Joy to the World, 2010 is done!

Last year was a battle and I won. I’m still here.  It felt like I reached a plateau of sorts, and I could either ascend or fall off the cliff. I think I’ve ascended. At a caterpillar’s pace, but I’ve inched up a little further.

A friend of mine wrote in her blog that forgiveness is the hardest thing to do. Here, here Stephanie, indeed it is.  But in 2010 I’ve had to forgive my mother for dying (I know it sounds ridiculous, but don’t judge until you’re there- when you lose your mother you too will turn psychologically into a two year old who flies into a tantrum because your mommy left you), I had to forgive God for allowing her to find her deathbed at 62, and I’ve had to forgive myself for hating all of the above including myself. This trifecta can be the hardest-of-hards  for a woman to forgive: your mother, God and yourself. 

But God’s timing (or the universe’s timing, or divine timing for all you new agers and reluctant-believers out there) is indeed perfect and it’s impossible to realize it until the smoke clears. It took me a full year, a year to the day of my mother’s death to come to terms with everything. To really come to terms and not just offering lip service so everyone around me feels better. My faith was tested by fire, or the threat of fire and brimstone I should say.   It was tested by the possibility of no heaven, no God, that we’ve all been fed a whole bunch of lies and that none of it’s true.  The possibility that a 6 foot hole really is the end and there’s nothing after that.

 My sanity was tested by my emotional responses to everything. Have you ever listened to a child cry, noticing that it’s a mind, body and soul experience for them and wonder why you can’t cry like that anymore?  I often did, when I would look at my daughter in the throes of despair over some toy or another, and wonder what it was like to feel so intensely. Hopefully, the majority of adults won’t get their reminder through the loss of a loved one, but I did.  I have been overwhelmed by my emotions before, specifically anger, which is more like a tinder fire, that burns really brightly but because there’s nothing real underneath it, it extinguishes quickly and just leaves powdery white ashes behind as a reminder.  Grief, true grief, is like a tsunami:  washing over you, so much bigger and stronger than your puny human frame, with an undercurrent that will take you out in the middle of nowhere and leave you there until someone finds you. You’re held captive by your sobs, deep and guttural, paralyzing you where you sit, blinded by your own tears to the shore of “life goes on” that offers respite…if you could just get there and remember that it is there in the meantime. 

And then there’s your own shit.  That’s like a mudslide; right after you cleaned your house. Imagine getting your house pristine, perfectly clean down to the baseboards. You’re waiting for your guests, Happiness, Peace and Life. The table’s set, candles lit, wine chilled. And all of a sudden you feel a rumbling under your feet.  It grows louder until your whole house is shaking.  You look out the window and see that coming directly toward your house, is a landslide rolling off your own bullshit mountain. All you can do is get out of your house and watch how your bullshit destroys your own plans.  That’s what trying to fast forward through life’s epic moments does.

But there were so many moments in between that offered solace, and I can only attribute them to God.  Dreams, nature, and people all giving me answers either knowingly or unknowingly. But on Friday December 10, I sat down  home alone on the couch after trying to stay busy all day…trying not to give myself anytime to think, or remember.  But regardless I did and my eyes landed on a framed picture of my mother and me taken on Christmas morning 2005. As soon as tears began to sting the back of my eyes, the phone rang.  It was my mom’s best friend calling to see how I was, and if I needed anything. Then, immediately after, another call.  My daughter’s Nanna, calling for the same reason. Both callers didn’t remember the anniversary and I chose not to remind them.  And when I hung up the phone nearly an hour later, my interrupted grief  was transmuted by their love and concern into immense gratitude. Not to sound gay, but a little voice did tell me quite clearly, “You lack nothing”. I had lost my birth mother, and she remains irreplaceable, but I still have so many earth mothers in her stead.  Faith tempered with moments of angry disbelief taught me beyond doubt that I have a Creator, a Father, who mind-bogglingly cares about the minutiae of my life. And then yeah, I started to cry, but for an entirely different reason. In this moment of clarity, I was able to forgive myself-really, truly, honestly, forgive myself like I would a loved one because I realized that most of my life I haven’t had a bloody clue.  And that’s always a good moment in movies right? When the know-it-all gets checked by life?

And I guess it’s almost cliché that it happened in the twilight of my twenties. Isn’t that how all the celebrities say it goes? Your twenties are the most agonizing, heart-wrenching decade and  then all of a sudden you have some enlightened epiphany on the eve of your thirtieth birthday? Well I’m not there yet, but I have a quarter of a year to go before the floodgates of the magical thirtieth year open and perhaps because of 2010 and all its humbuggery, I no longer fear it (and fear it I did: my last birthday was my “fourth annual 25^th” and to those who didn’t know and had the courage to ask, my automatic response to “How old are you?” was a pointed and interrogative “How old do I look?”).

So even though it’s January 2^nd, even though it’s a Sunday and most suckers have to go to work tomorrow, I will raise a glass tonight as my own personal farewell to 2010. Good riddance to the trials and tribulations, lessons and legalities of life. I’ve had enough thank you. It’s time to live, laugh and play!  Here’s to 2011, a master number of a year that by default alone HAS to bring bigger and better things, but by faith and love will bring more than could be imagined. Salud!  

Final Destination on the Documentary Journey

This final blog review took me to the four corners of the earth and back, with rare insight into places and experiences I can’t say I would have the privilege of seeing otherwise. I’ve learned by now that documentaries tend to do that.

This week I travelled to the Oval Office to hear President Barack Obama talk about his party’s defeat after the mid-term elections and what the past two years of his presidency have been like. 60 Minutes’ Steve Kroft was my tour guide. The fact that this interview took place exactly two years to the day after he was elected and two days after the midterm election added poignancy to this interview, and a lesson to me and my fellow students that timing is everything. The timing alone distinguishes this interview from regular media-pandering to the masses; it is a leader being held accountable for his decisions and actions. The timing is what made this interview relevant.

Kroft gets the President to shed light on his feelings for the mid-term defeat, a stubbornly stagnant economy, tax cuts and the burgeoning strength of the right-wing Tea Party despite his best efforts. The interview is most aptly summarized, I think, when Kroft talks to Obama about the disappointment felt by his most ardent supporters and tells of an overall sentiment that he’s “lost his mojo” so to speak—the fires that fuelled his campaign and climb to the top have extinguished. “I take personal responsibility for that” says Obama and he goes on to explain that work, and “focusing on getting a bunch of stuff done’’ have taken a front seat to other elements of politics such as persuasion and public confidence.  Basically, I saw the most famous rookie in the world explain that he’s made a few fumbles over the last two years and that his expectations, much like those of the Americans that voted him into office, had to be adjusted to fit the dire straits of the situation he walked into. It was riveting because it was partly seeing him in the hot-seat that appealed to my Oprah-generation-need-for-must-see-TV-sensibility, and also an earnest curiosity that wants to know what this man is going through as a human being. How does it feel Mr. President, now that the banners are down, “yes we can” is a question in the headlines, and no one cares what your wife is wearing anymore?

Bob Simon then takes the 60 Minutes audience to the Philippines, to learn about a man who despite enormous hurdles has claimed victory in every lion’s den he’s found himself in. Manny Pacquiao: born one of six children to a single mother, in one of the most poverty stricken countries in the world tells how he went from earning two hundred pesos a day  selling cigarettes in the street (roughly $2 US)  to earning millions as a heavyweight champion, national treasure and Filipino Congressman.  

I have to say I can’t recall the last time, if ever, I have watched an episode of 60 Minutes. I remember with great familiarity the signature stop watch ticking down the seconds in the soundtrack of my life, as anyone who’s lived past 1968 when the show began can claim as well. Perhaps I’m spoiled, and perhaps it is because I am watching through somewhat of a critical lens, but I found some elements, or lack thereof, made the show harder to follow.  Narration introduces each and every subject into the story. Granted, during the Presidential interview, no CG’s with a name are required. But names like Bob Arum, and Freddy Roach floated around the voiceovers during Pacquiao’s segment and if I were tuning in mid sequence I would not have a clue who these people are, or what expertise they’re offering on the subject (or even the host names for that matter if you’re not listening). I suppose when you’ve been around for more than forty years, you’re free to stylize things as minimally as you care to… but it seemed a bit antiquated in my opinion. I’ve come to see documentaries like books—offering a broad glimpse into a specific time in history, with details that one can pursue to expert level if desired. However, if I wanted to pursue the history of Bob Arum, or Freddy Roach, I wouldn’t even know how to spell their names. By and large, details are what an audience needs for validation; name dropping doesn’t cut it anymore.  You may disagree, or maybe it’s the journalist in me, but they may as well have introduced these people as Bob what’s-his-face, or that guy Freddy.

But it’s not unique to 60 Minutes as I will find in my other picks of the week.

Courtesy of  TVOntario  I took a trip across the Pacific and back in time to September 1944:  the year that western society and warfare were introduced to the Kamikaze, and enemies that would rather die than surrender.  Australia Films’ The Road to Tokyo blends archival film footage and eyewitness accounts from Veterans and civilians with historical experts to tell of a region and time in WWII that, at least in Canadian public schools, is rarely told.

This is a national film so although it’s told entirely from the  Australian perspective, it quite valuably  offers the overlooked contribution and sacrifice that Australians made in 1944-45, until the atomic bomb destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki ending the war.

As I mentioned earlier, The Road to Tokyo is another example of how I have come to depend on CGs to introduce characters for visual stories. But rather than an audio blurb of a person’s name and credentials, this documentary introduced characters with still photos when they were young and narration of their connection to the war: a slow zoom over Les Keith when he was young in full military garb with a cross dissolve to his wizened face today as tells the camera that the “Japanese were madmen…they wanted to die because if they died for the Emperor they lived on in heaven…that’s the way they looked at it”; Allison Todd who’s father went to war  when she was 13 with a fade up to her present day face etched with the lines of longevity recounting through tears her nightmares, searching for her father in a crowd but never being able to find him.  This method of visual storytelling doesn’t allow the viewer to forget who these people are.  And with Remembrance Day tomorrow, and our last eyewitness accounts passing inevitably to meet their fallen comrades in the beyond, it is imperative that these stories representing crucial moments in our history be told memorably.

Director Wim Wenders commissions a trip to Cuba to talk to musical veterans of the same generation, but who were hit hardest by the Cold War. I find this to be an extremely unique story. We’ve all heard the of struggling governments,  boys and girls who go from rags to riches, and even the war stories of veterans that remain shaken to present day after several decades (although never so descriptively and in such geographical context).

But have you ever heard of a boy who was orphaned at twelve with only a song in his heart and his mother’s cane as his most precious possession, being sought out by Americans to sing and perform for audiences across the globe and make it to the pinnacle of concert halls, Carnegie Hall, nearly 50 years later? Me neither.  

Each one of the musicians we meet in the feature length documentary, The Buena Vista Social Club, represents incredible odds such as these. This film has an intoxicating, magical quality, and I think it’s because each shot focuses more on music and sound rather than socio-political shortcomings.  The film is rank with visual references to the dilapidated, near decrepit relics of Cuba’s glory days; this is not your tour bus Havana, carefully orchestrated from the offices of the Varadero five-stars. But the genius is, I think, that it is all shown without narration. That silence is what gives a voice to a people who have been told to grin and bear it, and who are too proud to do otherwise.

This film for me was so much of a subjective experience that it makes it harder to comment on.  My tendency is to gush! I loved the music, the humanity, the poverty in circumstance but wealth in experience and soul…but the film did leave me with a nagging question: to narrate or not to narrate? That is the question, for the documentary producer.

 Joachim Cooder has a role in the film filling in for drummers from Africa who never made it to Cuba. He is also the son of the American producer Ry Cooder who navigated the musical waters of Havana for the film. He says, “There’s no kind of learning like the kind of learning you get from the guys here. It’s so subtle, and quiet and powerful at the same time.” That pretty much sums of the journey I’ve taken on the Documentary Review.  By no means do I consider myself an expert now on what does or does not a great documentary make. But to my credit, I have seen films that have enriched my mind, my method and my cinematographic vocabulary to a point where I have much more respect for the genre and confidence in what works. I feel smarter and more sophisticated for it, which as we get older, becomes a more rare experience.   My life is changing because of my education. It’s forcing my mind open, despite my resistance and whining and complaining and it makes me ponder my legacy.   But in response to the question posed earlier, I know that legacies lie with what has been included or not included in a main d’oeuvre, and knowing when enough has been said.

A Blockbuster Week for Documentaries

 When I heard that the Discovery channel would be broadcasting a two hour feature on the assassination of John F. Kennedy on October 17, I knew I had to include it for this week’s blog and hope that it would suffice. For all intents and purposes I think it did. I just don’t know what decade it would be classified in, as it was compiled in the digital age from footage that is nearly half a century old.

But more importantly, when it comes to the subject of documentaries, I am determined to watch pieces that educate and inspire because they strike a personal chord, rather than just watch something  for the sake of saying I watched x amount of documentaries.

So now I’ve become witness to the end of an era which I could never have claimed before. 

The Lost JFK Tapes: The Assassination is compiled of real-time news footage and uses radio reports as narration, from the weekend the President was shot in Dallas on November22, 1963.  The film offered a fascinating look not only into the monumental event, filling in the holes that obviously exist in the story for someone like me who was born in the ‘80s. Furthermore, it was a treat to get a firsthand look at the reporting from that era, especially as a former journalism student and TV reporter hopeful. Reporters from that time really paid their dues and paved the way for people like me who have information pop up on a screen in front of them with no effort at all and claim to have their fingers on the pulse of the world. No, this was definitely before the time of the rip-and-read, follow-the-pack style of journalism that we see all too often nowadays.

And that’s the thing— it’s easy to think that in 2010 we’ve heard it all and seen it all but this footage has laid dormant in archives in Texas for nearly 45 years! Apparently, there’s a museum that is dedicated to preserving the history of this tragic day. I guess it was instincts that told reporters from 3 local News stations to leave their cameras running for hundreds of hours at various locations like the Dallas Love Field, Dealey Plaza and police headquarters. Unbeknown to them, they would be providing ordinary people in generations to come with access to some of the most poignant moments of the century.

It also featured moments shot by area residents who witnessed the motorcade first hand, proving that citizen journalism was valuable long before the camera phone.

And this is the value of film. Not only can it take you to Middle-Earth, Narnia and Pandora, but it can take you into the past to share experiences just as those who were watching at home did. As a broadcast and film student knee deep in mid-term madness, it’s easy to throw up your hands and wonder, ‘what the heck am I doing this for?!?”  But it’s films like these, chock full of emotion, community, history and excitement that allow you to clear your head and remember the true value of the medium. Even when you want to hang yourself with a reel of 16mm…

The world of Triads and the Chinese underworld is also something I’ve never bore witness to and have remained completely ignorant of. And while I knew that Asian gangs exist and were noted among the most vicious of gang-societies, they just seemed irrelevant. I grew up in Scarborough and until the late 90s when I was in high school, you were afraid of nearly everyone but the Chinese.

History Channel’s Underworld Histories focused on San Francisco’s Chinatown, chronicling the birth and demise of the Chinese American underworld from September 4 1977, into the ‘90s.

This documentary used news footage, montage stills from crime scenes, mug-shots dramatizations, and interviews with those who survived the 20 year period to tell the story.

What I learned is that while all gangs have a signature M.O. and distinguishing features, they have a common denominator in their origins: poverty.   It was the conditions of poverty, discrimination, and lack that bred the paradigm of  “take care of our own” and self-policing that has been adopted by various communities in North America including the Black, Irish and Italian American communities.

Nelson Lum, Ex-sergeant for the San Francisco Police Department confirmed, “the Chinese community has always taken care of its own from the time of the railroads.”

The story opens on September 4, 1977 the night of the Golden Dragon massacre, the worst killings in San Francisco history, where five innocent bystanders were killed and many others injured.

Raymond “Shrimp Boy” Chow who had a hand in this massacre and has been in American prison for nearly a third of his life recounts without emotion, “The first time I drew blood was when I was 9.” He sums up the lure of gang life in San Francisco as easy money.  “Back then Chinatown was like a gold mine.”  The Chinese distrust of American institutions, including banks, led to a huge amount of cash and valuables being stored in homes. Money was gotten in every way from petty theft to full on armed robbery.

This piece, in my opinion, does double duty educating viewers not only on a terrifying time in San Francisco’s history, but also in revealing how the tapestry of the United States and Canada were woven, i.e., why we have Chinatowns in existence today. 

Historically, gangs are the product of unmet needs. And yet when I compare this experience to my own growing up in Malvern, a “high-risk” area in the east end of Toronto, it makes me wonder what the unmet needs of today are. We live in a country of free-health care, welfare and subsidized housing for all. I have no sympathy for criminals of any sort but trying to compare San Francisco in the ‘70s to Jane and Finch in 2010 is like comparing apples and oranges and a subject I will have to remain ignorant on because gang violence is beyond reason.

The final blockbuster of the week is a subject that has already made the pages of Canadian history: Colonel Russell Williams. In a special commercial free edition, W5: the Confession walks the audience through an analysis of the original interrogation tapes which recorded the confession.  

Host Bob McKeown acknowledges that Canadians have never seen anything like it and short of the acting that we see on criminal dramas, he’s right. 

The story is told with photo stills, reenactments, the actual interrogation footage, and computer graphic images. There is also an interview with Jessica Lloyd’s brother Andy and Marie-France Comeau’s friend Alain Plant.

McKeown’s narration breaks the interrogation into stanzas, showcasing the brilliant work of Detective Sergeant Jim Smith like a maestro.  

Williams seems delusional and defiant until the end, and his confession did not come until nearly four and a half hours into the interrogation. McKeown let the audience know that the video has been edited, specifically the silences, of which the two would fall into many times over the hours they spent together. Close to the end we see Williams put his hand up to his throat, almost as if the words that were needed for a confession were trapped there.  

Experts were brought in to interpret what the audience is seeing, one of whom was Paul Ciolino, an interrogation expert and former US police detective. It’s easy to forget the tragedy with Ciolino’s colourful interpretations: “This guy is guilty and I’m gonna get him” as he summarizes Smith’s tactics, or “man I am screwed, I am so screwed” translating William’s body language.

Perhaps we had never seen anything like it because in the past we have never wanted to see anything like it.  I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Canada’s on the brink of major changes. What I perhaps omitted or didn’t think to include was that some of that change may not be for the better.  Bob McKeown, as respected as he is by his peers I’m sure, seemed very excited to me and could barely contain what appeared to be a smile on the corners of his mouth. And I get that it is exciting to be the first and to do something new, but we are walking a very fine line between sensationalism and journalism with certain aspects of this piece, in my opinion.

I remember seeing the ‘missing’ posters for Jessica Lloyd who lived in Tweed Ontario (just outside of Kingston) on utility poles at Main and Danforth in Toronto.  This is as real as it gets.

And the still photos of Jessica and Marie-France Comeau remind us of that reality.  Lest we forget that while watching the thrill of the hunt, while marveling at the unraveling of this Canadian military leader, precious lives were lost. Two innocent women were tortured sexually assaulted and killed—Jessica thrown off the highway like trash. Torture tools used on them both (and other victims), spread out on a table like playing cards.  This larger than life subject was tempered well with any and all reminders that this man is a monster.

Detective Smith warns Williams that his options are down to two when he says “ I don’t think you want the cold-blooded psychopath option…like Bernardo.”  I just wish he hadn’t given Williams’ the option of thinking that that he was any different ; that’s his only option as far as I’m concerned.

  

Another week of documentaries, another week of discoveries...

Last week’s W5 dealt with the fallout of two very different situations. The first half hour dealt with two Newfoundland families, the Browne’s and the Callahan’s, who lost loved ones due to mistakes made by Eastern Health’s emergency room doctors. The segment was hosted by Victor Malarek.

The Browne’s lost their sister and daughter Paula nearly 8 years ago and although much time has passed this family’s grief is still very fresh. It’s become impossible for them to move on because her death has become an ongoing investigation. An Emergency Room employee named ‘Tom’ spoke to the family after Paula died and  also to W5 on the condition that his identity is concealed. ‘Tom’ called the Browne’s and told them that their loved one died because the ER doctor administered the medication Verapamil to slow her heart rate down which was elevated when she was checked during admission. But with a blood clot confirmed in her lung, the medication was the equivalent of a “lethal injection” Tom says.

Victor then spoke to Donna White, the daughter of Ellen Callahan who died after being admitted into the hospital for internal bleeding. Incredibly, Ellen was administered blood thinners for her condition, even after documented protests from the nursing staff on duty that night. According to Tom the doctor outright ignored their concerns and proceeded with this counterintuitive method of treatment that also proved fatal.

The journalism in this segment, and portrayed in the next, was in my opinion very admirable. I felt inspired and a little awkward at the very direct questions put toward Vickie Kaminski, the newly instated CEO of Eastern Health with regards to the procedures and protocols for families dealing with loss. Maybe it’s my Canadian manners, who knows? But the inadequacy of her responses left me and the rest of the audience to conclude that their need to cover up truly does outweigh closure for the families.

Paula Todd had some hard hitting questions of her own for Steven Page, former front man for the Barenaked Ladies. But she didn’t have to dig too hard to reveal the underlying bitterness, passive-aggression and arrogance in Page that this interview revealed.  As her narration told us, Steven Page had it all and lost it. For me, the interview showed that Page is intellectually aware that he lost it all, but he hasn’t yet accepted it. I suppose it would be hard for him to accept this type of loss when the band you founded continues touring and recording with the name you helped create, and the only way he can make a name for himself is by performing songs that remain so iconic to the Barenaked Ladies history he was written out of.

I couldn’t help but feeling like these tell-alls and exposes put a chink in the Canadian armor. Of all things, we knew we had our health care system and the Barenaked Ladies as part of our identity. Now what? We’re left with conspiring doctors and an alcoholic/coke-head as a fallen star. No country’s perfect (although I think Canada is pretty darn close) but if W5 aims to knock people like me off our Royal Canadian Mounted high-horses...on second thought I have to say I kind of enjoy it. Love can’t and shouldn’t be blind and this episode underscored the weaknesses that need to be strengthened in the near perfect country I call home. Page’s rise and fall are a good lesson for Canada as a whole. I think Canada is on the brink of becoming the star of the globe that Canadians know this land to be. As we rise, the nation must be mindful of these weaknesses and address them as they come up— never hide behind CEO’s like Eastern Health, or in the basement with our girlfriend like Steven Page.

Every country on this earth can say they have learned something from Great Britain and in the History Channel series Britain’s Greatest Machines, hosted by Chris Barrie, individuals watching television can learn a little more.

The first installment reviews the 1930’s- The Road to War as it’s titled, and we who weren’t living at the time get to look into the innovations of the century that were born of this country, but also the renaissance period of human creativity when it seemed improvements and inventions were popping up in all corners of the world at lightning speed.

The retrospect begins in Croydon which was the Heathrow of its time. Airlines caught the competitive fever of the decade and were all aiming for the number one spot when it came to transporting passengers over vast distances in the shortest amount of time. Here we are introduced to the D’Avalon Dragon Rapide. With the host’s British accent and his 1930s cap and vest, it almost felt like I went back in time and was looking at this groundbreaking machine, nestled in the rolling green hills, like a member of the British elite of the time. This airplane had two 14 metre wings as opposed to one like the other planes of its time and it could take 8 passengers from England to Scotland in 3 hours. It sounds quaint but I really was impressed. In 2010, where everything seems to be a “new version” of some original, to imagine what it was like for people traversing territory that was previously relegated to only birds and clouds for the first time is breathtaking. It was the first of many experiences that would teach mankind that nothing is impossible, something we’re very aware of now.  And of course this plane, along with the construction lorry and the tank were all eventually perfected and utilized to varying degrees for the upcoming World War. ‘Superpowerdom’ has heavy burdens.

The feature length of the week was the 2003 success Supersize Me by Morgan Spurlock.  I am probably one of the last people in North America who have never seen this film, which is why I chose it.  I’ve felt nauseous ever since.

First of all, I can’t believe that McDonald’s has delivery service in the US. Secondly, I cannot believe a human being can gain 17 pounds in 12 days.  And finally despite the annoying music, and creepy McDonald’s figurines, this documentary has done exactly what a documentary is supposed to do: create awareness.

Spurlock’s success with this film has brought about unprecedented changes in the way the villain McDonald’s operates. We saw that he had major difficulties locating nutritional information on the menu items at virtually every restaurant in Manhattan. I can say that now in Canada, there is nutritional information listed on individual boxes and packages in every store. This has to be in relation to the backlash felt after this film, because it was never done before and it was done quite recently. Never mind that he also made an appearance on the Oprah show, and Oprah is the Queen of America.

I found this film to be terrifying, horrible, and depressing all at once. Spurlock’s persistence in his quest to prove McDonald’s to be seriously unhealthy was aggravating and exhausting. And yet it all proved worth it in the end with the success of his film and the change it brought about.

The fact that Ronald McDonald is more recognizable than Jesus Christ was very hard to swallow. But whose fault is that? Whose fault is it all? The movie asks the very relevant question of, where does personal responsibility end and corporate responsibility begin? I don’t think personal responsibility ever ends. Yes, McDonald’s is cheap, but an apple is cheaper. So are a head of broccoli and a can of tuna.  The choice is always there for the individual to make and I think this film has also successfully provided a portrait of part the American consciousness in the new millennium. Litigious. Apathetic. Irresponsible.

While it may sound like I am judging, I really don’t feel like I am.  As I’ve said all along, there are lessons to be learned here and lessons can’t really be categorized as good or bad. The important thing is that the lesson is learned. What I’ve watched this week has offered valuable teachings in the school of life. Documentaries are really powerful when not only individuals, but nations can learn together.