"Precious" based on the book by Sapphire

The movie "Precious," based on the book by Sapphire, is filmed in bright primary colors offset by the warm browns of its characters' skin and the grays of Harlem streets and stairwells. Clarice "Precious" Jones has suffered unimaginable abuse from the mother and father who must have given her this ironic name, and the initial scenes invite us both into this abuse, and Clarice's fantasies of being a pop diva. The beautiful photography, acting and dialogue got me through the constant overwhelming "issue" piling that the plot wades through. With all the gory details available for perusal, it's easy to get side-tracked from the film's main theme, which, I think, is resilience. Clarice necessarily sleep walks through her life, but has one eye open long enough to capture a moment with a principal who sends her to an alternative school to meet Miss Blue Rain, some quirky classmates and a vegetarian male nurse who become her family.

Clarice's mother hangs on to her--probably for her state check--OR MAYBE because she has an inkling that Clarice has something "precious," an ability to connect with others, to give and receive love which is the core of real survival. Clarice's mother has pop diva dreams too, we learn, as she dances awkwardly in a multi-colored unitard in front of the TV and wonders who will love her when she isn't slinging pots at her daughter's head or frauding the state. Again, the complexity of this character almost gets submerged in the sheer volume of bad behavior written into the script--her repulsiveness sometimes diminishes the more subtle points--the jealousy and powerlessness she feels around her daughter. In another darker story, maybe mother and daughter would be the same before and after character? Luckily, we are off the hook for that tale--Precious, for all it's horror, wants us to feel a happy ending. Not because she is saved by social workers--portrayed as nice but mostly ineffectual, and annoyingly unwilling to answer questions about themselves. Mariah Carey--a real pop diva, in no make-up and a New York accent--portrays this convincingly,a refreshing reminder for me in my work as a therapist that there is no saving and curing, that therapists often have little to offer except a place to examine reality, and need to get over the bizzarre freudian training that still permeates the field and take opportunities to be "real" . Clarice steals her file away, instinctually knowing that it is her story, and that she has to own it to re-write it.

And finally, having worked many years with families across the continuum of poverty and abuse, I felt vaguely uncomfortable about the synchronization of the abusive family portrait with a black family portrait. I wanted audiences to recognize that families like Precious'--abusive, emotionally, spiritually, sexually and physically--come in all colors and classes. This story is how it looks on a poor black family in Harlem, but Joel Steinberg and Hedda Nussbaum were not far away uptown, and money covers a multitude of sins. So what is the takeaway--? I was recently comforted by a statement made by a war veteran and therapist who stated that studies show that man is not wired to kill. I'm holding on to that idea, and to the "precious" thread that connects one human being to another in a mutually supportive and loving way against terrible odds.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery

Just finished reading Muriel Barbery's "The Elegance of the Hedgehog," a mutual monologue by a 54 year old widow/concierge and a 12 year old contemplating suicide. These odd kindred souls contemplate beauty, class/caste and the possible meaninglessness of life in a fashionable building in Paris. Barbery's short poetic chapters told in alternating first person moved quickly, and I was able to read the 325 page book on one rainy Saturday afternoon ("all that rain. where I grew up in winter it used to rain. I have no memories of sunny days: only rain, a weight of mud and cold, a dampness sticking to our clothes and hair.." p. 285) Many of the literary and art references went over my head--not sure what to say about that, except that I wasn't deterred because I was looking ahead for the many sudden explosively beautiful moments like this one, related by Renee, as she explains her last moments with her husband, watching "The Hunt for Red October": "There were no poignant regrets, because he had found peace that way; he placed his trust in what we had said to each other without any need for words, while we watched, together, the bright screen where a story was being told." (p.75) The references to other works often felt like heavy old drapes--their magnificence a little musty out of context, but I wonder if this was intended, as the whole book seemed to be about moving from some standard definition of beauty to the visceral experience.

Renee and Paloma cycle slowly from bracing, and even sometimes boring intellectualism to a more integrated place that, for example, allows Leo, an overweight cat, and Neptune, a passionate cocker spaniel who sees nothing wrong with licking his balls in public to co-exist with them. Renee and Paloma who begin the tale as invisible as the animals, evolve fully on their path to discovery and are found by a warm collector of art and beauty, their new neighbor, Monsieur Ozu.

For me, The Elegance of the Hedgehog is about the integration of one's true nature, the mind, heart, body and soul--that true beauty incorporates some magical combination of these. Paloma's older sister Colombe is a philosophy major who pursues knowledge for knowledge's sake, unable to find her little sister "useful," and therefore remains inaccessible, unhealable and unloved by her. Monsieur Ozu, on the other hand, is remarkably congruent, sees beauty in all things, as evidenced by his quirky toilet, which plays Mozart's Requiem upon flushing.

I felt most comforted by the presence of the animals, "...I take the measure of how the ridiculous superflous cats wander through our lives with all the placidity and indifference of an imbecile are in fact guardians of life's good and joyful moments, and of it's happy web, even beneath the canopy of misfortune." (p. 317) I have a ginger cocker spaniel myself--Punkin-- who, like Neptune, would do just about anything for a turnip and as I write this is sliding her butt along the rug in that endearing way dogs have....(not). Lately, like Paloma and Renee, I have been integrating my animal nature into the brain that has called most of the shots in my life. This has involved long afternoons digging phenomenal flowers from weeds and early morning walks in no make up and bad hair, exploring the morning light, poised for Punkin's random squats with a paper towel and plastic bag. Like Renee, I feel that I have entered a less glamorous phase of my life, while I'm at the same time developing a consciousness of my beauty. Like Paloma, I still occasionally feel like a little girl in ponytails, glasses and a pink sweatshirt, angry at those I "can't heal."

And last of all, I won't give away Barbery's last two chapters, they really sing. Enjoy.