural appropriation to tell white stories about Native places whether you are a filmmaker or a tourist, as it’s a form of “taking,” ripping it away from the source, informed by its use in cinema history, which has defined the history of its representation.  What we see are towering peaks and deep valleys surrounded by empty, lonely, and immense space, a vast wilderness that offers a sense of wonder and sublime beauty, but what triggers its significance, and the only reason we value it so highly, is because of what it has been made out to be.  No one travels there looking for its place in human or geological history, as people have lived there for at least two millenniums, instead it has become a pilgrimage of tourist photography, where there are even places set up for that exact purpose, with people fascinated by its appearance in popular culture.  There is a comprehensive List of appearances of Monument Valley in the media, not just Westerns but other ridiculously unexplored territory as well, including films like Harold Ramis’ NATIONAL LAMPOON’S VACATION (1983), Robert Zemeckis’ BACK TO THE FUTURE III (1990) and FORREST GUMP (1994), or the 1950’s Chuck Jones Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner cartoons, yet also unexpected places like Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), where it was used it as the surface of an alien planet, and even appears in part of the journey of Dennis Hopper’s Easy Rider (1969).  These images are associated with the West, Indigenous people, freedom, space, and America, concepts that are totally abstract, yet it is essentially a geological formation of sandstone buttes dating back 300 million years, shaped by ancient seas and sediment deposits.  Landscape is about a process of looking for something, where you can imagine it like you’ve seen in pictures, drawn by what you know from the movies, yet when you see it for yourself what you remember are all the associative memories you’ve encountered before, the deeply personal connections that you bring in the mind’s eye, experienced as if they are in the place itself, yet it’s a vast and empty landscape, where the reality of the place remains elusive.  No other director in the history of the movies has been more indelibly associated with a single location as Ford is with Monument Valley.  While there were others before him that briefly filmed there, Ford made use of it from both a narrative and visual point of view, allowing viewers to immerse themselves into the region for the entirety of the picture, where they could imagine what took place there, conjuring up stories about the Valley in relationship to the people who lived there, who will forever live in our imaginations as if it really happened, where it’s become more real to us than the actual history of the region, which is far removed from what we even want to understand.  According to John Bucher, a mythologist and writer who serves as creative director for the Joseph Campbell Foundation, “The public is accustomed to not wanting the truth, you don’t want the truth.  He doesn’t want to be awakened from that myth.”  Some may rationalize this point of view, equating it with political propaganda, suggesting it’s not about John Ford and his perceived limitations, but the poetry that graces the screen, yet both are inextricably linked.

Lonely Are the Brave

 

Director David Miller

Kirk Douglas and Gena Rowlands

novelist Edward Abbey

Dalton Trumbo at work in the bathtub

LONELY ARE THE BRAVE           A                                                                                         USA  (107 mi)  1962  ‘Scope  d: David Miller

God help me, I will never sacrifice a friend to an ideal.  I will never betray a friend for the sake of any cause.  I will never reject a friend in order to stand by an institution.  Great nations may fall in dusty ruin before I will sell a friend to save them.  I pray to the god within me to give me the power to live by this design. —Edward Abbey on a student Fulbright scholarship in Edinburgh, Scotland, 1951, Edward Abbey, Anarchism and the Environment – Anthropogenic ...

Following the recent loss of actress Gena Rowlands at the age of 94 (How Gena Rowlands Redefined the Art of Movie Acting), it might be interesting to look back at one of the best of her more obscure performances, a small part in just her second movie role, cast only a week before shooting started, yet she does so much with it, adding tons of personality, known as an actress of lacerating intensity mixed with extraordinary warmth, where her outspokenness and endearing Midwestern charm really stand out.  Following in the footsteps of John Huston’s The Misfits (1961), yet also John Ford’s The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance (1962) and Sam Peckinpah’s Ride the High Country (1962), this is the end of an era in Westerns, the waning years of the frontier American West, a portrait of the last of a dying breed, men who live outside the laws of civilization and literally make their own rules, refusing to accept boundaries in their lives, living on their own and embracing a lifestyle of independence and freedom, where the open frontier remains as far as the eye can see.  Certainly no genre has had a greater impact on American film than the Western, where the primary subject is the conflict between wilderness and civilization, embodied by the figure of the Western hero who balances the two extremes.  In the 60’s and 70’s, under the influence of modernist European films, the American Western began to change, growing darker and more existential, where one of the most profound manifestations of this evolution was the demythologizing of the Western hero, which may have begun with John Wayne’s Ethan Edwards character in John Ford’s THE SEARCHERS (1956), whose vicious racism made him the ultimate Indian hater, where his maniacal obsession is his ultimate downfall, as he’s thoroughly unredeemable, a pathological outsider forever excluded from home, condemned to wander in the wilderness alone.  Like Paul Newman in Martin Ritt’s Hud (1963) and HOMBRE (1967), both displaying modernist influences that deliberately subvert the romanticism and idealism of an American West defined by Henry Fonda’s Wyatt Earp in John Ford’s My Darling Clementine (1946), Gary Cooper in HIGH NOON (1952), and Alan Ladd in SHANE (1953), this is a portrait of the death of the Western hero, men who live and die as outcasts.  In this brilliant, yet little-known film, Kirk Douglas, in what he describes as his favorite role of all-time (Kirk Douglas names his "favourite movie" of all time), stars as an anachronistic modern cowboy, a non-conformist misfit who’s a throwback to a different era, still living by the code of the Old West, caught up in the rules and conventions of a rapidly developing society that no longer has any use for him. While he is a wild and rootless cowboy whose only real home is on the range, the other secondary characters all shed light on or draw comparisons to him, yet the mix of dry humor with drama is refreshing amidst an otherwise downbeat outlook.  These familiar themes were widely explored in ever greater depth by American authors Sam Shepard and Cormac McCarthy, who were products of the same time.  Falling off the radar, the film languished in obscurity and was basically unseen for 45 years until a DVD release in 2009, when Stephen Spielberg, of all people, went searching through the vaults for film clips to use and ended up championing the film’s preservation.  The film was a box-office disappointment, though a critical success, made by a relatively undistinguished journeyman director, offering a surprisingly indie and arthouse feel, where it was viewed in the White House a decade apart by both Presidents Kennedy and Nixon.  Adapted from Edward Abbey’s The Brave Cowboy, an Old Tale in a New Time, originally published in 1956, with Douglas securing the film rights, where the screenplay was actually written by Dalton Trumbo, one of the infamous Hollywood Ten, just emerging from the McCarthy era anti-communist Hollywood blacklist, becoming an elegy to the Western.

Opening with a man and his horse out on the open prairie, the sounds of jets flying overhead offer an immediate contrast to any expectations of a traditional Western, with three military Air Force jets leaving contrails across the sky, lonely are the brave 1962 YouTube (26 seconds), as modernity has raised its ugly head on Jack Burns (Kirk Douglas) and his trusted mare Whisky, offering one of the best and most realistic portrayals of the deep bond that can develop between a horse and their owner, where they comprise a team as memorable as Newman and Redford in George Roy Hill’s BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID (1969), as he affectionately chats away with his temperamental horse throughout the picture, with their mythical personas and destinies intrinsically linked together, becoming an uncommonly endearing pair.  As they set out across the vast landscape of the open desert, they come to a barbed-wire fence with a sign that reads “closed area” by order of a water and power company, with the fence spanning in both directions for miles, leaving him no recourse but to cut the wire, an apt metaphor for finding himself fenced in by the encroachments of civilization.  A cowboy in a contemporary setting instantly raises questions about whether the untamed, free spirit of the open frontier can abide by the rules of a modern society.  The storyline is spare, but gripping, as it’s one man alone on his Odysseus-like journey through unimaginably beautiful terrain marked by unexpected pitfalls and landmines ready to force him off his lonely path to freedom.  As they plunge into the Rio Grande River (another boundary to cross), the Jerry Goldsmith musical score, Lonely are the Brave (Suite) YouTube (5:11), turns upbeat, like the heroic theme song from John Sturges classic western THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (1960), representing a crossing over into urban civilization.  But getting across the highway into the heavily populated town of Duke City (Albuquerque), New Mexico proves challenging, having a difficult time as they attempt to cross a busy four-laned highway with eighteen-wheeler trucks barreling by, which almost ends in disaster, as a skittish Whisky is confused and disoriented by the noise and speed of unfamiliar traffic, freezing in the middle of the road with several near misses, but they make it safely across, finding themselves in the middle of a junkyard of wrecked, rusted out automobiles which are no longer of any use, broken artifacts of the modern world, just as Jack and Whisky are the last vestiges of the Old West.  They seem to have no business being in the same shot, filmed in crisp black and white by Philip H. Lathrop, who also shot Lee Marvin with French New Wave aesthetics in John Boorman’s Point Blank (1967), demonstrating impressive location camerawork under harsh conditions, with Douglas claiming that the location was the most challenging of his career, doing all of his own stunts.  What follows is completely refreshing, as Burns pays a visit to his best friend’s wife, Jerry Bondi (Gena Rowlands), who is delighted to see him, as her husband Paul (Michael Kane) has just been sentenced to two years in prison for aiding undocumented Mexican immigrants, not to cross the border, but to help them find food and work once they got here.  Apparently offering a touch of humanity is a crime.  This border crossing parallels Jack’s having to cut the fenced barbed wire, boundary lines that have been imposed by government or local authorities.  Jack is framed in the doorway with the open landscape and mountains looming behind him, while the more domesticated Jerry, in a kitchen with all the modern conveniences, is reeling with disgust that her husband ignored all the warnings and put himself in harm’s way, jeopardizing his wife and young son, who will now have to manage on their own.  Burns tries to tell her that as a transplanted Easterner she doesn’t understand the ways of the West, embodied by individual freedom and unlimited access to open spaces.  But her response is gut-wrenching.  

Jack, I’m going to tell you something.  The world that you and Paul live in doesn’t exist.  Maybe it never did.  Out there is a real world, and it’s got real borders and real fences, real laws and real trouble.  And either you go by the rules or you lose.  You lose everything.    

Jack’s cockamamie idea is to get thrown into prison on drunken disorderly, find Paul, and help them both break out of prison, valuing friendship and self-respect, thinking freedom is the ultimate salvation.  His plan goes a little haywire when he meets a one-armed Okinawa veteran in a cantina, a man filled with spit and vinegar who hates cowboys (Bill Raisch who would go on to star as the one-armed man in The Fugitive, running on TV from 1963-67), as he wants to fight to prove his manhood, believing his impairment is no detriment.  The bruising barroom brawl is grimly realistic and well-choreographed, with an explosive combustible energy (Douglas was actually injured in the scene), with Burns also fighting with one hand behind his back.  As the prisons are crowded, the police are willing to let him off scot-free, so he assaults a police officer, earning himself a one-year sentence for his troubles.  It’s important to point out that screenwriter Trumbo was also thrown in prison for refusing to testify before the House Un-American Activities Committee, not recognizing the authority of an absurd government witch hunt to root out communism when in fact there was none to root out, where the sole purpose instead was to generate Red Scare headlines, something Trumbo refused to be a part of, serving almost a year in prison for his individual beliefs, an example that mirrors the strong moral fiber we find in both Paul and Jack, predecessors to a 60’s counterculture that clearly stood against immoral or misguided trends in our society.  Inside he does run into Paul, smuggling in two hacksaw blades in his boot, wasting no time to plan their escape, but a sadistic prison guard (George Kennedy) wants a piece of him for giving him back talk, mercilessly handing out one hell of a beating, but it’s no deterrent.  Ready to get the hell out of there, Paul doesn’t want to risk what he has with Jerry, having assumed the responsibilities for a wife and a child, preferring to stay put, knowing she’ll be out there waiting for him when he gets out, and he doesn’t want either of them to continually have to look over their shoulder at someone chasing them.  Dumbfounded by his surprisingly mature outlook, Jack decides to go it alone, making one last stop with Jerry, offering scintillating dialogue that is unusually long for a Western, featuring world class acting in a relaxed, low key register, where the film excels in showcasing real human values.  While she had minor appearances on Bonanza and The Virginian for television, it is rare to see Rowlands in a Western, making this such a singularly distinctive occurrence, playing a 1960’s woman in transition, becoming a virulent critique of the consumer society that has become self-absorbed and callous, having become distanced from the natural world, imposing extensive rules to try to ensure order, rules that Jack ignores.  Dismissive of macho pretensions and fed up with all men in general, seeing how stubbornly headstrong and foolish they can be, she angrily reminds him, “Believe you me, if it didn’t take men to make babies I wouldn’t have anything to do with any of you!”  However, the seriousness of their goodbye embrace suggests that they were once lovers, filled with passion and regret, where his self-reflective explanation to her is a core theme of the film, convinced that he was never right for her, which is powerful stuff.   

‘Cause I’m a loner clear down deep to my guts.  Know what a loner is?  He’s a born cripple.  He’s a cripple because the only person he can live with is himself.  It’s his life, the way he wants to live.  It’s all for him.  A guy like that, he’d kill a woman like you.  Because he couldn’t love you, not the way you are loved.

Once he’s out the door there’s no turning back, as the rest of the film is devoted to a long chase sequence across the desert and high into the Sandia Mountains of New Mexico, with Mexico on the other side offering freedom, a reversal of that earlier migration across the border.  Split between a suspenseful adventure tale and a probing, psychological character study, the film poses the question whether the open border and open road that Jack envisions is actually part of the American ideal, and whether it has a chance to survive in this commercialized, technologically advancing world.  Adding personality to the chase, Sheriff Morey Johnson is played by a humorously sarcastic, gum-chewing Walter Matthau, who empathizes with Burns, showing understanding and patience, but does his duty in trying to track him down, aided by his robotic and somewhat dim-witted right-hand deputy Harry (William Schallert), using the best of modern technology, a helicopter, a short-wave radio, and even the Air Force, as well as manpower placed along the top of the ridge searching for a lone man on a horse, which you wouldn’t think would be that hard to find, but Burns is an elusive figure hiding under the brush.  The simplicity of the film is outstanding, with viewers continually fascinated by and identifying with Burns and his horse, as if they have a lot invested in the outcome, where there’s an element of nostalgia in cherishing the values that he holds dear, epitomizing the postwar spirit people once grew up with, where a man gets by on his wits and what he can do to benefit others, like a Golden Rule code of ethics, personified by President Kennedy’s immortal words in his 1961 Inaugural Address, “Ask not what your country can do for you – ask what you can do for your country,” which became the guiding principles of his generation, and the ethos of Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird (1962), voted by the American Film Institute as the greatest hero in any American film, 100 Greatest Heroes and Villains - AFI.  As a result, Burns and his non-violent, live-and-let-live principles are infinitely more appealing than the legions of police dotting the landscape armed with rifles, where the arrival of a helicopter seems like overkill for a man who served in Korea with distinction, even earning a Purple Heart and a Distinguished Service Cross for his valor in battle.  The labyrinthian escape speaks volumes even today, brilliantly eluding his pursuers, as Douglas charms his way into our hearts, where he and his horse feel like old friends.  Due to the steepness of the cliffs, it’s clear Burns could easily make it on his own, but his loyalty to his horse causes complications, refusing to selfishly abandon her.  No one, not even the Sheriff, really want to see him caught, which is why the finale is so heartbreaking, brilliantly rendered, with deep emotions, filled with the pathos of a forgotten era, yet Douglas brings so much intelligence, dignity, and inner conviction to the role, completely embodying the character, reminding viewers just what freedom and not having to answer to anybody used to look like, as it was a beautiful thing.  Nothing about this film is outdated, as it’s a modern day Western, with few others capturing the loss of that era and the shifting attitudes shaping America’s modern West any better, with Rowlands and Douglas, so vulnerable, such acting legends, capturing the essence of a nation in transition, given such a natural setting, where the physical struggle to lead his horse up a series of breathtakingly steep mountainside switchbacks is such a monumental effort, showing enormous willpower, where nothing about it looks like anything but an extremely daunting challenge.  Impossible not to struggle with this film afterwards, as it touches the core of our being, tapping into the spiritual nature of the individual alone who faces up to the dehumanizing effects of a contemporary America defined by closed borders, bureaucracy running amok, uncaring institutions, escalating militarization, and ever-increasing government control, reminding us that what’s so essential in our lives is a capacity to see what’s in front of us, to stop and look around and admire the beauty in all directions.