Sonata For a Good Man

In the film “The Lives of Others,” a successful 40-year-old playwright, Georg Dreyman, lives in 1984 East Berlin with his lovely stage actress girlfriend, Maria-Christina. Dreyman is an artist, but also a believer in the socialist revolution. His plays support rather than subvert the regime. Nevertheless, he is placed under 24-hour surveillance by the Stasi -- the self-proclaimed “sword and shield” of the party but better known by the people as “bad men who put people in jail” -- because there is something fishy in his squeaky cleanness.

We later discover that the real reason for the surveillance is that the odious party bigwig, Bruno Hempf, is having sex with the unwilling, but weak, Maria-Christina. Somewhere in Hempf’s twisted psyche the porcine minister apparently believes that he might be less repellant to Maria-Christina if he can rid her of the handsome Dreyman.

The film’s hero is Captain Weisler, who is charged with the surveillance of Dreyman. Weisler is advised of Hempf’s motives in due course by his former classmate, now superior, Lieutenant Colonel Grubitz. Captain Weisler questions this use of the Stasi’s surveillance power by rather naively asserting that Stasi operations should benefit the party. “How better to benefit the party than to benefit the individuals within it?” counters the sunny Grubitz. And so the surveillance continues, but with perhaps less conviction on the part of our hero.

Captain Weisler’s conversion from ruthless interrogator and Stasi operative to “a good man” is rendered shortly thereafter. Captain Weisler listens in on a phonecall that Dreyman receives wherein Dreyman is advised of the suicide of his friend, a black-listed director. We had previously seen the black-listed director’s angst in two scenes, the first taking place at the director’s office, piled high with books on all sides, where he smokes and muses to Dreyman on the uselessness of his life. “What is a director who cannot direct?” he asks. Then, at Dreyman’s 40th birthday party, the director isolates himself on the couch and rejects all overtures from fellow partygoers. When Dreyman gets after the director for his anti-social behavior, the director merely perseverates on the same theme: “I cannot socialize because I am not currently involved in a directing project. My work is in the past. My future has been taken from me,” and so on.

The suicide takes place a scene or two later. It is not a surprise.

But back to the conversion of our hero. Dreyman hangs up the phone (and so does Captain Weisler, whose surveillance resumes on the headphones by which he listens in on all the goings-on at Dreyman’s apartment). Dreyman turns to the upright piano, pulls out a piece of music titled “Sonata for a Good Man,” and though we have heretofore seen no indication that Dreyman is a pianist, he now sits down and executes the piece flawlessly. Maria-Christina appears while he plays, offering her silent consolation. And then we cut to Weisler, headphones on, visibly moved by the the music. Dreyman then waxes philosophical to Maria-Christina, regaling her with a Lenin anecdote, namely, that Lenin was supposed to have said that he could not have finished the revolution had he listened over-much to Beethoven’s Appassionata piano sonata. And Dreyman asks, “Can anyone who listens, really listens, to the Appassionata, be a bad man?”

Apparently the answer is no. Captain Weisler, having “listened, really listened” to Sonata for Good Man, is henceforth a good man.

I fear the film’s faith in the transformative power of art may be a tad overstated. I am reminded of the wonderful scene in Godfather II in which Vito Corleone, at the opera, tears streaming down his face while the music soothes his savage breast, nevertheless attends to business. We watch as the don acknowledges with due appreciation the report of his henchman, at a most moving part of the aria no less, that his enemy now sleeps with the fishes. Perhaps the salutary benefit of music adheres more in Beethoven and less in Verdi?

Or perhaps the German heart is softer than the Italian. Whatever the explanation, it hardly matters. The film is fabulous. It is a tightly-scripted, satisfying story with a handsome leading man who looks particularly beguiling in loungewear. It also boasts an unsung hero who is sung in the end, if only secretly.

Yet I wondered about the suicides, of which there were two. The first is recounted above. The second is that of Maria-Christina. Like the director, Maria-Christina believes that she is an actress and, apparently, nothing else. She cannot live if she cannot act. When in a moment of courage she decides to standup the odious Hempf, he behaves as any piggish spurned lover would -- given the power -- and has her arrested. The choice she is given is A: rat out Dreyman, or B: never act on any stage again. (She delicately explores Option C, i.e., an accommodation that she and her interrogator, the ever-cheery Lieutenant Colonel Grubitz might find mutually agreeable. Grubitz regretfully advises her that this avenue, which under ordinary circumstances would be a most attractive possibility, is foreclosed due to the gravity of the offense that she has given to the very bigwig Hempf.) Maria-Christina is a great actress, so . . . She opts to rat out her true love. She then commits suicide.

I couldn’t help but wonder: Why not at least explore Option B before taking Option A? (Or, if one were going to commit suicide anyway, why not do so without first ratting out your true love?) Could it really be so bad to just live, and not act? To simply be, and not do?

There are many things that I fear. But I have to say that being severed from what I “do” is not one of them. If Grubitz said to me, “Give us what we want or you will never practice law again,” I guess I’d say, well, you’re going to have to do better than that.

But I digress. Back to our hero, the fearless Captain Weisler. He has been transformed into a good man, so needless to say he intervenes appropriately on behalf of Dreyman and Maria-Christina. Unfortunately, due to a big misunderstanding, he cannot prevent the suicide. Nor can he save himself.

Turns out the cheerful Grubitz is not all smiles and sunshine. He has an uncanny, unsettling way of seeing into the hearts of his underlings. He has not advanced in the party for no reason. He knows that Captain Weisler has intervened on behalf of Dreyman, though he cannot prove it. So when the operation is terminated, and the Stasi have found no evidence to incriminate Dreyman, Grubitz matter-of-factly informs Weisler that his career is over. He will spend the rest of his productive years steaming letters open in a basement cubicle.

Captain Weisler does not react to this news in the artist’s way, that is, by committing suicide. In fact when we see him next, which we are told his four years hence, he is in fact in a basement cubicle steaming open envelopes. He performs this task with the same efficiency as ever he applied to his surveillance responsibilities.

But Weisler is not a letter-opener. Nor is he an interrogator. Nor is he a Stasi captain, soon-to-be major. He is just -- nothing. Or perhaps more precisely, he is a man who, for whatever reason, acts courageously in a particular circumstance. And then simply lives his life. We are entitled to infer, from the fact that he remained extant four years after receiving the bad news from Grubitz, that Weisler did not experience the same despair as did the director and the actress at being severed from his professional identity. He has no existential queries such as, “What is an interrogator who cannot interrogate?”

So the lesson I take from it all is: We would be wise -- or at least less likely to commit suicide -- to not overly identify with what we do. Thoughts?

Lust, Caution

I watched this film, directed by Ang Lee, last Friday night.  The hot sex, which earned it a NC-17 rating, was much anticipated.  But it was a long time coming. First we had to get through dry and mechanical sex between our heroine, Wang Jiazhi and a fellow resistance fighter. Then we had to endure Jiazhi's rape at the hand's of Mr. Yee, the Japanese collaborator whom she and the resistance had targeted to assassinate.  Only after all that -- and many games of Mahjong -- did we finally get to the hot sex.  And hot it was.  Undeterred by the rape, Jiazhi went at it with Mr. Yee in subsequent liaisons, all lust and no caution. One wondered if they'd ever tire.  One speculated that something besides sex was driving them. One came to understand that their physical connection was more real than any other facet of their lives, though Jiazhi remained loyal to her cause and Mr. Yee deeply distrusted her.  

In a penultimate scene, Jiazhi confessed to a resistance leader -- with candor that should have been heeded -- that every time she and Mr. Yee met for another sex assignation, they carried on until she bled.  He used his body like a snake, she said. He would work his way into her soul.  But it was she who was charged with that task. Would she be able to accomplish it before he did?  Who would win?  

Ultimately, they both lost.  Mr. Yee gave Jiazhi a card and told her to drop by a certain shop to speak directly with the man whose name was on the card.  "If he gives you something, take it," he said. It all sounded rather ominous.  It appeared that Mr. Yee was testing Jiazhi, by enlisting her services as a runner for the collaborators. But instead, when Jiazhi presented Mr. Yee's card at the shop, she was taken into a private room and asked to choose which stone and which setting she would prefer for the ring Mr. Yee wished her to have.  Astonished at this turn of events -- and recognizing that he was softening -- she made her selection.  She then promptly advised the resistance that she could at last identify a time and place to complete the assassination:  when she returned to the shop with Mr. Yee to collect the ring.  

At the appointed time, with resistance agents in place at every corner and in every surrounding vestibule, Mr. Yee and Jiazhi entered the shop.  When the jeweler presented the ring to her, Jiazhi was stunned by its beauty.  She asked Mr. Yee if he approved her selection.  Mr. Yee responded that he cared nothing for the ring, but only wished to see it on her.  He then gently slid the ring on her finger.  They locked eyes, and she said, very softly, "Go now."  Almost like an afterthought.  He was puzzled. She repeated, "Go now." His face changed as he apprehended her meaning, and he fled.

That evening, Mr. Yee signed Jiazhi's death warrant, and she and her fellow resistance agents were shot in the back of the head while kneeling at the edge of a quarry.  Mr. Yee did not bother to interrogate her, and when the ring that he'd bought her was returned to him, he denied that it was his.  Yet he returned to the room where she had stayed at his home, and his desolation was palpable as he contemplated the emptiness that lay before him. 

Jiazhi may well have regretted her "go now" in those moments before the bullet ended her consciousness.  But should she have?  Wasn't she right to be guided by the immediacy of her connection with Mr. Yee when he finally bared himself to her, without defense?  Isn't there something inhuman and immoral in a person who can elevate loyalty to a cause -- however justified -- above that? Yet had she done so, she would have saved her own life, the lives of her fellow fighters, and the lives of countless Chinese people resisting the brutal occupation of their country by Japan. 

I nevertheless tend to think that hers was the more moral choice. 

Is god Great?

Christopher Hitchens has concluded that god is not great; that indeed, we must free ourselves of all priestcraft if we are ever to realize our potential for self-sufficient virtue. Human decency, Hitchens asserts, “does not derive from religion. It precedes it.” Socrates appears to have urged a similar conclusion when he challenged Euthyphro to define piety. Euthyphro suggested that right actions are actions that are approved of by the gods. Socrates's response: is virtue loved by the gods because it is virtuous, or is it virtuous because it is loved by the gods? If the latter, then righteousness is entirely arbitrary, dependent on the whim of the gods, and reference must therefore be made to some other source to guide one's course. If the former, and the gods' love right actions only because they are right, then there must be a non-divine source of righteousness.

I am not particularly interested in whether god exists (having already come to a conclusion on that point -- subject, of course, to evidence to the contrary). But I am interested in whether he (or she or it or they -- for simplicity and familiarity, let's say he) inspires righteousness. If god is -- as one blogger has described Barack Obama -- "a noble lie that tricks us into self-improvement," then perhaps he is great.

But do we need god to be tricked into self-improvement? Does the aspiration to human decency and righteousness derive from god, or does god simply embody (for believers) those aspirations that pre-exist god? I believe the answer is the latter. And if it is the former, I nevertheless reject that answer because I cannot believe in an arbitrary code of moral conduct that references nothing but god's approval. Especially when god appears to have approved -- and even demanded -- so many contemptible things.

Or, for those of us motivated more by fear than hope, perhaps god is great because only he can trick us into self-improvement by the threat of everlasting damnation. (And for those who believe in god this way, there is the added bonus that one can take solace in contemplating the damnation of all those smug infidels who will surely get theirs in the end.)

But if god motivates primarily through fear, then when we discover he does not exist we are suddenly free to rape, pillage, and steal our neighbors' porn -- at last!! This would not be great. Yet I suspect that it is why the god-fearing sort, and other god apologists, are so concerned that god's existence be "proven" as a matter of faith: If one were to lose one's faith, all hell would instantly break loose.

It may also be the reason that athiests are so distrusted. According to a 1999 Gallup poll, 50% of Americans would not vote for an athiest candidate solely on that basis. More by far than would not vote for a woman, or for a black person. More than would not vote for a transsexual. After Barack Obama's Reverend Wright apology speech, Sam Harris noted: "Obama's candidacy is [ ] depressing, for it demonstrates that even a person of the greatest candor and eloquence must still claim to believe the unbelievable in order to have a political career in this country. We may be ready for the audacity of hope. Will we ever be ready for the audacity of reason?"

I am an athiest because I do not believe in god. But then neither do the 1.1 million individuals in this country who identify themselves as Buddhists. Nor do many of the 600,000 individuals in this country who identify themselves as Unitarians. Luckily, I am not a politician. But if I were more prudent, I might identify myself as something else, like Buddhist, or Unitarian, or even "humanist" so long as it somehow smacked of religion. This would be more likely to assure people that at least I was trying -- misguided as I might be. And maybe someday I will identify myself as one of these, or all of these, or none of the above.

Ultimately, however, whether one identifies as atheist or not, I do not consider believing in god to be a choice. If I could believe, I likely would. I expect there is much comfort to be found in "knowing" that there is an omnipotent being who sees all, has a plan for you, responds to your petitions, and keeps your loved ones preserved and ready for reunion after death. And I would take Pascal's wager, if I could.

But I cannot. If I am wrong and god turns out to exist after all, then I suppose I will be damned for all time. But I will still ask god: Did you want me to profess belief that I did not have? Would it have been better for me to pretend faith? Is there no value in the truth? I suppose god would say "No," and down I'd go.

See, that's why I cannot believe in him.

The Pursuit of Happiness

It appears that the votes went against Socrates.  Collective wisdom has concluded that the unexamined life is indeed worth living.  At least from the perspective of the being living it, if not from Socrates'.  (I had no idea he was such a manipulative, self-serving, and arrogant bastard.)  There appears to be some controversy, however, as to whether the examined life is a happier life -- or conversely, whether examination itself is the cause of all misery.  

Still searching for the answers to life's persistent questions, and risking my own happiness, I am propelled to examination no. 2:  

Blaise Pascal posited:  "All men seek happiness. There are no exceptions. However different the means they may employ, they all strive towards this goal.... The will never takes the least step except to that end. This is the motive of every act of every man...."  A random scripture (I refuse to identify the source) proclaims:  "Men are, that they might have joy."

Are the above sentiments correct:  Is happiness the end all and be all of existence?   

Or, is the pursuit of happiness merely one of two or more other unalienable rights with which we have been endowed (by the Creator, or whomever)?  

Or, is the pursuit of happiness and the avoidance of pain itself the source of suffering, as the historical Buddha concluded?

Or is the answer none of the above?

If the answer is choice number 1, then if a person attains a subjective feeling of well-being, has the goal been reached, game over?  Or does it require a subjective feeling of well-being that lasts for some pre-ordained period of time?  If so, how long?  Does a 45-year euphoria induced by a lobotomy qualify?  If it lasts one's entire life on this earth, is that good enough, or do you have to be happy in the hereafter as well?  Is "happiness" really a code word for something else?  If a no-account, loathsome and immoral human being is happy, by his or her own report, has that individual hit the bullseye?  

If the answer is choice number 2 -- the pursuit of happiness is just one of many unalienable rights -- is it waivable?  Or are we stuck with it, whether we want it or not?  Can we trade it in for something we deem more valuable?

If the answer is choice number 3, then shouldn't Buddha and Jefferson engage in a sumo contest to see who wins?

What is the goal (or non-goal) anyway?

The Unexamined Life

Socrates concluded that the unexamined life was not worth living.  I discovered today that I can expect to live 95 years.  (To determine your own personal life expectancy, see www.livingto100.com.)  Without giving away my age, let me just say that leaves me about half a century.  Therefore, because time is pressing, and because it would be a shame to get to the end only to find out that Socrates was right, I figure I better start examining.  

Examination number 1:  Is the unexamined life in fact not worth living?  Or is it simply less meaningful that it might have been?  

Or was Socrates spot off.  Perhaps it's preferable not to examine.  Maybe we should just be?

Would anyone but Socrates really choose actual death over a little harmless vegetation? 

What about plants and animals?  Do they examine?  If they don't, is their life less worth living?

Is examination only important if you're a philosopher?  Or does it transcend your particular field?  If you're a poet, is the unrhymed life not worth living?  Or if you're a lawyer (god forbid), is the unlitigated life not worth living?

What makes life worth living anyway?