Review of, Waiting for Godot (2021)

 The Odd Couples

Review of Waiting for Godot

“Why on earth are we here? Surely not to live in pain and fear” 

• John Lennon, Instant Karma

I drove 10 miles down a dirt road to see a production of Waiting for Godot. The Unadilla Theatre is located on a working farm in Calais Vermont. The parking lot is next to a field filled with ancient Highland cattle. The cows are Neolithic but the plays are of our time. The sylvan backdrop is home to a number of first rate performers, directors and technicians. The weight of Beckett’s classic poses a number of challenges, even to the most prominent thespians. Those, in the know, will immediately draw comparisons to seminal productions. The play’s formidable reputation makes it  de riguer for students, even in secondary school. Before the curtain lifts many audience members will have strong opinions.  Googling  “Interpretation of Waiting for Godot” deliveries nearly 300,000 results. Kudos to Jeanne Beckwith, the local director, for daring to add her perspective on this classic, or more precisely anti-classic.

Decades before Seinfeld there was a comic work that prided itself on “nothing happening.”  In this case the laughs are deadly serious. Beckwith and the cast utilize slapstick to deliver the unsettling news that life’s fundamental questions have no definitive answers. The English publisher added the subtitle “a tragicomedy in two acts” to soften the blow. (the play was originally in French)  The first production was in Paris during the beginning of the Cold War. Nazis had occupied the theater 7 years prior. The universal threat of nuclear annihilation was also less than a decade old. Certainly this would be an ideal grist-mill to ponder questions of how and why we exist. But no one would tolerate a screed about the self-evident evils of fascism and unbridled Capitalism, as the French say, “Capitalisme sauvage.” Enter the zany odd couples who spend over two hours in two acts… doing exactly nothing… and everything.

Estragon (Matthew Grant Winston) and Vladimir (Donny Osman) are the primary protagonists. Think Abbot and Costello or Dean and Jerry, two comedic teams that dominated pre-TV entertainment at the time Godot’s creation. Winston captures Estragon’s complaining, egocentric manner. He is entertaining within the confines of entertainment. Real life Estragons are tiresome, and try the patience of even the most caring teacher, companion, stranger, neighbor..… Osman projects empathy and understanding. He’s not a push-over. In fact much of the time his is pushing back from his companion’s whining.  He nails Vladimir’s sincerity and curiosity. Those qualities are coupled with a searing desire to know the inner workings of his own moral compass. Estragon is hungry. Vladimir wonders about hunger, amongst many many other things. The two of them spark a sing-song meditation on…. Why? Estragon drones on and Vladimir philosophizes. These are fringe characters who have center stage in a void. They inhabit a desert with single scraggly tree. There is no back-story. Oddly their disposition sparks uncomfortable reminders for any audience member who has ever been in any kind of relationship with a spouse, a co-worker, a child, an adult, an elderly person, a baby, a boss, a stranger, a traveling companion… i.e. everyone. There are constant arguments, affirmations, pronouncements, denouncements over everything and nothing. They are united/divided in an appointment with the mythic Mr. Godot. They rhapsodize about, and dread, the encounter. Think of your average Christian realizing the second coming is at hand. The duo pass the time waiting for the shoe to drop or axe to fall.  Thankfully Osman and Winston have chemistry that results in laugher and reflection.Their interactions are pleasing, and self-sustaining, even before they meet Pozzo and Lucky. The second duo are a startling counterpart to our jesting anti-heroes. There is more brimstone than treacle in the new arrivals.

If Estragon and Vladimir are best friends, or an old married couple, Pozzo is a tyrant who bullies his enslaved captive. Only in this universe would the that person have the moniker “Lucky.” His life is humiliating grunt-work at the hands of the slave-driver. Lucy is a human cart-horse who must perform. Pozzo literally has him dancing to amuse his new audience. His movements are bad, but the physiological damage is worse. He is asked to reveal his inner-thoughts.  The heretofore monosyllabic Lucky expounds, or more precisely explodes. Tom Murphy does a superb job of letting-rip a verbal barrage of inchoate religious/philosophical musings. He becomes a radio tuned in-between a PBS and AM talk. It is the only speech by this character, but it makes an impression… and a point. 

What did you expect? A lifetime of being repressed yields a darker, condensed version of the gibberish spoken by Vlad and Estagon. The old duo is alarmed by the outburst and silences Lucky. They preferred the old soft-shoe to the slave muttering on about God. Leave that to Vladimir.  Lucky’s absurdity hits close to home. Pozzo, the master, is more straightforward, stomping on his hat and yelling, “there’s an end to his thinking!” Clarke Jordan does an excellent job channeling the insolence of the rich and powerful. Even in the Second Act, when the tycoon is blind and pleads for help, the schadenfreude feels appropriate. Vladimir, on the other hand, evokes the pain in seeing people forever locked in a suspended animation of epiphany without the means to act. He knows “habit is the great deadener” and yet he clings the pursuit of Godot. In this respect Beckett’s masterpiece has the conventionality of having the audience empathize with a play’s central character. At the same time the author is undermining established theatrical norms. The traditional framework of a three act play is based on: a problem is presented, the situation is analyzed and a solution is found. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s quip, “There are no second acts in American lives”, points to the impatience of our culture. We rush to comfortable answers without doing the hard work of weighing options.  Beckett believes there are no third acts. Life is a perpetual second act. There isn’t even a comfortable first act. Perhaps this radicalism was sparked by a linear three act play produced a decade and a half earlier in New Jersey. It was masked in conventional structure but the last act was, literally, out of this world. 

Thornton Wilder’s Our Town might seem a world away from Parisian avant-garde theater. Strangely both author’s were gripped by the crisis of absurdity. We live our lives on a treadmill of routine that blinds us to the magic of life. There is a direct line from the callow teenage Emily Webb in her eternal New Hampshire gravesite and the world-weary philosophical outcast Vladimir in his expansive apocalyptic desert. It is easy to empathize with the young widowed-bride. Vladimir is more of a challenge. Donny Osman’s superb showmanship is up to the task. The audience can identify with his struggle despite the starkness of his surroundings and the un-admirable, though well-rendered, cast-mates. He doesn’t cave to the transactional convenience of Pozzo. He feels for Lucky’s plight. He is a true friend and guide to the hapless Estragon. It takes a real performer to stoke the coals of tenderness in this cold, ashen landscape. Perhaps the showman could have, at times, bent to the slowness of an intimate moment. It is a tough needle to thread as the production might stray into preachy sentimentality. They avoid this trap and rely on a distinctly un-mawkish “commedia dell’arte” sensibility.  These performances were heartfelt and not simply a forum to vent philosophical razors. Even the smallest details were geared to illustrate the play’s central theme of finding life’s meaning in the morass of societal dullness. The Boy, performed with wonderful innocence by Case Phinney, deliveries the news of Godot’s consecutive no-shows. Osman’s rage is set-up by the quiet dead-pan of Phinney’s negation of history. It is the timeless struggle against every bureaucracy and corporate phone-tree. The “man” never ceases to remind you that you and your memory are null and void. Their life’s mission to to make sure you don’t believe you exist. Your job, if you are up to it, is to fight being categorized as meaningless.

It is disquieting to think of Vladimir on the Godot-treadmill of absurd belief. Knowing the world is absurd is distinct from believing in absurdities. Vladimir believes both. He retains a comic view of the world but is mired in a tragic enslavement precluding a “happy ending.” There is no ambiguousness about the joy of artisans willing to pay tribute to his struggle. This is an act of defiance against our sea of troubles. Even the sylvan hills of rural Vermont aren’t immune from changing weather, unstable economics and the deadly pandemic. And yet, in this remote corner, there are those who take the time to do the hard work of reminding us that all is not lost. Deep in the forest, amongst the ancient cattle, we take a few hours to reflect by watching those who are truly lost. As Vladimir says: “Yes, in this immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come” I would replace the last phrase with: we are glad this Godot came. Kudos to the Unadilla Theatre for hosting this production. Unadilla is an Iroquois word meaning “council place” or “place of meeting.” How perfect. This is our modern “city on a hill” guarding us against the great deadener of news delivered through screens. The real life experience of watching real people struggle. We need to make the pilgrimage more often. No more waiting.

Review of The Green Knight (2021)

 

The Knight Shift

“And anyone who ever played a part, they wouldn’t turn around and hate it.”

• Lou Reed, Sweet Jane

“I was born into this life and it is a great honor to serve my country and the Queen.”

• Prince Harry, Letter of Resignation

The Green Knight is rooted in the medieval poem Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. What kind of producer would bet on a 13th century text as the basis for a feature film? Answer: someone who hires David Lowery as the writer/director. Lowery has a knack for giving new varnish to old stories. Bonnie and Clyde become quarreling high schoolers from an Everly Brothers’ song. A Ghost Story is a horror film remade as an Andy Warhol art movie. What will he do with a 800 year old tale of chivalric romance? Answer: the pomp and pageantry give way to existential questions. The knight in shining armor is a contemporary, disenfranchised, cellphone-bound, teenager. Behind the role-playing lurks self-doubt and skepticism. The monster becomes the question: what’s the point of slaying the dragon?

The dragon in this tale is the Green Knight, a Hulk-like figure who seems to embody the forest. His physicality is an amalgamation of old growth trees graphed onto a super-hero’s body. His opponent is the privileged screw-up, Gawain. The feckless teen is catapulted into stardom by his ambitious mother, the sister of the king. The mighty knights of the roundtable are too intimidated by the Green Monster so the callow Gawain accepts the challenge. The mother ensures the slight young man’s victory over this beast. The catch is that, after a year, the new knight must participate in a return match in a far off chapel.

The feckless rich kid is now a sanctioned hero replete with weapons, clothing and blessings of the church and high society. Old ways die hard and he fritters-away twelve months with drinking buddies and a beautiful lowly commoner. There is a wonderful scene in which she speaks all the words everyone wishes he would say. He certainly feels attachment but demurs for more established prospects. This is a tone-deaf careerist rather than a chivalric hero. His quest confirms our worst suspicions. Briefly into the journey he loses his horse, weapons and sacred tokens to a band of unimposing criminal scavengers. Losing his stallion is particularly noteworthy as the word “chivalry” is based on the French word for horse (cheval). These knights were inseparable from their animals. He is redeemed through set-piece encounters with various women who find him enthralling. They give him charms and tokens. A green belt for eternal protection and the sacred axe, which he needs for his encounter with the Green Knight. They come at a price but our transactional hero has the audacity to wonder, “What’s in it for me?” One of the princesses mercilessly chides him: Knights don’t ask the price of their services. He learns the art of accepting “gifts.” But therein lies the heart of Sir Gawain’s cardinal sin. He is a crass yuppie cognizant of “price” but oblivious to “value.” Every move is rooted in the calculus of advancement, not a code of chivalry. His passion is tempered by security. Boldness shows through at times, but it is the stuff of adrenaline, rather than blood. He encounters a majestic trail of giants lumbering across the mountains. He asks to ride on one of their shoulders. When the massive hand is outstretched Gawain flees in terror. No doubt mom would have approved: that looks too dangerous! Think of your prospects.

Lowery knows the timeless motifs of the ambitious mother and prodigal son. He also is aware that the supposed prudishness of the Middle Ages is a myth as fictitious as a real-life Green Knight. Noble women were strong, powerful and sexually confident. Knights were more akin to State-sanctioned marauders. The real code of chivalry was a device created by those in power to keep a check on ambitious men with weapons. (Historian Terry Jones, of Monty Python fame, has a wonderful series of videos on life in the Middle Ages). Lowery is a master of uncloaking the truth of a past that is ever-present. This is a fairy tale with the grit of our current world beset with Lermontov’s ambiguous “heroes.” Behind the magical-realism of sorceress’, giants, spells, witchcraft, knights, oaths, quests… is the darkness of sacrificing one’s integrity for mammon and standing. Only in this tale would the hero knight give away the token of his love’s affection to a seductress who happens to be his host’s wife. It is more The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills than The Legend of King Arthur. The denouement is equally unsettling. When it comes to winning the crown, he has Henry VIII’s family values. Perhaps “wins” is the wrong word. He deserves the crown and its never-ending parade of pain. The betrayed lover, fabricated bravery, stolen child and dead son are not the stuff of “happily ever after.” There is an inevitability to rebelling subjects and a burning castle. In the end he metaphorically joins fellow king Richard II on the ground talking of graves, worms and epitaphs… but does he?

Lowery puts a final twist on his twisted dream by borrowing from the most cynical of American writers, Ambrose Bierce. Like the Confederate Soldier in An Occurrence At Owl Creek Bridge, Gawain has a reprieve. Unlike the civil war counterpart his alternative life is the nightmare of actually being a king. At one point when the Green Knight raises his axe Gawain asks if this is “it”? Isn’t there more to the game of life? The Green Knight is befuddled. The embodiment of natural knowledge looks at the young man and embarrassingly admits… this is it. Our hero is, in the Buddhist sense, “truly in the moment.”. He puts away the protective charms. He bows his head and expects the blow. It is his first genuine act of bravery and maturity. He sees the broader picture: being king and not being king are… the same. The Green Knight salutes the “road to Damascus moment” by joking, “Now off with your head.” This is even worse than an actual blow. The elder Knight knows: you will always lose, but heroes fight anyway.

One could imagine the grammatical symbol for Chivalric Romance as an exclamation point, marking brave deeds and heroic triumphs. Lowery’s The Green Knight is the question mark at the end of “to be or not to be?” The performances are a perfect balance to the quirky sensibility of this unorthodox tale that frames an uncomfortable question. The actors are sexy, empathetic and precisely anti-heroic. The set and costuming are enthralling, exquisite without overspilling into Disney-like fantasy. The director’s mastery of the historical aspects of the period and mythology is exacting. The overall effect is to land in the uncanny valley of escapist fantasy. Lowery has the wherewithalto capture our imaginations. We fall into his dream. Strangely there is an unsettling quality in his looking glass. We expect uplifting dreams and torrid nightmares, but how to digest existential ambivalence in the context of a magical fantasy? Our knights in shinning armor aren’t supposed to wonder if the jousting match is covered by insurance. Their realizations can’t be the pointlessness of conventional heroism. We needed more of the Green Knight’s sagacity of acceptance. There is deep wisdom behind all the Hulk-theatrics that bend’s the heroic framework. It is interesting that in the original poem the Green Knight himself is a disguised relative. The entire “game” is revealed as a intra-familial life lesson. Lowery retains the spirit of the ancient scribes. That Zeitgeist is expressed by the cynical iconoclast, Mr. Bierce, in his Devil’s Dictionary: “Existence n. A transient, horrible, fantastic dream, wherein is nothing yet all things do seem: From which we’re wakened by a friendly nudge of our bedfellow Death, and cry: “Oh Fudge!”” Lowery’s quest might be disquieting for those expecting true horror or real fantasy. There’s the rub. The holy grail might be a beaten old terra-cotta mug, rather than a shining golden goblet.

Review of Nomadland

ENSLAVED BY THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS 

 “No one I’ve ever known in this world is more hostile than a pacifist on a rampage.” 

• Alan Watts

“For I felt rich, and I tried to make them see, that one is only poor, only if they choose to be.” 

- Dolly Parton, Coat of Many Colors

“I hold it to be the inalienable right of anybody to go to hell in his own way.” 

― Robert Frost

“The quality of owning freezes you forever in "I," and cuts you off forever from the “we.” ”

― John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Chloe Zhao’s Nomadland is a portrait of American rural homelessness based on a non-fiction book by journalist Jessica Bruder. These are two people who come from elite backgrounds and have chosen to render the lives of the downtrodden, specifically the victims of the 2008 economic downturn. When tackling difficult material on poverty and class it bears mentioning the backgrounds of the artists. This is not to disparage their fine work but rather to inoculate against criticism that it is merely a simulacrum of social justice commentary. Perhaps the finest writing/photography of American dustbowl refugees, And Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, was created by two equally privileged artists who shared similarly elite educational backgrounds.  Zhao and Bruder might not be vulnerable to the same strife, but their work strikes a nerve for all the right reasons. The stock market booms and the US press is filled with stories Elon Musk launching his sports car into outer space and dreaming of colonizing Mars. Meanwhile, back on earth, more and more Americans are being forced into subsistence living. 

Hard-work and honesty are supposed to be the ticket to security in the autumn of life in the land of free and home of the brave. Instead we see dispossessed middle-aged and elderly wanderers roaming from job to job in broken-down RVs. The protagonist, Fern (Frances McDormand), maintains a fearsome stiff-upper-lip, while always being one flat tire or bad flu away from utter devastation.  The most terrifying aspect of Fern’s journey is the lack of complete economic or natural collapse in the creation of her Okie-like refugee status. She and her tribe work hard and play by the rules… to a fault. They are too sick, overwhelmed and desperate to mount any opposition to their inhumane treatment. Only once does Fern’s contempt for the ruling class show through. She, begrudgingly seeks help from her sister, a successful white collar worker with a comfortable house. Her brother-in-law, in the midst of a discussion about real-estate purchases, chides Fern for her peripatetic lifestyle. The answer is swift and silences the cordial conversation, “YOU THINK I HAD A CHOICE?!” 

Fern is referring to the costly care for her deceased husband combined with the closing of the town factory, where she and her spouse worked. The devastation was so great that the Federal Post Office, seeing the decline in  population, cancelled the zip code. Fern’s sister at one point tries to bolster her sibling’s standing by comparing her to the original American pioneers. There is a parallel, but not in the spirit of her sister’s compliment. Her life is closer to the cannibalism of the Donner party, rather than the “can-do” optimism of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie. Nomadland is scathing in its assessment of contemporary social safety-nets but it is more than a political polemic. This film is about the strange irony of American individualism. The battle for freedom becomes enslavement to a righteous cause.

Fern has little expectation of those in authority and she is seldom disappointed. The manager at the trailer park casually says there is no record of her reservation. After driving for days and facing the prospect of no place to stay, she faintly asks to check list of potential Amazon employees. The manager breezily discovers she does have a right to stay. There is no regard for her plight, merely clerical paperwork. Fern expects disinterest and is embarrassed by overt offers of charity. She encounters some of her former neighbors in a department store, a mother and her daughters. She is queried about her homelessness and dismisses an offer to stay in their garage. The scene also reveals Fern’s former role as a mentor. One of the children recites a Shakespeare passage she learned under her tutelage. Interestingly an encounter with another wayward youth inspires Fern, again, to reference the Bard. Despite not having any children Fern is a caring, parental figure. She even attempts healing within a family. When an adult son visits his father, who is working as a short order cook, she says, “your father makes a great burger.” The coded message is that the young man’s father, although facing difficult circumstances, means the best and has talent. The son is less convinced: “The burger’s okay.”. 

Fern’s heartfelt caring has its limits. A lesser filmmaker and storyteller would make Fern’s journey more palatable by introducing a “buddy” or companion. In the early moments a dog suddenly appears at her doorstep wearing a leash but having no guardian. Fern discovers from the trailer park manager the pet’s backstory. His guardian, an old man, had taken ill. His daughter had no ability or desire to tend for a dog. The manager and Fern agree it is a wonderful, sweet pet. It ends up being tied to the front porch of the office. This is a harbinger for the larger “potential” romance that never blossoms. Fern is courted by a good-looking, appropriately aged man who seems the platonic ideal of a companion. She even agrees to stay with his solidly middle class family for a Thanksgiving meal. But it ends with the inevitable French leave. Prior to her exit she chides her companion for abandoning his RV. In her eyes he is no longer is own man. Fern does not rely on the kindness of strangers, or friends. The moments after her departure Fern reenacts the touchstone of the romantic sublime by standing on a cliff and watching the frothing Pacific waves crash against immutable boulders. There is, however, some room for companionship.

Fern extends herself by “joining” a group that has a credo about living as independents. This invitation is extended by an elderly co-worker who had fought suicide, triggered by her impoverishment. The leader of this band of outcasts is a kindly patriarch who offers general advise on living with few resources. His carefully parsed wisdom comes from being an excellent listener. It is a mark of his trusting nature that he is only outsider with whom Fern shares her story. He reveals the journey started with the suicide of a beloved son. Suddenly the formidable man with the answers becomes another hurt soul searching for solace. Nomadland is filled with these unforeseen revelations.  

The woman with the pirate flag draped on her RV is not a stern scold, despite the initial encounters. She answers Fern’s pleas for help with a bitting lecture preparedness. This is followed by demands for work-in-kind. In reality she is a vulnerable, generous soul with strong convictions about the divinity of nature. She describes a transcendent moment in the wilderness when she encountered a flock of birds over the water. She knows why she is alive despite her terminal illness. She will live her death as she has lived her life: on her own terms.  Transience, however, is the price of transcendence.  After her passing she is memorialized with a wonderful bonfire. But how many end up in potter’s fields after being discovered alone in the wilderness? Although the gatherings are heartfelt there is a distinct lack of cohesiveness over the long haul. The bulk of life is spent in the in-between of travel and finding work. It echoes the refrain of the Woody Guthrie refugee hymn: so long, it’s been good to know you. Although the patriarch of the Nomads softens the finality by saying: see you down the road. 

Nomandland shares the credo of American-style independence with Into The Wild. A suburban-raised young man abandons civilization for the Alaskan wilderness. Determination is no match for lacking true indigenous knowledge of living off the land. His haunting death is echoed in the closing moments of this film in which Fern metaphorically goes off the ranch. In the opening sequences she secures a storage locker with her former home’s belongings. The closing is her realization there is no need for the locker. She will briefly return to her beloved shelter. But the trailer itself is merely a stepping-stone to the purple mountain majesty outside her fence. This is an American parable that rebukes the Pilgrim’s “city on a hill.” Fern is, literally, running for the hills. She has been brutalized by an inhuman system that made a mockery of her dedication to community and family. She spent a lifetime paying her dues and her reward is a wandering journey on the precipice. She is embittered, but accepting of her plight. 

One of the peculiar aspects of American poverty is a blindness about social stagnation. All strata of society share the pernicious belief that success is born of merit without regard for other factors. Those to who question this dogma are faced with unbridled hatred. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s daughter, a key creative force in the Little House on the Prairie books, prayed for the assassination of the President of her time, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. In her mind he was a dictator who threatened the founding doctrine of American civilization: rewards are born of hard work. She felt his social programs were merely bribes to shore up his dictatorship. One might view Fern’s distain for her hosts coming from the same misguided belief. Their generosity morphs into a weapon that undermines her lifework of being proud and self reliant. Fern is a modern day Transcendentalist, the 19th American movement that wrote the book on self-reliance and spiritual communion with nature. The important distinction, however, is her searing mistrust of mankind. The Transcendentalists believed institutions were corrupt but people were essentially good. Fern sees the enemy in everyone, except her transient tribe. 

Zhoa’s film has some minor blemishes. David Strathairn seemed apart. It is as if Laurence Olivier suddenly joined the non-professional cast of the The Bicycle Thief. Francis McDormand manages to thread the needle of being a true thespian amongst those playing themselves. In addition the screenplay walks on eggshells in protecting the sanctity of the outcasts. There is a strange absence of behavior and actions that would draw frowns from a general audience. These are decent people… to a fault. There is no overt substance abuse, racism or criminality. It is as if, in order to safeguard sympathy for their plight, the writer and director chose to ignore traits that are abundant in the general population. There is an artistic price paid to avoid an American audience finding specious reasons to blame the victim. Fern’s milieu has a monk-like saintliness peppered by generosity, altruism and suffering. There are passing moments that depart from the grind of goodness, but they are crowded out by the hardship. The artistic choices are sometimes impediments to fully connecting with the characters. Perhaps the director might have included even more of the quiet moments of the characters bonding with landscape. Even the grimness of the factories are softened by the dawn light, which exposes the distant fields and mountains. It is not surprising Zhoa chooses as the denouement, the eternal escape in to the wild. The audience, however, is still huddled in the unkindness of civilization. As the number of Americans surge in adopting the wandering-nomad lifestyle, many municipalities are enacting laws that forbid parking. Life is becoming even more arduous for those least able to cope. There will be no rest for the oppressed.

Nomadland is the counter-argument to the bromide that the bounty of our country is open to everyone who applies themselves. Fern, a firm believer in the Puritan work ethic, is seen furtively looking over her shoulder while she defecates on an open field on a deserted highway. She is journeying between part-time gigs. The mood is often stark but there are those precious moments of repose. In one sequence she quietly drives a road in the wilderness following a lone grazing buffalo.The metaphorical great great great great granddaughter of the Europeans colonizers is reenacting the ghostly ritual of eons of indigenous peoples. The thundering herds are now diminished. The RV is a pale stand-in for the bare-back native American riders of yore. Fern is hunting in her own way. She has her small traditions complete with trinkets from the past. Only she knows their meaning. There is no one left. She shares a bond with “Ishi,” the last surviving member of the the indigenous Californias. He was found alone, starving and wandering in early part of the 20th century. An anthropologist gave him the moniker as it means “man” in the Yani language. The tribal tradition forbad him from speaking his own name unless he was introduced to the strangers by one of his own. Fern would understand his predicament. 

The new colonizer is a behemoth that knows how to divide and conquer via a veneer of liberty and choice. Fern owns her own RV and can travel “freely.” In the end she makes a choice of turning back to the land. Ishi, with a lifetimes worth of preparation, could not survive on his own. The hero of Into The Wild died of starvation in the middle of the woods in an abandoned bus.  The odds are not in Fern’s favor. Perhaps Nomadland is a preface to the new “trail of tears.” Maybe, when the time comes, Fern will stand alone in an empty field and paraphrase the Bard: when she shall die, take her and cut her into little stars, and she will make the face of heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun. No one will hear her words but her journey might inspire us to consider the wisdom of Sirach. It begins by praising famous men, but has an important reminder:

And there are some who have no memorial,

    who have perished as though they had not lived;

they have become as though they had not been born,

    and so have their children after them.

But these were men of mercy,

    whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten;

their prosperity will remain with their descendants,

    and their inheritance to their children’s children

• Book of Sirach Chapter 44, Verses 9-11