Dumbed-down spirituality and the quest for a really good Top

I'm home in DC now, but I still have several films about which I want to write-- mostly because most of them won't find theatrical release and I hope to encourage my reader(s) to seek them out via alternative venues. Though, certainly, some are more worthy than others.

Case in point: I took my mom to see a documentary called Spiritual Revolution. She's always got at least one toe dipped into the metaphysical community here in Nashville, and I thought she might be more amenable to sitting through an exploration of non-mainstream spirituality than most of my more skeptical friends. Unfortunately, though this movie was, indeed, billed as "a look at Eastern spirituality in the Western World," it's really not much beyond a precursory billboard for meditation. If I'm going to be fair, I would say that this movie could serve as a really great primer for folks who've never ever ever thought to consider the basic tenets of Buddhist and Hindu mysticism. But, as I said, my mom's been thinking these thoughts for quite a while... and I've also done my fair share of poking around in Eastern philosophy (such that I've been able to determine that, while the focus is often different than Judeo-Christian thinking, it's still religion and therefore has a bunch of rules for living that I'll never be capable of adopting wholesale). Although I'm certainly nothing beyond a novice, neither of us learned anything new-- or anything we both weren't deeply familiar already.

In fact, most of the talking heads (assorted gurus and psychology scholars) didn't say much of anything that was even remotely profound. They spoke in abstracted soundbites without delving into any of the real meaty explorations of the mind with which they have all doubtlessly been engaged for some years. They occasionally hinted at anecdotes from their own lives, but I never grasped a full understanding of how these people came to believe that they'd gained greater access to peace, enlightenment, what have you, than your average churchgoer. I blame not so much the interviewees for this flaw in the film as I do the whole interview process and, probably, the editing. They were clearly asked questions designed to flatter them (oh, Swami! You're so enlightened! How'd you get that way?) and that merely skimmed the surfaces of their studies. And if they offered any more complicated, nuanced or scholarly answers, those responses were doubtlessly omitted from the final cut. Dumb editorial decision, I'd say.

And then I encountered a couple of structural and attitudinal problems that have really stuck in my craw. If I'm going to be honest, I'd probably have to admit that, had I not sat through the director's Q&A after, I might not be quite so irked, but man! He really hit a couple sour notes. First of all, he explained how this film came to be included in the NaFF. While NaFF has hosted countless religious documentaries, most of them have poured forth from a Christian perspective--- assuming that those sorts of films will find greater audience in this here Bible Belt. Well, this dude (the director) said that when NaFF approached him, he balked. Nashville? Who in Nashville, with all the country music and bumpkins, is gonna be open to a film about Buddhist meditation? And he seemed shocked to have found a receptive audience here. Well, I got news for you, dude! Not all of Nashville is composed of rednecks and banjo strummers. I hate it that comments like his make me feel so defensive about this city in which I've spent so many years, but honestly! Nashville's like Hipster Central these days and I just don't know when this town's going to outlive its reputation. Really, the only people around here who wear cowboy boots do so with irony. Wise up, rest of the country! Nashvillians ain't all the inbred hayseed Christian zealots you might think we are. So, immediately, even though he thanked the audience (smugly, as far as I could tell) for "helping him break through his own stereotypes," I was immediately annoyed that he'd been so uncouth as to bring them up in the first place.

And then this poor woman in the audience asked a question about why there were so few women in the movie. She had an accent and didn't articulate her question very well. But he copped a little attitude and blustered, "Well, what about the whole section in there ABOUT women?" And it was all I could do to not be completely rude and to hold my tongue. I really just wanted to blurt out, "Oh, you mean the little ghetto-chapter you set up for them?" But he'd never have understood what I meant. Here's the woman problem in this film as I see it: he said he wanted to approach the film from the stance of tradition and then move into newer developments in the field of Eastern religious study in America. OK, that's fine. But women's participation in Eastern religion is new? Are you sure about that? Isn't Kuan Yin, the mother of the Buddha, one of the primary figures in the religion? Along with assorted other female boddhisatvas? And, as Kuan Yin supposedly birthed Siddhartha, wouldn't she actually predate Buddhism? His is a problematic conceit, to say the least.

Anyway, instead of integrating the women's stories throughout, he made a special section in which he interviewed them-- and then, with deplorably limited vision and understanding with regard to their actual roles in their field, he asked them only questions that pertained to the female experience of being a spiritual seeker in a so-called male-dominated world. Or, at least, these were the only responses that he included in the film, so I can only assume that they were not asked anything more interesting. They were not asked to tell their stories of religious epiphanies, nor were they asked to contribute to the greater discussions with regard to modern science and meditation or anything else.

Their voices were only present so that they could say that, yes, indeed, Buddhism and Hinduism are still primarily male endeavors and we women have won our status only by hardscrabbling and and putting up with marginalization. And this line of thinking can only perpetuate their marginalization within the religions. So, ultimately, despite his smug self-congratulations that he had, indeed, had the brilliant idea to ask some of the girls to join in the documentarian fun, he's done nothing but ghettoize their experiences, simply by setting aside a chapter for them, rather than including their contributions as equal perspectives within the whole. Really, it was his smugness in his response to that poor woman from the audience that irked me so-- moreso, even, than the film itself.

I realize that those less versed in this sort of gender politics make this mistake in documentaries-- and more commonly, in TV programs like Dateline, 20/20 and pretty much everything you'll ever see on the History Channel-- all the time. I see it a lot and yeah, it's annoying, but those programs are meant to be consumable by a largely uninformed public. So, it would be understandable if the director had pointedly made such a concession for the sake of his audience. But he made it clear that this editorial decision was made on the basis of obliviousness, rather than audience awareness.

So, here's how my imaginary conversation with this director might have gone (were I as articulate in spontaneous conversation as I am when I have time to think and write):

A play in one act:

Dramatis personae:
Me (to be played by Jessica Alba)
Smug Director (to be played by a slovenly gas station attendant from Neptune, NJ)
Lady in the Audience (to be played by Charlotte Gainsbourg)
My Mom (to be played by Mrs. Potts, the teapot in the Disney Sleeping Beauty, wearing a bindi)

Lady: But what about the women?

Him: (rolls eyes) Don't you remember the whole section on women?

Me: (interrupting rudely) Oh, you must mean that chapter you devised for them. The one that's nothing beyond an textual ghetto?

Him: (blankly, chewing the end of a drinking straw) Huh? What do you mean?

Me: Rather than integrating their individual experiences into the greater collective experience, you set the women in your film aside and provided them an outlet in which they were only permitted to discuss "issues important to women."

Him: (blinks four times, wiggling the drinking straw between his thumb and index finger) I didn't mean it that way.

Me: (getting pink, talking too fast, gesticulating a little too aggressively) Oh, I know you didn't intend it to be that way. But you have, in fact, created a structural implication that merely perpetuates the sense of female marginalization within your film. Your obliviousness kind of makes it worse. Because now it's an oversight-- a political blindspot. You didn't even consider that they might have something to contribute other than complaints that the system is biased against them? Did it ever once occur to you to ask them the same questions you asked the rest of your talking heads?

Him: Huh? (six blinks, followed by a George W-esque squint. He drops the drinking straw.)

Me: (audible sigh, with jaw set with resignation) Right. (Aside to My Mom, the teapot, who has the bareliest whisper of steam emerging from around her lid) And this joker thinks he's so evolved? Let's stomp out. Noisily.

My Mom and Me: (simultaneous bird flippage. Exeunt theater.)

Fin



Despite all the generally shoddy craftsmanship at work in this film, I have to admit that there was actually a tiny firecracker within it that jangled some other bells in my head. A section of this film pertains to a program called Inner Kids, based at UCLA, that's really pretty nifty. This is a program designed to expose kids, some of whom are quite troubled, to assorted self-soothing practices, including meditation. In some of the footage, one of the leaders has the kids partake in this interesting little exercise. He has the kids hold ice cubes in the palms of their hands. He asks them to just sit with the sensation, trying not to judge it as good or bad, even if it hurts a little. Now, I'm super-sensitive to cold things. Holding an ice cube is really very painful for me. I can touch hot things to the point where my skin gets damaged before it really hurts, but I have no tolerance for cold. So, I really understood what this exercise was attempting to show these kids-- that being, if you can just sit with an experience, and turn off the fear-of-pain mechanism in your brain, you open yourself more fully to the experience itself.

Now. Wanna know of what that reminded me? S&M. Yep. Sure did. Well, in particular, the theory behind the transcendence of submission. Dominating holds very little appeal for me. In my day-to-day life, I feel pretty self-posessed. I'm hopelessly independent and don't much like it when people make decisions for me. When I've been put in supervisory positions at work, I feel no compunctions against telling other people what to do-- and I respect the people who report to me, so I like to think they respect me in return. But the practice of submission fascinates me. The process by which I'd make myself-- body and mind-- so utterly available and vulnerable to another person both thrills me and makes me nervous as hell. In my opinion, being a bottom requires far more mental fortitude than being a top does. Submitting means enduring whims beyond your control-- whims that could possibly cause you physical pain. It means sitting still with yourself until you figure out how to quell your petulant rebellions. And it means forgoing all self-preservation instincts in favor of trusting another person exhaustively -- someone outside of you who has his or her own free will. It's not easy.

Recently, I quietly added a new blog to my blogroll. This woman over at Beautiful, depraved is plumbing through some truly fascinating netherregions. I'm very drawn to her work here because, not only is her writing limpid and exact, but she pushes beyond simple smuttiness to finger her way into the psyschology of all that is sexual. This post in particular describes the exact thing I'm attempting to articulate.

Here's a paragraph that I find particularly relevant:

After a beating, I was malleable. Soft. Suppliant. Full of feeling. After each blow, he had me thank him. I didn’t understand the power of this until one day I was at my gym after a workout, in the communal showers. I turned the faucet all the way to cold and I felt the water hit my skin. Something curious had happened. I didn’t distinguish anymore that the water was cold or that it was uncomfortable. I was only aware of it as a sensation. I had no judgment of it, only the experience of noticing it was cold. I did not flinch, I did not back away, I accepted it completely. That’s when I realized that I’d ceased to let the fear of pain prevent me from living. Or more precisely, from loving. The thank yous became a thank you to life, and to all that it might bring me.

Do you see the connection? Yielding your own autonomy and allowing your lover to beat you or holding an ice cube in your hand-- it's the same instinct. The instinct towards transcendence. But also, it's the instinct toward mindfulness. And being present. And living as fully as possible. And it's perhaps exactly why sex, as a mental exercise, fascinates me beyond all other aspects of the human experience. Sex is such a singular experience that it consumes one's focus whole. It's at once unequivocally physical and, if it's good, unreservedly intellective. It blows the roof off your crown chakra, right?

So, Spiritual Revolution is a poorly founded, poorly edited film that belongs on basic cable. But it's subject matter is important. And it bears relevance to so many other ideas about which I ponder frequently. I wish the thing was better-made. I really do. Because I do think it's important that information about Eastern thought be made available to any and all comers. Hopefully, smarter filmmakers will come along and do just that. And quick.