"It is a quotidian mystery that dailiness can lead to such despair and yet also be at the core of our salvation."
—Kathleen Norris, The Quotidian Mysteries, pp 10-11
Combining a setting reminiscent of One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest with a dream-like narrative--described by many, including the director, as a fairytale--The Princess and the Warrior, alternately known as Der Krieger und die Kaiserin (2000, Germany), enthralls me. Through colorful and often complex cinematography, each moment offers a sometimes contradictory simplicity, honesty, and vulnerability. And each time I watch its confounding dance of fate and choice, I wonder if the story will progress the same way--if it must.
Indeed, the same director (Tom Tykwer) and actress (Franka Potente) partner in Run, Lola, Run, with its unpredictable journeyings--and trio of endings. But here, Princess's "typical" narrative structure--familiar to the director, but never necessary--provides a consistent plot, viewing after viewing. As in Lola, Tykwer's theme is again a central theme of theology--the Plan and the person. This time, though, the ending remains the same. It's the ordinary, or in other words, the quotidian or everyday, that changes; in the unfolding, comes discovery.
Salvation, it seems to me, is an unfolding of an "inescapably down-to-earth and incarnational" faith in a vulnerable, yet omnipotent God (Norris, pp 77-78). A God, transcending time, who desires to meet us in dailiness, who "nourishes and energizes us, [with] not only food but the love of friends and family"--with all that motivates us to action (pp 10-11). Yet, this dailiness becomes too familiar, this relational intimacy--a struggle, this rhythm of Creation ... a dirge. Until, in His mercy, God interrupts.
This Divine interruption is what repeatedly draws me--an indecisive, post-modern Christian perfectionist--to the delicate relationship of a suicidal, widowed bank robber and an unrelentingly quiet psychiatric nurse. I, too, am single, thoughtfully solitary and sometimes overwhelmed by my circumstances. I, too, am spiritually desperate and seeking peace in the dulling confusion of each day. I, too, need a Savior--and, perhaps, to save someone else.
Lying Down
"You don't even know me."
"No. But I have to find out if it means anything that you were under the truck with me, or if it was just a coincidence."
—Bodo & Sissi, The Princess and The Warrior
Have you ever lain down to read a book? To sleep? To caress the face of a loved one? It's a vulnerable position--signifying trust, relaxation, or merely weariness. Sissi--the friend, the woman, the princess, the nurse--is forced into this proneness several times; three times she chooses it for herself. Bodo (Benno Furmann)--the brother, the man, the warrior, the patient--is never forced; he, instead, is resolutely pursued. Still, through something as quotidian as lying down, each character illustrates the significance of relationship. As Norris puts it, "It is not in romance but in routine that the possibilities for transformation are made manifest" (pp 62-63).
The first time Sissi lies down is to read a letter from a friend, Mieke. It's a letter she's waited all day to read--a rare treasure, like her seashell on the bedside table. This ink and paper carries a reminder of another world, a life outside the confines of Sissi's small room and locked door. The letter is not merely a request to do a favor for a friend; it is a Divine invitation to step outside of herself. But, this stepping outside of ourselves is always a risk, for we often step--unexpectedly--into the unknown.
In Sissi's case, she steps under a truck. Saving the life of a friend, Otto, by pushing him out of harm's way, Sissi is nonetheless unable to save herself. In the space of one sideways glance, a trip to the market, or the post office, or the bank--we don't even remember where we were going--becomes a life-or-death struggle. A distraction becomes an element of destiny; our routine life is somehow, suddenly out of our control. As Sissi comes to herself, sprawled on the hot concrete, she quietly realizes: "There [is] silence.... Something [is] missing. My ... breath."
The crowd waits for "the professionals" to arrive. Meanwhile, like Sissi, we slowly drown--in our own blood, our own silent despair. Who, if anyone, will save us from ourselves? Sissi's unexpected savior is a hounded, surprised soldier with a huge pocketknife. One seeking a hiding place. Yet, also one with the practical nature to first listen, and then ask: "You can't breathe?" As Bodo straddles Sissi intimately, all thought of discomfort is irrelevant. Nothing matters but air; the knife-point and the borrowed breaths of this stranger--pushed through a narrow, red straw--are Sissi's only hope for survival.
Yet survival isn't enough. Thus, as Sissi recovers, she begins to dream. And when she does, she dreams of him--the man who saved her. He, who with peppermint breath, restored her life. Yet, now, that life has become stale, the air only recycled; and Sissi dreams only of really breathing. Bodo dreams, too, of a woman; but, not of Sissi. Most often the dreams are dark, melancholic and filled with regret. Bodo regrets the past; Sissi, her apparent future. That is, until she decides to question her destiny; until Sissi finds Bodo and confronts him with her vulnerability.
Unfortunately, such lack of guile can be thrown down in surprise; it can be squashed under a fist; it can be sullied in wet, sticky fear. At the hands of men, Sissi is forced to experience all these. But, vulnerability is not the same as weakness. When Sissi's desperation calms--when she chooses to ignore the downpour surrounding her and focus on a bigger purpose, when she chooses to lie on the rain-soaked grass under the star-ridden sky--she sees the limits of her own perspective. And the vastness of the Divine. When she is driven to the end of herself, fate steps in.
Sissi shouldn't have been at the bank. A brother shouldn't have been shot. If only the hospital had been closer. If only we hadn't argued. Oh, why don't I love as I should? Or why must I love at all? The ifs and shoulds, the whys of life can overwhelm us--driving us crazy with their endless accusations. Yet, some things never make sense; they are beyond explanation. Unless we accept the questions, the doubt, and the pain, our next trip may be in a strapped down position. Like Bodo. And all the Percoset in the clinic cannot bring relief.
For both Bodo and Sissi, the only thing that brings relief is being able to rest. And the only way we can make a space to rest is through forgiveness--personal, one-on-one. Forgiveness of ourselves, forgiveness for others. For Sissi, and for us, the key question becomes: "Do you remember?" Sissi asks this of Bodo--he who wants to forget his past, to forget how to love; he who has forgotten nothing ugly and remembered nothing but regret. He who, even if his tears would run forever, would never be cleansed.
Yet, only when Sissi doggedly lies alongside Bodo, making a space beside him, does he begin to look at her, to question her about herself; only then does Bodo begin to think about forgiveness. Later, in his otherwise willful isolation, Bodo discovers how much he needs to forget regret and remember grace. How much he wants it, even in spite of himself. And how he can't embrace life, or the people in it, without being able to begin again. Until we can share the truth about ourselves with others--as much as we know of it--there will always be something to hide. And hidden things won't let us start again.
Living with Crazy People
"You're afraid."
"Yes. I come back, and everybody's here, and I'm afraid that nothing will be the same as it was before."
"No. You're afraid that everything will be the same as it was before."
—Otto & Sissi, The Princess and the Warrior
Hidden things play over and over in our minds--anger, guilt, perfectionism, the profane--roaming the halls, cringing in the corners. As the patients of Birkenhof Clinic know, when we are motivated by regret, it acts as a poison in our soul--driving us mad. It's been said that we are creatures of habit. But, a habit of denying pain, love, hope--a denial of the extremes of life, does not limit regret; it makes life incomplete, and, thus, nonsensical. To realize life in all its complexity, we must first recognize our madness. It is insanity both to take in too much of life and to let in too little.
Our madness is to give our regrets more power than they deserve. As Sissi discovers, grief, despair, betrayal can motivate us to reach toward something bigger than ourselves. On the other hand, regrets that linger after we have asked for forgiveness--those that crush our spirit, those that echo and refuse to be quelched--these regrets can drive us mad. Bodo's nightmares, his desperation, his journey toward self-destruction prove that we can't live with unforgiveness.
Our madness is to squander the opportunities we are given to leave the clinic--to venture outside the confines of our four walls. Like a blind man, we can become trapped in what we know. For safety's sake, we limit ourselves; no unwelcome smells, sudden noises or bizarre tastes. Yet, as Sissi finds, there's a world that doesn't smell of antiseptic and bleach, that hasn't been sanitized and whitewashed. Like Sissi, I believe we must leave the familiar to find happiness. The best goal of a patient is to get well, not to stagnate. As one patient tells Sissi: [tap, tap, tap] "Not in here! This is poison! It's no good."
Our madness is to destroy ourselves for those who need us too much--and to overlook what we need. Sissi and Bodo come to realize that the only way we can grow is to escape from the familiar--not by destroying all routines, but by forming new ones. It is the pervasive difference between healthy alliances and sick reliances. My "clinic," for example, was a house brimming with anger, unforgiveness and blame--the house of my childhood; to get well, I had to leave it. It could have been an obsessive workplace, a friend who always needs but never gives--or even an over-protective church.
To become more than we are now, we must leave behind those things or people that belittle us, that cause us to dwell in the past and not the present, or that too deeply diminish our spiritual reserves. For, other people will never change--we ourselves will not be transformed--until our patterns, our habits, our routines alter. As fate allows--and God directs--we must leap into the unknown. Once we are in the outside world, though, it doesn't mean the work is over. Instead, it's just a beginning. After all, we're not the only crazy people who've escaped the padded cells.
Life, forgiveness--and, in a very real way, our unfolding salvation--is a daily process, one that involves others. The Princess and The Warrior illustrates that we must take in life--the pain, the love, the hope. We must be open to Divine, even quotidian interruptions. We must choose to be motivated by dreams, by vulnerability, by truth--and not by regret. We must learn to want what is good for us. And we must begin again. And again. Indeed, we must never stop beginning.
"You can't find peace, without my persistence ... I'll break the resistance I see in you.
There's no release, without my equivocal resilience to your will to grieve."
—You Can't Find Peace--Pale3
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