Movie Review: The Exorcism of Emily Rose

Last Sunday I watched a new release titled ‘The Exorcism of Emily Rose’. Unlike other movies about demonic possession, most notably ‘The Exorcist’, this particular feature does not subscribe to the school of swivelling heads and projectile vomiting. It also avoids the shocking, albeit amusing, sexual depravity portrayed by Linda Blair. Additionally, the demons in question here do not speak in an English accent, are short on swear words, and prefer ancient tongues to English.

The real events behind Emily Rose’s story are more shocking that the movie allows, but this is understandable given the director’s background. Director and co-writer Scott Derrickson is apparently a devout evangelical Christian – a churchgoer in other words. Although he may not subscribe to the Catholic tenets about possession and exorcism, the fact remains that he is a ‘believer’. As such, the movie goes ‘soft’ on the priest who sought to ‘exorcise’ Emily and further recommended that she cease taking her medication. Put simply, the viewer is left to interpret Emily as being either ‘mad’ or ‘possessed’. Given the numerous supernatural interludes, one would assume that the director is gunning for the latter assumption.

In the movie, Father Moore (played by Tom Wilkinson) is on trial for criminal negligence. He is represented by an ambitious female lawyer, Erin Brunner (played by Laura Linney), who describes herself as being agnostic, but gradually has her views swayed after waking repeatedly at 3am, described by Father Moore as the ‘witching hour’. She is further advised by Father Moore to take care, as "There are forces around this trial, dark and powerful forces."

Ooohhh …. Ooga booga.

OK, by now it must be apparent that I am something of a skeptic. Of course, I cannot explain with precision every ‘weird’ event which takes place in the world. However, I’ll be damned (no pun intended) if I seek to explain the inexplicable by reference to the unprovable (i.e. religious ideology, or rather ‘dogma’). For countless years, people have been using the mechanism of ‘fear’ as a means to coerce others to adopt their ideology. Accept Christ, or burn in hell for eternity – pray five times a day, or risk the wrath of Allah – don’t take a bite out of God’s apple, otherwise He’ll throw you out of Paradise …. It’s hard to see how Derrickson’s movie does anything different.

Fear of the irrational is something I have yet to come to grasps with. For example, after having watched the ‘Exorcism of Emily Rose’ I felt uneasy about crawling out of bed at 2:15am in order to take a much needed piss. Had I done so, my mind would have been replete with images of all manner of ‘dark beasts’ lurking in the shadows whilst my trembling hands struggled to find a light switch. This whole episode made me feel stupid and ashamed, especially after I relieved myself in an empty Sprite bottle and then proceeded to fall asleep once more (joke).

The fact remains that real life offers a great deal more to fear than fiction. For example, I often ask myself what I would fear more:

(i) one metre cockroach or Leader of the Opposition in a g-string;
(ii) demonic presence under my bed or threesome with Condoleeza Rice and Janet Reno;
(iii) a zombie or Phillip Ruddock (are the two even distinguishable?);
(iv) Lucifer in the flesh or being seriously ill with no medical insurance in the US;
(v) alien beings or being caught in a lift with several chronically flatulent vegetarians;
(vi) vampires or an international shortage of single malt scotch.

On second thought, The Exorcism of Emily Rose is about as scary as John Howard in a tutu compared to the more salient fears visible in our world.

S.A.

El Kebabo Diablo (The Kebab Devil) …..

In recalling my childhood, some of my most vivid memories are those of my father entertaining me with stories of gins (i.e. Arabic lexicon for ‘demons’). His tales horrified and captivated me at the same time. So attuned was he to detail that I sometimes wondered whether these mystical beings did in fact exist. After having visited a certain kebab shop on George Street, I no longer doubt their existence.

Only last weekend, I encountered a kebab demon. In its earthly form, this being masqueraded as a purveyor of shredded animal flesh grilled to perfection. At the time of our meeting, it had assumed a human form – specifically a male Middle Eastern immigrant with a broad moustache, ample frame and considerable body odour. Despite its obvious talents in shape-shifting, I soon recognised the thing for what it was and proceeded cautiously to exit the shopfront.

In recounting my story, I recognise that I was saved from a terrible fate, but only because others sacrificed themselves unknowingly. Specifically, a long queue had formed by the time I entered this innocuous little kebab shop. Being a naturally perceptive and inquisitive person, I carefully watched ‘El Kebabo Diablo’ as it prepared various kebabs for human consumption. What I noticed, albeit in the finest of details, sicked me beyond belief.

El Kebabo Diablo wore no apron, and its white shirt was stained with discoloured crimson streaks - a sight that could only be interpreted as dried blood. Even in its human form, this creature’s skin was replete with coarse black hairs which glistened menacingly under the harsh fluorescent lighting. If one were bold enough to closely examine its face, it would be impossible to discern where nose-hair ended and moustache began. The teeth behind those thin and cruel lips appeared broken and jagged, probably from having spent millennia gnawing on bone and gristle.

Fine droplets of perspiration, clearly visible on the creature’s forearms, routinely dropped into the meat tray as it sliced and shaved huge strips of flesh from three rotating skewers (chicken, beef and lamb). Every once in awhile, the creature would rub its bulbous nose vigorously into the sleeve of its shirt, leaving lengthy streaks of what can only be described as sweat, mucous and grit. It appreciated not the norms of civil society, especially as they related to the art of food preparation. The creature did not wear plastic gloves, and touched foodstuffs regularly with its bare hands. More disturbingly, it appeared to be unaccustomed to clothing, routinely inserting the thumb and forefinger of its left hand into the nether-regions of its backside in an effort to dislodge the monstrous ‘wedgie’ that became its earthly burden.

Looking around me, I found other patrons to be oblivious of the peril in their surroundings. None appeared to regard El Kebabo Diablo with fear, failing to recognise the true nature of the beast in their midst. They dug hungrily into their kebabs, feeding on singed fleshed, tabouli, homous, lettuce, tomato, onion and the putrid sweat of an unearthly friend.

I cautiously exited the shop whilst El Kebabo Diablo had its back turned, slicing and shaving away at slabs of meat. No-one saw me leave, as all were staring hypnotically at the two pillars of grilling flesh that they were soon to feast upon. The primitive and beastly nature of El Kebabo Diablo had infected them ...

It is now that I understand the wisdom behind a centuries old Lebanese proverb, a saying that is whispered to little children in hushed tones by their parents:

‘Temptation of the kebab is a deadly thing.

The more kebabs you eat, the more you look like what made you the kebab.’

Remembers readers, not ‘who’ … but ‘what’.

Stupid names for food items …..

Ever walked into a Hungry Jacks only to be asked whether a ‘Big Whopper’ is to your liking? What about performing the seemingly innocuous task of purchasing ice cream only to have an attractive check-out chick scream ‘Price Check on Golden GayTime’?

If you are anything like me, and have even a modicum of dignity about your person, then episodes like the above prove infuriating beyond belief. It’s bad enough that so many fast-food outlets ascribe moronic names to their wares, worse yet when you demean yourself publicly by ordering them.

Rather thankfully, I reside in a country (i.e. Australia) whose penchant for stupid food names has yet to equal the standard set in the United States. At almost any café, the food items for sale are afforded ‘descriptive’ titles that are self-explanatory in nature. Even more comforting is the fact that few, if any, restaurants have named sandwiches in honour of ‘home grown’ celebrities or, worse yet, politicians. Being a man of some dignity, I rue the day where hunger will force me into ordering a ‘Barnsey Burger’, ‘Minogue Melt’ or, God forbid, ‘Ruddock with Rye’.

Although years have passed since I last set foot in the US, the following are some of the stupider names I saw affixed to items one is meant to consume:

(i) Hot Beefeater (Quizno’s Fast Food Chain, USA – a burger)
(ii) Rooty Tooty, Fresh and Fruity (IHOP, USA – a fruit smoothie)
(iii) The Big Stick (USA, allegedly a popsicle)
(iv) Nutty Buddy (USA – a type of ice cream)
(v) Jacob Bluefinger (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)
(vi) Boney Billy (Erbert and Gerbert Sandwich Chain, USA – a sandwich)

What being in its right mind would openly say the words ‘Hot Beefeater’ and ‘Boney Billy’ when ordering in a restaurant? What confectioner would be sick enough to name an ice cream, specifically one targeted as children, a ‘Nutty Buddy’ or a ‘Big Stick’? It is my belief that the manufacturers and retailers of these items are perversely pleasured by secretly humiliating their clients, most of whom are obese and willing to forego dignity for a feed.

Roald Dahl must have chuckled silently to himself when he named his most popular fictional character, a confectioner no less, ‘Willy Wonka’. What sane parent would allow a child to purchase a ‘Fudgemallow Delight’ from an individual bearing such an unscrupulous name? Obviously the man worked hard at being a ‘chocolateer’, going so far as to put a little of himself into every piece of candy sold. However, if one were to draw inferences from his name, he put in more than effort alone. Also, rumour has it that he was particularly fond of manufacturing vanilla lollipops. They had a liquid centre apparently ….

Inner strength and perseverance ….

Ever heard a song by Sade called Pearls? From my perspective, limited as it may be in matters of music, it possesses some of the most haunting lyrics ever penned.

There is a woman in Somalia

Scraping for pearls on the roadside
There's a force stronger than nature
Keeps her will alive
This is how she's dying
She's dying to survive
Don't know what she's made of
I would like to be that brave

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives a life she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes
Hurts like brand-new shoes

There is a woman in Somalia
The sun gives her no mercy
The same sky we lay under
Burns her to the bone
Long as afternoon shadows
It's gonna take her to get home
Each grain carefully wrapped up
Pearls for her little girl

Hallelujah
Hallelujah

She cries to the heaven above
There is a stone in my heart
She lives in a world she didn't choose
And it hurts like brand-new shoes

Hurts like brand-new shoes

The above words perfectly describe the struggle for survival I saw in much of Africa as a child. During my time in Sudan, I witnessed a country torn asunder by civil unrest and poverty. In spite of the overtly dire circumstances of the people, it beggared belief that so many persevered with life where others would have fallen. These individuals were possessed of a strength and determination few will ever know, let alone fathom.

Unbeknown to most, both my parents came from a background of abject poverty. Nonetheless, they were privileged in respect of the numerous sacrifices made by my grandparents to ensure that their offspring benefited from a sound education. My parents made the most of this opportunity, sacrificing a social life for the rigours of study and examinations. In time, both become highly accomplished professionals, and served with the United Nations for several years before embarking on alternative careers. During this period, my grandparents lived well owing to the continued support and assistance of their children. However, all four passed away before I ever had an opportunity to get to know them well.

My parents speak little of their folks and the difficult life they once lead. Compared to what ‘once was’, their current situation can only be described as a complete turnaround from the uncertainty of the past. On occasion, my grandparents would forego their dinner simply to provide their children with a meagre second helping. They worked and laboured hard throughout much of their life, striving hard to provide their children with benefits they themselves had not been afforded.

Given my own privileged upbringing, comprising of private and international schools and tertiary study, I cannot even begin to understand what life would have been like for my grandparents. Although I can sympathise, empathy is difficult since I have not been in a similar position and ostensibly never will. Looking at my parents, it sometimes appears that they are discomforted by the comfort in their lives. It presents an exceptionally stark contrast to what they once knew, so much so that any act deemed ‘indulgent’ is considered almost sinful. Why buy a novel when you can source the same item from a library? Why ‘eat out’ when significant savings are to be had by dining at home? Why purchase an Omega when a Seiko will suffice?

Despite what I have said above, my parents have absolutely no problem with spending extravagant amounts on their children. As a child, I could very easily have been spoilt had my parents not taught me the importance of money. They both did everything possible to ensure that I had most, if not everything, of what I desired. Every once in awhile, I hope to see them let their hair down, to stop time and just enjoy the moment instead of having work as a 24/7 consideration. They have both done everything possible and achievable in order to ‘survive’, it’s high time that they sought some rest.

The act of survival …. In my view this has to be the greatest singular accomplishment of humankind. If you doubt me, read ‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ – a novel by Coetzee, a Noble Prize winning laureate who is arguably the greatest contemporary author alive (recently emigrated from South Africa to Australia, teaching at the University of Adelaide). Coetzee’s novel is set in a period of civil unrest characterised by anarchy and brutal roaming armies. Michael K, a mentally disabled and impoverished black South African, finds himself an orphan following his mother’s death. Unlike his protagonist counterparts in other fictional novels, Michael does not commence a journey of ‘heroic endeavour’ in the traditional sense of that phrase. Rather, his singular achievement is that he survives in an environment that would break countless others.

‘The Life and Times of Michael K’ is an exceptionally complex novel. If one were to intellectualise it, as is necessary in regarding a work of that calibre, Michael is best described as an extremely marginal figure, disempowered and property-less. In a country torn apart by war, Michael strives hard to find a ‘gap between the fences’, a place to occupy. Being physically weak, Michael has to live off the temporal and material scraps left by the powerful, but his resistance is to use those that the powerful do not realise are there. Everywhere around him, people are laying seeking to lay ‘claim’ to all things capable of being either owned or possessed. In contrast, Michael’s existence is transient in nature. For example, he deliberately builds a home using materials that would be devoured by insects were he to cease tending to it.

Most commentators argue that history is defined by a sense of ‘place’. Being something of a wanderer or drifter, Michael has no claim over the landscape. He is a dispossessed soul, both unable and unwilling to make a mark on the very earth over which he roams. The reader is left with the brutal realisation that were Michael a real person, the imprint of his existence would disappear disturbingly soon after his death.

There are countless thousands like Michael K, but they do not have the luxury of being fictional characters ....

Keep on walking …

I have been doing a lot of walking these past few days. My efforts, though admirable given the distance covered, are not linked to some weight-loss initiative. Rather, I find walking to be an exercise in nostalgia and reflection. In my younger years, countless hours would be spent roaming on foot around the Sydney ‘Rocks’ area, a region known for beautiful sandstone buildings, colourful street fairs and an almost surreal blending of the old and the new.

Aside from the actual views, music provides a fitting accompaniment as well. It helps to drown out the peripheral sounds of tourists, buskers, vehicles and street side vendors. Although I enjoy the Sydney atmosphere, that of a bustling cosmopolitan city, there is much to be said for solitude. Most of my walking takes place in situations of dusk and drizzle, showery evenings where few dare to venture out. Although gloomy for some, the rain and accompanying damp bring even more character to the area. There’s something to be said about walking under a massive sandstone overpass, replete with dark green moss and miniature waterfalls that wind, bend and twist their way through fissures in the sandstone walls.

Perhaps some of you are wondering what I contemplate on these little sojourns. It’s nothing overtly philosophical really, more a reflection on past events and contemplation on what the future might hold. There’s a certain sense of stasis you feel when walking through a historical area, as if life has ceased to be transient. It is a soothing feeling, to me anyway. I sometimes feel trapped, caught up in some motorised ‘walkway of life’ that is moving far too fast for me to appreciate the beauty of everything that passes.

Life can grow rather weary if you don’t look back once in awhile. Some years back Ben Okri, a literary master of the ‘magical realism’ genre, was to be found on the last carriage of a small Greek mountain train, travelling backwards as he entered Arcadia, and philosophising as follows:

You’re sitting in this train at the back of it here, and you’re not seeing a landscape that you’re approaching, but a landscape that is receding from you .... You don’t greet things, you say goodbye to things, you look back on things, you think back on things, you think about bridges that you’ve just crossed. I actually quite like this backward looking. I rather like it, because always one lives through life with one’s eyes facing forward, so things come at you and then they go behind you. And when they go behind you it’s as if they disappear and they vanish, and they don’t exist any more, whereas like this, they always exist, they always exist. This is one thing this journey has taught me, that there is a sort of chain, (isn’t there?), a link, a kind of relay system, whereby each one of us, just passes on the baton of our lives to the next generation - and that way, we keep something alive that is greater than us.

Okri makes a strong point. When your eyes constantly face forwards, you often tend to forget the very experiences which define you as a person, nonchalantly accepting them as part of your character but not questioning why. As a child, I lived in some 15 different countries and attended several international schools across the globe. Although a memory of my past, it goes without saying that these experience helped shape my current personality and outlook towards life. In what way? Well, that’s something I’ve never actually contemplated at length.

More than anything, I guess it was the transient nature of life that overwhelmed me the most. As soon as my fledgling self took root in a new environment, it would be yanked out again only to be transplanted somewhere else. There never was any sense of familiarity, continuity or permanence. Interruption was the order of the day for years on end, with no real idea of how, when, where and what the end destination might be. I yearned for stability and now that I have it, wish to rid myself of its hold ….

Several years on, having graduated from university, I find myself in the clutches of full-time employment. The sheer nature of professional life - characterised by billable hours, timesheets, business lunches and formal training - exerts too much of a physical presence on my thoughts. I feel grounded, in the literal sense, as if my feet have taken root in the most barren of earth. Unlike my childhood counterpart, there is no third-party to set me free this time. Any attempt to struggle free will eventuate from my own efforts alone, and no-one else’s.

Okri once remarked ‘keep postponing your destination, keep extending your dream’. Purpose gives meaning to one’s life, and it amuses me to no small end that, once achieved or attained, a dream tends to lose sits significance or importance.

I’ve come to realise through all this that I cannot stop walking, I need to be on the move, on the lookout, searching out what has passed by unnoticed before. Life is transient, fleeting in nature and, as the old adage says, ‘life does not stop for anyone’. It can be broken down, labelled, finely tuned but, like some mystical perpetual engine, will not cease to function. It happens all around us, to young and old, rich and poor, in whatever definitions we choose to hold. Every once in awhile, I will have to be the one who seeks to stop time, and enjoys the moment.

S.A.

Official Correspondence - The Public Service Equivalent of Intimacy

Ever held a job that you truly despised, so much so that the mere act of waiting for ‘quitting time’ felt like someone was dragging a cheese greater across your privates? Well, pity me because I have and I am in precisely such a position.

Without going into specifics, suffice it to say that I work for what is arguably the most loathed public service organisation in the South East Asia region. The entire department is driven by bureaucracy and red tape, such that I can imagine any number of First Assistant Secretaries (FASs) sitting in their private offices manipulating themselves to paperwork. Jokes aside, what drives an organisation to be so driven by forms, formalities, official procedure, and paperwork? Lawyers routinely make jokes about having chosen their profession owing to a deep-seated paper fetish. Well, you’ve opted for the wrong field my friends. Bureaucracy is the true calling of those who are .. err .. ‘stimulated’ by formatting (e.g. spacing, paragraph numbering), syntax, grammar, punctuation etc.

Every second day some tosser from Central Office sends out yet another round of templates specifically designed to suit some politician’s personal preferences. It’s not unheard of to have a Minister refuse to sign a document because there ‘five spaces instead of six’ between the words ‘Yours sincerely’ and his/her name. Seriously, what freaking difference does it make? Will your world end? Will your ‘old boy network’ ridicule you for not having learnt the finer points of presentation at any number of supposedly prestigious tertiary learning institutions? Is it because you are obsessive compulsive? Just how big is your damned signature that you need a whole six spaces to enable sufficient ‘signage area’ for your Anglo-Celtic name?

It beggars belief that so many public servants would hold such an unwavering belief in the power of ‘letterhead’. Just because a document is formally presented, grammatically correct in every way, devoid of mistakes in spelling/punctuation/syntax etc does not mean that its content is accordingly enhanced. Do you remember the kid in high school who had impeccable handwriting? Did this particular talent necessarily eventuate in more meaningful and coherent essay writing? Not particularly. Chances are that the kid was sexually frustrated and used the elaborate loops, curls, swirls and spirals in his/her cursive text as a subliminal expression of sexuality.

So there you have it. The entire public service is dominated at the upper echelons by people more emotionally connected to paper than their own partners. To these lonely and isolated individuals, human touch is no substitute for the inherent sensuality of caressing the tip of an expensive fountain pen across inter-office correspondence. Hmm, what could possibly better the subtle satisfaction of ‘officially corresponding’ with those equal or senior to your level within the organisation? After all, that ambitious State Director from Victoria (whose heavenly visage has graced the glossy pages of numerous internal newsletters) may not even know of your existence. BUT, just wait till she opens her internal mail tomorrow and sees your briefs – stiff, white, watermarked, sealed as ‘confidential’ and marked for her eyes only. The thought of your package in this woman’s hands fills you with indescribable pleasure.

In a situation such as the above, you ponder ceaselessly as to whether the recipient had thoughts of your instrument (of writing) moving gracefully across crisp white sheets (of paper). Although he/she sees naught but a mark (i.e. signature), you wonder whether the recipient acknowledges and appreciates the fluidity of your movements, the dexterity of your wrist, the fickleness of your fingers as you wonder whether everything has been done to their satisfaction.

Yes, yes …. It stands to reason that public servants are in desperate need of a shag. However, God forbid that one should pursue an office relationship in such an uptight environment. The general behaviour of public servants is governed by the APS Code of Conduct, a legislative ‘ethical’ code that, although not prohibiting office relationships, ostensibly discourages overt expressions of sexuality. Public servants, much like accountants, are meant to be as bland as an English breakfast (e.g. cheese on toast, no spices aside from salt and pepper). How does one express individuality in an environment dictated by conformity? There is only one way to make yourself known of course, via the quality of your documents.