Far away, through the stone, he heard the weird cry of the monster that guarded the pool.
* * * *
10.
Maggot leaned against the piles of stones. After several hours, he expected his eyes to adjust to the darkness but he still couldn't see a thing. His head throbbed, sore as ever. “It feels like it's almost time for sundeath,” he said.
"The shadows are getting long,” Holly responded from the other side. “But not quite yet."
Every time he'd tried shifting the rocks, she'd started screaming at him to stop, adding more slabs of stone to the other side.
"You aren't going to leave me in here all night, are you?” he asked. “We'll look for food together."
"No,” she said wearily. “You'll just chase after that animal again."
"I promise I won't. He's gone over the mountains by now."
"Maybe, maybe not. I'll sniff out his path to be sure. Then I'll come back and let you out."
He stood up and paced in the dark. Three steps forward, two to the right to find the pile of feathers and bones left over from the bird. Four steps forward, seven to the left to find the bow and sword and other tools. Two steps beyond that were the stones she'd thrown at him in her first panic. His feet knew and avoided most of the debris scattered on the floor.
"It's too small out here,” she said, meaning the anteroom. “I'm squeezed. I've had to see the daylight at the end of the cave all day long.” Her voice was terrified.
He retraced his steps. “I'm sorry, Holly. This is a much better room in here. No sun at all. Open it up again."
"No. Maybe at nightend. Depends on what I find."
Maggot sat down.
"You're going to try to run away,” she said.
He didn't answer.
"I won't let you,” she said.
Her statement was followed by another loud crack as she ripped away another section of the stone veneer and smashed it onto the pile covering the door. He breathed deeply, measuring his strength. It would have to be sufficient.
"Has night come yet?” he asked after another pause.
It was her turn to be silent. After a while, she said, “Yes. I'm going out now. Stay here until I come back."
"I'm not going anywhere,” he said.
He pressed his ear to the stone, listening for her to leave. Carefully, he reached up to the top of the pile. It was thinnest there, and he thought he could quickly clear a space big enough to crawl through. He very gently removed one piece of rubble, setting it softly down on the ground. A second piece followed it, and a third. The fourth stone he removed opened a crack as wide as his finger. A gray light filtered in, then was suddenly cut off.
Air blew through a nose. “Stop that!” Holly commanded. She drummed out the danger beat upon her breast.
"I don't want to stay in here,” he answered.
There came a sound of smashing and cracking, with more stones piled up against the narrow doorway. He wondered if there was any wall left out there at all.
"You can quit,” he called out. “You can quit!"
She slapped more stones onto the pile. “I'll stay here all night if I have to."
"No,” Maggot hollered back. “Just go sniff out the man's trail. Make sure he's gone."
"Don't tell me what to do!"
He measured out the steps of his little prison once again, three steps, two steps, over to the gobble-bird, trying to think of something he could say to change Holly's mind. There was still meat on the wings, and he ate some more, knowing he'd need the strength later. It helped ease his thirst some as well. Two steps, three steps back to where he started. Counting and remembering was an old troll habit, ingrained in him by his mother from earliest childhood so that he would never lose his way in the caverns underground. Just like he had done in those caves, he began to explore, memorizing every crack in the wall and pebble on the floor. When he came around the stones that Holly had hurled at him, he found the chipped block in the wall. He was tracing the outline of the scratch when he felt the block move under his fingers.
"La la la, la,” Holly said on the other side of the stone.
"Go on!” Maggot shouted. “I'll wait for you!"
He was already pushing on the block, pulling with his fingernails, until it came loose. He jumped back as it fell so it wouldn't land on his feet. He cringed at the noise, waiting for a reaction from Holly in the antechamber. But there was nothing.
Slowly he put his hand into the vacant space, expecting to find another stone behind the first. Instead, he found emptiness. He thrust his arm into the opening as far as his shoulder, reaching around. There was another hollow behind this wall, just as there had been behind the wall outside.
The mortar that held the stones together turned to grainy dust as he shoved the blocks back and forth, pulling one after another from their perches and setting them quietly on the floor. It became easier as he went, the stones sliding out with less and less effort until a whole group of them fell in a cascade of rock.
He was sure Holly heard it, and he waited for the rush of stones being pulled away from the door as she charged in to stop him. But nothing happened.
Thrusting the fallen stones aside, he squeezed through the short, narrow opening and found a narrow space between walls. His fingertips searched carefully, finding sculptures like those on the outside of the pyramid. The stone had the unmistakable wear associated with weathering, as though an older structure had been enclosed within a new one, now grown old as well. He retrieved the sword and bow and arrows Ehren had left behind.
The older building behind the false wall had a different shape than the pyramid that covered it. The space between was filled in behind by gravel, but not completely, or else the stone had settled. Pushing the quiver and scabbard ahead of him, Maggot wormed his way over the loose gravel. Carvings at the corner of the old structure left room for him to slip down a level, then another. It almost seemed as if the builders had been intent on preserving the carved men that guarded the older building. With each level he left behind a little skin.
Black surrounded him, a night as dark as the comforting night that trolls looked for when they died. He felt his way ahead, fingers stretching into the darkness. Slight movements of air, feathering over him, guided him down to the bottom level. He shoved his weapons ahead of him, into a space a little more than a foot wide. Stretched out at an angle, pressed tight between a slab of stone and the compacted rubble, he took a deep breath and pushed ahead.
He couldn't move. He tried to ease back and couldn't budge that way either. He was trapped.
The faintest wind stirred on his face, and a whistle, distant but clear, came from the same direction. His chest could not expand enough to draw another breath.
When he released part of the breath he held, however, he found he could move a bit. He kicked, pushing stones back with his toes, with his knees. Finally he could twist the one hand stuck at his side. He thrust stones through his legs, until the arm came free. Then the other slid back to join it, and he was pawing like a dog digging a hole. Or a grave. Because if there was no way forward, there was no longer a way back.
An inch at a time, he wiggled ahead, shoving the quiver in front of him with his forehead, until it dropped away and he saw light coming through a hole as long as his arm, no bigger around than his fist. He shoved the bow and the sword after it, and then he attempted to swim through stone, shoving rubble through his legs and kicking it into the emptiness behind him. The hole grew larger. He gulped in breaths of fresh air, listened to a clicking sound from outside, and watched dust motes dance in the sunlight. At last he pushed his head through, and his shoulders.
He was at the base of the pyramid, where the windblown tree had upturned the foundation stones. With a cry of agony he twisted free, pulling himself through the last hole and into a grotto formed by cracked and upturned slabs of stone. Too long blinded by darkness, he was now blinded by light. He lifted his arm to shield his face and heard the clicks a
gain, only a few feet away. When he bent to gather his weapons he saw the source.
A skunk stood beside her nest, hidden in the tumble-down rocks, stamping her feet and hissing at him. Her tail was raised straight up in the air.
"Please,” he said quietly, “don't spray—"
At the sound of his voice, she jumped, emitting a jet of mist straight at him. He grabbed his weapons and tried to leap over her, but he stumbled. She sprayed again.
He covered his stinging eyes, and squeezed through the gap between the roots and rocks. He stumbled over the vine-covered stones, across the dead tree, and out into the broad, empty plaza occupied only by daylight.
A lone carrion bird circled above, a black slash wheeling in the blue sky. Beneath it, on the edge of the long pool, Maggot spied a lump on the ground. He went to its side, saw what it was, and knelt beside it.
The man he'd known as Ehren had been slashed from crotch to collarbone by Big Stinky.
Maggot stood up, fists clenched for a reason he didn't understand. He started to walk away, then spun and kicked the body. He kicked it again and again, so viciously it nearly separated the parts. His breath came hard through his nose.
The jewel rested a short distance away. Maggot picked it up—it was cold to the touch, as lifeless as the corpse. He carried it over and threw it in the pool, watching it sink into the bottomless muck and disappear. Then, with a second glance at the carrion bird, he dragged Ehren's body over to the edge and did the same, waiting until it also sank.
Holly would have to be in hiding. Maggot bounded up the steps to tell her what had happened. His fists were still clenched—it was her fault, she was the one who made Ehren afraid, made him run. Halfway up the pyramid, Maggot faltered. He could see Holly standing outside her cave.
Her back was bent, a chunk of stone in her hand. Her head was turning, eyes lifted up to the west.
She'd torn down so much of her hiding place to block in Maggot that the sun had caught her just before it set. Turned her to stone. His fists fell open.
"Oh, Holly,” Maggot said softly.
He stood there, as still as she was. Then he went back and snatched up the weapons. Stupid man. Stupid troll. He didn't need men or trolls. He was covered by a layer of dust, filling the smaller scratches that overlay the deeper cuts from the panther. He smelled like a skunk. He needed a bath, a place to rest. That was all.
The path to the rim of the valley passed half in sunlight, half beneath the shadow of the trees. All he could think of, as he went, was how happy he'd been to laugh with Ehren, and how good it had been to sit with Holly and speak the familiar language of his youth.
Without realizing it, Maggot turned toward the lands where men and trolls lived, and lengthened his stride until he was running along the piebald trail.
Films: The Globalization of Leaping Kicks by Kathi Maio
There is nothing more dangerous than success—especially when it comes to moviemaking. We've known that about Hollywood films for forever. A film that does well in the U.S. and beyond will set off a vicious chain of events involving sequels, spin-offs, and countless derivative and degrading copycat movies.
I used to believe that somehow international films were immune to that imitative downward spiral. With state and independent producer supports for filmmakers as well as audiences that really seemed to celebrate a talented writer-director as a true “auteur,” the making of films in foreign lands appeared to be more an act of artistic creation than an act of commerce.
Perhaps that was never true. In any case, it doesn't seem true anymore.
Globalization is a powerful and terrible thing.
Case in point is how every oh-so-serious art house director from China thinks that they need to start making martial arts films because they're hot (and cool) and beloved by audiences worldwide. The Chinese film industry has discovered the power of ka-ching, baby. And the Chairman's children now know that big box office means grasping for dollars and euros, as well as yuans.
Film geek turned filmmaker Quentin Tarantino is partially to blame for making martial arts movies hip. Although it's not as though we haven't always loved the sheer wacked-out energy of Hong Kong “kung fu.” (There's good reason that Bruce Lee has been considered a demigod on both sides of the Pacific for more than thirty years.)
Even more influential was the critical and phenomenal worldwide box-office success of Ang Lee's Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000). That film was a watershed. An art house director, celebrated in the West, embraced the popular wuxia (wuxha) chivalrous fable and made it work. And, more to the point, made lots of money doing so.
I was happy when Ang Lee made Crouching Tiger. The martial arts were gorgeous. The women even more so. (Any movie with the divine Michelle Yeoh in it, and I'm there!) And Lee, known for his subtlety and sensitivity, gave his film more emotional depth than the average martial arts movie. His tragic and heroic love stories had the power to affect audiences around the world, even those who had never been fans of martial arts movies before.
After Crouching Tiger, it seemed as though every respected auteur of the Mainland wanted to dirty their hands in popular genre filmmaking. Zhang Yimou, best known for exquisitely shot, realistic dramas like Ju Dou (1991) and Raise the Red Lantern (1992) and The Road Home (1999), has recently gone in hunt of blockbuster success with the big-budget martial arts extravaganzas Hero (2002) and House of Flying Daggers (2004).
And now, Chen Kaige has become the latest of China's art-house auteurs to go for the gold through martial arts moviemaking. It's a move that obviously has the global marketplace in mind, but unfortunately doesn't serve either the temperament of the filmmaker or the entertainment needs of his audience.
Chen, a member of the Fifth Generation school of Mainland filmmakers, made a name for himself with visually striking and emotionally complex films like Farewell My Concubine (1993). But like his film school classmate and former cinematographer, Zhang Yimou, Chen often fell afoul of Chinese censors in his early career. This gradually changed as his films became less rebellious and controversial at the same time that China moved for a wider presence in world film.
Headlines asked, in 1998, whether Chen had “sold out” by making the patriotic historical drama The Emperor and the Assassin. Perhaps the poor man did feel compelled to sell his soul at some point to appease the government and gain access to larger budgets and both domestic and international release for his films. And maybe his latest film, The Promise, is actually an elaborate allegory detailing his fateful Faustian bargain. If so, he shouldn't have to worry whether government censors will get the point, since The Promise is a movie that will likely leave most audience members, from Shanghai to Chicago, scratching their heads in bafflement and disappointment.
The movie opens with a voiceover explanation that the story takes place during a time some 3000 years ago, when humans and gods occupied the same Earthly realm. We then see a dirty little ragamuffin orphan girl grasp a biscuit from the hand of a dead soldier on a battlefield of utter carnage. She soon loses her morsel, and her despair is profound, until a lovely goddess, Manshen (Chen Hong) floats into view. The goddess could have just shown a little compassion for a waif and given her a square meal and wished her well. Instead, she strikes a deal with the little tyke. She can have lifelong comfort and wealth and fame, if she accepts the fact that she will lose any man she loves.
I can't think of one little girl, anywhere in the world, who wouldn't go for that deal! Creature comforts far outweigh dreams of romance at the age of five. (Or almost any other age except sixteen, for that matter.) And what self-respecting goddess makes a binding contract with a hungry kid below the age of reason? I don't mean to be culturally insensitive or anything, but Manshen should turn in her deity papers. At least Hera messed with kids because they were the illegitimate children of her rivals for Zeus's affections. If Manshen has a reason for her capricious malice, we never learn it from Chen's movie.
Instead, the flighty godhead floats awa
y and twenty years pass by in the blink of a eye. It is again (still?) a time of war. An arrogant general, Guangming (Hiroyuki Sanada) is about to draw his barbarian enemies (looking a bit like bad opera valkyries) into battle by luring them into a horseshoe canyon with a group of sacrificial slaves. These include Kunlun (Jang Dong-Gun), a man who can run, on his knees no less, faster than a herd of stampeding bulls. (The special effects here are so cartoonish, you almost expect the Road Runnerish Kunlun to go “Beep! Beep!” as he tears through the dusty canyon.)
Understandably, the general is impressed by Kunlun's speed and talent for survival. So, Guangming claims him as his personal slave. And when the general is wounded and incapable of his own heroics, he shortly thereafter sends Kunlun, disguised in his crimson armor, to save his king when the palace is overrun by the legions of the evil Duke of the North, Wuhuan (Nicholas Tse).
Conveniently, our little orphan, Qingcheng (Cecilia Cheung), is now a “princess” and the consort of the king. Still her comfort level is not high, since she is, when we meet her again, precariously perched on the roof of the palace, surrounded by armed soldiers. In addition, I'm assuming that she doesn't actually love her regal companion, who disses her by suggesting that she strip to distract the military horde.
Sounds like it's time to sue Manshen for not honoring her side of the bargain, but instead, Qingcheng tussles ineffectively with the nasty king, and ends up dangling from the roof tiles. It looks bad for our heroine, until the disguised Kunlun kills the king, catches the falling Qingcheng, and rides off.
Up to this point, the story of The Promise almost retains its own fantasy logic. But when the various characters start to interrelate, the plot becomes a jangled and jumbled collection of scenes, most of which don't seem to hang together or transition from one to the next with any kind of grace or lucidity.
It all appears to have something to do with some sort of love quadrangle between Qingcheng and the three male leads. Unfortunately, none of these characters seems to feel anything toward any other, except perhaps for the evil Duke, a crypto-homosexual figure (played to the hilt by Tse) who seems to hate everyone but nonetheless exhibits a fabulous fashion sense—he has a thing for feathers—and an impressive but deadly talent for fan work.
FSF, October-November 2006 Page 17
