La Promesse

"I will meet her again and marry her one day," said he.

That was the ending of the film I've just watched. It's about a guy being ditched by his heroine. With glassy eyes he looks into the sunset and weeps before riding into the dusty town road on his faithful donkey. The ambiguity of the ending does not provide comfort as the audience is left figuring out will he or will he not sell off his donkey to the abattoir-owner to find the said-heroine in some distant land to fulfill his promise.

It reminded me somewhat of "Au Hasard Balthazar", a 95-minute Black and White filmed by the undisputed maestro, Robert Bresson. The whole movie was about this donkey, whose life was so miserable and unredeeming I felt like pelting stones onto his aggressors (read: human) and onto the director for having the audacity to make a film so sincere with its depiction of suffering and acceptance. Forget Disney feel-good schmaltz: this cinematic purity left me with escalating despair and numb sadness about the cruelty of the world. I came out of the cinema needing pints of alcohol badly to drown my jaded cynicism, the latter floated effortlessly to the surface every five minutes or so.

The story, that of a donkey's life who suffered in the hands of various humans is austerely filmed in agonising slow takes. I winced to think that I sat through the entire length of the cinematic experience watching martyr-like surrender of the character. I hate martyrs. I agree wholeheartedly when Nietzsche said that Man eventually, in the end, does everything out of his own vanity. Martyrs top that list.

Schopenhauer on the other hand painted self-denial and self-sacrifice in golden colours, idolising and etherealising these values. This coming from the same man who said that life is all but suffering, and that it is merely a mistake created through carnal desire. Oh whatever. Give me Sympathy for Lady Vengeance and Kill Bill anytime. Poetic redemption beats martyrdom. It does not indulge in self-denial and self-sacrifice. It exalts beheading gracefully with a samurai sword to whoever f***s your life.

I think Schopenhauer should've drunk more wine, have some good unadulterated sex and watch the sunsets more. Zen master Ikkyu would've gained a much more profound understanding of life from observing a flower petal than on sitting on misery of life. And he doesn't condone self-sacrifice.

Martyrdom. Spare me those. If you have to go down, go down in style and fury. If you burn bridges, burn them completely to ashes. If I have to wait for someone in the sunset, I'll pack my board and head to Sumba.

And that is why my mom is seriously thinking of disowning me.