MiPOesias Magazine

Michael Parker

Love In A Time of Terror:
A Review of Sally Potter's Yes

What was evident [after 9/11] was that there were going to be increasing levels of demonization of people from the Middle East and reverse levels of hatred of Americans. So I asked myself, what can I contribute as a filmmaker? I thought a good starting point was a love story between a man from the Middle East and a Western woman, in which love and attraction initially transcend difference. But when world events, history, and national identity can no longer be kept out of the relationship, they have to slug it out. – Sally Potter

It seems anymore that when a film tries to be philosophical or addresses valid issues regarding Middle Eastern vs. Western relations, it is unfairly lambasted and categorized as pretentious, artificial, dubious, or laughable. A good number of American film critics would like you to believe that this is the reality of Sally Potter's latest film Yes, but they've never been more wrong.

Yes is first and foremost a film about love in this post 9/11 world, specifically, an affair between a Lebanese born man, simply named He, and an older Irish-American woman, She, (whose husband has been cheating on her for months with her best friend). Secondly, it is an epic play about a betrayed woman who tries to find herself, find meaning in an overly-ordered life that has left her empty, numb and without any beliefs, and figuratively, to find her a place.

Orbiting around these themes are philosophical asides spoken by her house maid, a "dirt consultant " who acts as the plays' Chorus. There are also unspoken reflections, kathartic events, and conflicts that lend a visual face to many of the news items and talking points we've seen on cable news and political talk shows since the war on terror started. In a kitchen scene where He is working as a cook, for example, casual talk of religious beliefs spirals out of control until He becomes the target of an angry washer and is berated and then physically attacked: "This country's full of wankers dressed in sheets, " the washer screams. "Asylum fucking seekers in our streets/ And taking all our fucking jobs. Arab wanks!/ And then what do they do to give us thanks?/ They fucking blow us up!"

Indeed, Potter weaves darker threads of conflict within her enthralling, golden tale of romance – marital strife, East-West cultural, political, and religious differences, the death of a loved one, and the existence of God. Most amazing to me, though, is Potter's use of iambic pentameter as the method for tellling the story, a feat that is a first in these modern times.

But Potter's script is not the only poetic element of Yes. I was completely drawn into many scenes because of the exquisite or unique cinematography – the placing of people and things, the manner in which the actors dance around each other, touch, withdraw, and move in orbits. Sometimes, the camera captures one or both of them in slow or distorted motion: from behind a wine glass or from behind the fence at the running track. Sometimes, the camera rocks and sways just slightly. The effect is metaphorical, simply visually poetic – these distorted angles and views often serve to punctuate the closed and confined life of our characters, most especially She's life. Consider one of my favorite scenes:

She (Joan Allen) is pacing the right side of this great Dining Hall all alone, except for the servants who are walking up and down the long dinner table making final arrangements for the dinner guests on the opposite side. The contrast between the two sides of the room makes her presence that much more solitary, as trapped as the subjects in the paintings lining the dark-wooded walls around her. She's dressed in a stunning cerulean blue satin evening dress, the color of evening just before the entrance of night. The camera pans her pale face. We see beautiful lips that are pursed a bit too tightly and eyes that are seemingly more narrow than normal – they might even be loaded with daggers.

She turns her head to glance into the cocktail room. We see the source of her expressions – the dinner guests in the forefront of her sight move just enough for her to see her husband, Anthony (Sam Neill), fondle the bare back of a female guest. She turns quickly away because of this; grows more agitated.

"Don't make a scene" ; he had said in the back of the limousine, across a blue expanse of space so large between them that God could have planted a sky. So this is the reason why She is alone in the Dining Hall, staying far enough away so as not to make a scene, pacing so that she doesn't fall idle, slowly turn to stone.

As she turns away from the camera, the camera focuses on her brownish-red hair that had once been pulled back and held tightly in place by an elegant twist comb. But now, the comb had started losing its hold. And it seemed at any moment that her hair might grow coils and work themselves free. The images that the photographer focuses on within this scene help symbolize the entrapment and betrayal She feels. It's masterfully accomplished.

Descriptive scenes such as this are indeed evidence of inspired work, of thoughtful directing and visionary photography, but especially of Potter's inspired writing. An excellent example of this occurs in a scene in Belfast where She has traveled to visit her dying Auntie. The hospital room is bare except for a bed, a chair, and a curtain. She goes to the bed side of her Auntie, who begins a soliloquy – we can hear her thoughts but She cannot – right before she dies.

If and when I die I want to see you cry
I want to see you tear your hair,
your howls of anguish fill the air
I want to see you beat your breast
and rent your clothes and all the rest
and sobbin', fall upon my bed.
I want to know that I am dead.

I want to know I'm part of you and
you can't bear me being torn away
I want to see you dressed in black with red-
rimmed eyes from sleepless nights of grievin'
I want to hear you protest of my leavin'
I want to see you in each other's arms
and wail and see ya kick a chair and punch a wall
and see ya moan and fall upon the ground and scream
I want to know this isn't just a dream.

I want my death to be just like my life
I want the mess, the struggle, and the strife.
I want to fight and see you fight for me.
I want to hear your last regrets
the things you wish you done or said.
In fact, I'd like that just before I'm dead.

Don't let them put you off or make you go
or say it's bad for me or makes it hard for me to leave
it won't be true. I want to see you grieve.

Don't let me drown in silence all pious and polite
Let's make a lot of noise a different kind of light
will fill the room I want my death
to wake you up and clean you out
and as I end I'll hear you shout.

But I will go.

Yes is full of poetic gems such as this. In fact, Potter's poetry rarely ceases from being vibrant and breathtakingly beautiful. At times, it is raw, angry, and explosive. Yet it seems to always cry: "I'm alive. You can't forget me."

Her poetry is also intellectually refreshing, though her voice never comes across condescendingly. She treats us as adults, feeds us substance we can wrap our minds round, dishing out ideas, thoughts, aspirations and hopes, I dare say hoping that we will catch the wing and go along for the ride, participate in the revelations her characters see, and understand the renewal of their spirit for what it is -- new life and love that transcends borders.

Having said this, I'm reminded of the first waking moments after they've made love for the first time. She is laying in bed, nestled in the crook of his side as if she were attached at his rib. She opens her eyes. Though a brilliant light radiates around them, she doesn't squint or hide her eyes. Rather, she smiles. They trade those glances that lovers give. She laughs. He laughs. And then begins one of the most remarkable and breathtaking conversations in the film.

"Speak to me," she says.

"Of what?" he replies. "What is there to say?"

"Too much," she exclaims. " Or nothing. Please, try it might?"

"What one I adore?" he begins. "The number one. One you, one me. " Then pointing to her and then back to himself, he adds: "One moon, one sun."

"Must I revolve around you then? " she asks, separating herself and moving to the side of the bed. " ;Am I the silver planet circling around the gold? Are you the source of light and the heat, whilst I'm shadow pulling watery tides in cold?"

Sitting up now, he retorts, nearly pleadingly: "You hear meaning where there is none I fear. I spoke of one, a number, an idea, my preference for the same, a mistake that's all."

They begin to order their love according to numbers, as if love can be categorized. They move from one to two. He chimes in that they are now a triangle of three–she, him, and her husband, at which she goes directly to four, the symbol of her house, with four walls that imprison her.

"We've gone too far," he says, then explains their love in the light of the mystical zero. But She finally responds, "You tricked me."

"No. "

"You did, of course," she replied. "You start with one and then give yourself the source of all the numbers."

Then, gathering her back into the fold of his arms, he accentuates: "No. Not my lady. What I meant to say was this– You are the one. The light of day. The velvet night. The single rose. And I would quote: The secret country. Land of all my longings."

"There," he adds, touching her lips ever so softly, "you have my word."

Yes is a truly beautiful and resplendent film that is an affirmation of self-discovery, life, hope, and love in this contemporary world. It is a treasure. I am conquered by it.

Purchase Sally Potter's amazing script Yes in its entirety at Amazon.com, on sale now. You can also read more about Yes at the film's website .

Michael Parker has been an expert hack for many years—though much of that hacking has been a result of phlegm coagulating in his mouth during fanatical running regimens (which are typically an ungodly number of miles in length). He’s completed eight marathons, too many half-marathons and 10k’s to count, and has participated in two Hood-to-Coast races (198 miles each) in the beautiful state of Oregon.

Michael has been an avid literature aficionado since his early university days. He B.S.'d his way through a B.A. in English at the school that shan't allow the use of the phrase "B.S."—Brigham Young University. (Due to his liberal views, the school now disavows any recollection of his attendance, and vice versa.) But to know Michael is to realize that his love is film, (especially analyzing them), a love that was grounded in his pre-teen years as he worked as a concession-stand/ticket selling employee at his family’s old-fashioned, one-screen movie theater.

Michael is also a fledgling artist. Three of his paintings grace the walls of friends’ homes; and two of his paintings “The Tree of Life” and “A Vision of Hades” hung in a local gallery. An excerpt of one his many angel paintings “The Departure,” sits atop the banner of his blogsite.

He has worked as a technical writer for over ten years, had his poetry and articles published in Utah Magazine (now defunct), MiPoesias Cafe Cafe, and The Daily Herald, and has been an avowed political/entertainment blog-o-holic for two years. (See Michael Parker’s Journal for details.) He’s currently working on a thriller, tentatively titled The All-Star. He, his wife, their two sons and daughter, and Lucky the dog live in Utah.