Downfall at the Movies: Noah

Knife in hand, the grizzled patriarch advances upon a tearful young mother. She's his adoptive daughter, minutes from giving birth to twin girls of her own, but there's no time for maternal joy. Instead, she is left to plead with her father, first for the lives of her children, then, in a final act of desperation, to make their deaths as quick as possible.

Such is the tone of Noah, the harsh, bleak fantasy epic from director Darren Aronofsky. Calling this a 'fantasy' may give the wrong impression -- though set in a world with lumbering stone giants, multitudes of mythological creatures and many a clash of swords, this is no place for hobbits. Aronofsky's world is a blasted wasteland without rain, plants or, at a glance, much in the way of optimism.

Russel Crowe is the titular Noah, a stoic shaman by trade, warrior by necessity. He defends his wife and children from roving bands of marauders, who seem ravenously delighted to kill anything they stumble across. There's an implication of cannibalism occurring in the background, and though none of Noah's family is subjected to such a grisly fate, they ultimately fare little better. This is a universe set in motion by The Creator, an unseen force which communicates to Noah only through dreams. The single message is brief and grim: Humanity is out of time. The end is coming.

Assisted by a battalion of six-armed rock giants called Watchers, Noah proceeds to construct a massive ship which will -- thanks to internal architecture that changes as the film requires -- protect the 'innocent' animals against an impending global flood. Humans will be left to drown, presumably because Noah is the only man familiar with the concept of flotation devices.

Complications ensue. Tubal-Cain (Ray Winstone, swaggering through a variant of his turn in Beowulf) arrives to claim Noah's 'ark' for the sake of his own people. Noah's son, starved for affection, hopes to find a wife among them. Methuselah, played by Anthony Hopkins in the film's single point of good humor, searches relentlessly for the world's last crop of berries.

When the flood finally comes, it's a gloomy business. Noah and his family huddle in the ark, lashed by the desperate screams of those left to the storm. Convinced that The Creator intends humanity to perish completely, Noah refuses to rescue the survivors, instead outlining the burial procedure his family will follow as they die of old age. In a last-ditch attempt to lighten the mood, Noah relates The Creator's crafting of the universe, but no one seems especially uplifted.

Though directed with Aronofsky's signature visual magnificence, the story suffers for the inclusion of the horrifying Creator. This is a character apparently capable of constructing an entire universe, yet cannot find an alternative to  the wholesale slaughter of men, women and children. Noah begins as a loving father, but is ultimately forced to murder dozens of people, very nearly including his daughter's newborn infants. His motivation is murky; The Creator is implied to have begun as a benevolent overseer, but now seems to be looking at his villainous fantasy peers in the rearview mirror. Sure, Sauron and Voldemort wanted to rule the world, but The Creator is far happier destroying it.

Logistical issues abound. Why does The Creator refuse to help the beings he invented? Why does Noah continue to serve a master so eager to murder an entire population of sentient creatures? How can two of each animal (birds, insects, and elephants all fit into the ark without difficulty) repopulate their respective species? Noah faces the same issue when, after a change of heart, he decides his family should 'be fruitful and multiply'. This is a bit of a head-scratcher. Counting Naameh and Ila (Jennifer Connelly and Emma Watson), as well as Ila's daughters, humans are left with a grand total of four females. Noah has a few sons, but this doesn't solve the tiny, insignificant issue of catastrophic genetic overlap, and it's unlikely The Creator will be of much assistance.

Aronofsky has made an interesting and challenging film, but one so harsh and joyless that, regardless of an open ending, a franchise seems unlikely. Despite its PG-13 rating, this is a violent story that frequently plunges into scenes of nasty, gruesome violence. Even the dystopian world of The Hunger Games allowed some room for hope and laughter, but with The Creator still looming over the freshly-washed 'new world', the future looks dark for Noah's cross-eyed, inbred descendants.

A Skeptical God

There's a trend among the divine to avoid direct conversations. It's no secret that we've historically been a theatrical bunch, prone to convoluted schemes, esoteric reasoning and (admittedly) some pretty self-contradictory logic. That's why, when invited to speak with the Big G himself, I was already bracing myself for an excess of meaningless small talk. No matter how much I might pride myself on being a diligent fellow with an eye for the details, experience has taught me that it's unrealistic to expect straight answers from a top-tier deity.

Color me impressed. One doesn't expect God to be a plain-spoken fellow, somber and thoughtful in his reasoning, but that's exactly who I sat down to coffee with on a rainy Tuesday.

"Big fan," God tells me, shaking my hand in a firm, reassuring grip. "I've got some messengers of my own, but they don't have the swagger to pull off winged sandals."

"It's a classic look," I laugh, still a little taken aback. I've never met God in person. He usually hangs around the higher dimensions, inaccessible to a lower-level deity like me. I have, however, read His Bible, and it's grim stuff. I didn't expect the fellow who wrote abut drowning a planet full of sentient beings to be so…well, nice.

"How's Zeus these days?" God inquires. "We used to close down the bars, back in the non-material, pre-universal era. I knew his dad, of course, but obviously we don't talk about Cronus anymore."

"Same as always," I assure him. "If it's not rude of me, could we --"

"Start the interview," agrees God. "Best to get business out of the way, I completely agree. What would you like to know?"

I check my notes. "I was hoping you might clear up some ambiguity regarding the universe. A few of the other high-level gods claim they're responsible for existence, rather than you. Any comments?"

"I've answered this before," says God, but with a smile. "Any one deity claiming responsibility for reality is asking for trouble. You can't view existence in such black-and-white terms. Reality is a gradient, not a fact. Does that help?"

"Er," I say, checking my notes again. I had something for this, but God carries on without waiting for a reply.

"Let's get to the real issue," He says, folding His hands in His omnipresent lap. "We deities mustn't shoehorn ourselves into a single perception of reality, or a non-perception of sub-reality. Our perspectives have to be broader. Otherwise, we start running into the sorts of logical irregularities you were hoping to confront today. Oh yes, I'm well aware of it," He says, nodding. "This so called 'Problem of Humanity'."

I clear my throat. "Well, as long as we're on the subject, have you any thoughts on humanity?"

"Yes," says God. "I don't believe in them."

There's a little pause.

"Sorry?" I say, taken aback. "You don't believe in humanity?"

"Correct," says God. "I know you're not omniscient, Hermes, so take my word for it -- humanity doesn't exist. They're a myth. A fairy tale invented by deities so we won't have to feel so vast and limitless. If there really were some sort of mortal race with transcendent, eternal souls, don't you think I would have noticed?"

"I suppose," I admit. "But what about those gods who say that belief in humanity isn't an absolute? That it requires faith? Even some of the omniscient gods are willing to entertain the notion that humanity may exist in a reality outside our perception."

"Preposterous," scoffs God. "I am omniscient, and I don't believe tripe like that. Are you going to take Allah's word over mine?"

"Actually, some folks have been whispering that you and Allah are one and the same," I offer, trying not to sound meek. (I've heard through the theological grapevine that God isn't a fan of this conjecture.) "The same has been said for Vishnu. And for the record, Vishnu told me that nearly ninety percent of all deities believe in humanity."

"Vishnu." God rolls His eyes. "Blue-skinned boob. Never trust a guy with extra arms. In any case, no, I don't believe in humanity. And I don't care how many other gods believe in them -- everyone could be wrong, and it wouldn't change the facts. There's not a shred of logical, scientific evidence for the existence of humanity. I've done the research myself. Has Vishnu examined the laws of physics? I have. Every last atom in every conceivable universe. Don't you think, if humanity existed, I'd have found some evidence?"

"Most likely," I agree. "But -- sorry to circle back -- didn't you say that existence can't be viewed in black-and-white terms? That our perceptions have to be broad? Can't we apply those same requirements to a belief in humanity?"

"Don't be ridiculous. That doesn't even make sense."

"But you said --"

"Move along please, Hermes. No one likes a nag."

I clear my throat. "What about your Bible, then? You wrote that yourself, and it's full of facts about humanity."

"It's full of stories about humanity," God corrects me. "The Bible is a book. Is every book true?"

"Well…no, I suppose not."

"Precisely. The Bible is just a little thing I threw together a few billion years ago. I was bored, and Ganesh had been talking about this idea of mortal beings, so I thought I'd jot down a little story about them. It turned out longer than I planned, but it wasn't bad for a quick scribble. Although --" he leans forward with a secretive grin "-- I never did get around to writing that second draft."

"You were going to revise it?" This is a new one on me. "What would that have included?"

"Massive alterations. The first draft of my Bible is chock full of issues. To be honest, I didn't fully think through the 'Jesus' character, and he wound up a bit unbalanced. And that's not even getting into the way I wrote myself. Ever noticed what a prick I am in the Old Testament?"

"I had not noticed that," I say, keeping my tone neutral.

"Of course not," God chuckles. "Anyway, I'll get around to it one of these millennia. In the meantime, I'd suggest you keep after your interviews and just forget about humanity. We deities have enough to think about without wasting time on fairy tales."

"Fairy tales?" I say, surprised. "But in the book, humanity regards the Bible as the ultimate law. They use it to govern their lives, even to the point of killing each other. Isn't calling it a fairy tale a little…insulting?"

"Hermes, please," interrupts God. "I said I wrote the damned thing. I never said I did a good job."

100 MPS

Deadbolts barred the entrance, but the picketers had nevertheless turned out in force. 'Motley' sprang unavoidably to mind -- young and old thronged together, dressed in a spectrum from hand-tailored suits to intentionally ragged t-shirts. The signs were likewise assorted, some produced on wide-format printers, others slapped together with rubber cement, Magic Markers and rage. Street gangs boasted better coordination, yet could not have dreamt of approaching the magnitude of genuine fury.

Swatches of duct tape outlined the studio's largest window, strapping down a sheet of industrial plastic -- bandages on the ragged wound of a guerrilla culture war. Black graffiti slashed the sidewalk: SHIT is Not Expression.

Police were arriving, parking directly on the curb, grinding down the painted outrage. Uniforms emerged and took sentry, deflecting the cries of, "Sellouts! Pigs! Don't any of you have children?" with bulletproof reserve. Urban life cycled year after year; guards had ever been the last line in the clash of ideologies.

Volume and tension rose systematically as, at last, the doors opened. A brick hurtled instantly from the thick of picketers -- the evening's first apprehension was a tottering grandmother in a Guy Fawkes mask, shoved bodily into the shadows of a cruiser. Passion erupted as patrons dashed into the studio, determination to view the future beating back fear of the indignant, rioting past.

Canvases hung stark on the walls. Decoration was forgone, refreshments abandoned when threats of arson frightened away the caterers.

True war demands soldiers, but the culture war had rallied the troops available. Not striding, but slinking, the founder of the conflict took a reluctant center-stage.

"Er," he began, conscious of expectant eyes boring through his flimsy resolve. "Er. Yes. Thank you all for coming tonight. I know the situation has gotten a bit -- er -- heated. I frankly never expected this sort of reaction."

Onlookers waited. Canvases loomed behind them, while past the sheet of plastic and duct tape, a quartet of vitriolic middle-schoolers were bundled off toward a future in juvenile hall.

"Well, a lot of you may know how this all got started," continued the slinker. "My residency was about to end, and I was hoping to show the last of my landscapes when I came down with a nasty cold. Herbal tea has always been my friend there, so I made a mug of it. The studio was a little cluttered -- moving day coming up and everything -- and I, er, got it mixed up with my paint. Not much fun to end up with a mouthful of cerulean blue!"

A few generous attendants helped the moment pass with induced laughter. The crowd had an air of adamance, already resolved to be awestruck.

"So there I was. Mouthful of paint, a week of residency left, nothing of interest to show. And…well…" The slinker gave the helpless shrug of a storm-tossed sailor, smashed against the rocks of fate. "I sneezed."

Sprays of color littered the canvases. Paint, just like a sneeze, could be propelled at over one hundred meters per second. The slinker had repeated this process fifteen times and mounted the results in the spartan hole of a gallery. Below the largest canvas was a tiny square of brown paper: "Sneeze Production #11. $2.5 million."

On the neighboring sidewalk, a picketer hefted his sign -- a three-foot, full-color, high-resolution photograph of the Mona Lisa. As the news cameras filmed, a second picketer took precise aim, extended one arm and savaged the photo with a can of fluorescent traffic-paint. The eyes, which watched the slinker wherever he went, vanished behind a haze of luminous pink.

Writers are fond of claiming that the rest is history. While this inevitably becomes true, history itself never rests.

On the sidewalk of Atelier Le Sneeze, the culture war raged and flourished.

Are YOU A Wanker?

Studies show that as many as three out of every five Americans could be a wanker. Are YOU a wanker? Let the Daily Downfall help you with this handy flowchart!

America Unveils New State Mottos

Nearly all of the fifty American states today announced their new mottos. Reasons for the change range from boredom (Nebraska) to most Americans not remembering that the state exists in the first place (Rhode Island). The new state mottos are:

Alaska: Warmer than you'd think! (Not really.)

Arizona: There is no Arizona.

Arkansas: Where inbreeding isn't just acceptable -- it's encouraged.

California: 90% of all Californians become rich celebrities! Honest!

Colorado: Get stoned! Legally! Also we've got mountains, but LEGAL POT!

Delaware: Politically relevant until 1847!

Florida: Because old people and bugs have to live somewhere.

Georgia: Peaches? Or something? Whatever, man.

Hawaii: Two words: Hula girls.

Idaho: Taters, Precious!

Indiana: We got them racin' cars!

Kansas: Over 82,000 square miles and not a hill in sight.

Kentucky: Not actually the home of fried chicken.

Louisiana: Now with slightly less catastrophic flooding!

Maine: Event.

Maryland: We're merry! Get it? Merry-land? No? …Shut up.

Massachusetts: Sabotaging spelling tests since 1775.

Michigan: D-FUCKIN'-TROIT, BITCHES!

Mississippi: Helping Americans count since 1894.

Missouri: Remarkably free of distinguishing features!

Montana: Our sky is bigger than your sky!

Nebraska: Because CORN!!!

Nevada: What happens in Nevada stays in Las Vegas. 

New Hampshire: 50% less British than Old Hampshire.

New Jersey: What exit?

New Mexico: Not entirely desert!

New York: Go back to Jersey, ya moron!

North Carolina: Better than South Carolina.

Ohio: Gozaimasu.

Oklahoma: We've got a musical!

Oregon: Birthplace of trails.

Pennsylvania: Do you like football? Are you a redneck? Come on in!

Rhode Island: Less fun than it looks on Family Guy.

South Carolina: Better than North Carolina.

Tennessee: Not responsible for the Dixie Chicks.

Texas: Guns, oil and religion. What else do you want?

Virginia: Ironically, not for lovers.

Washington: Fewer hipsters than Oregon.

West Virginia: Singlehandedly destroyed North Virginia. 

Wisconsin: Notable for more than cheese!

Wyoming: Wy not?

Alabama legislature claimed that, while they did wish to submit a revised motto, the deadline was missed due to difficulty spelling the word 'incestuous'. Additionally, several states (Vermont, Iowa and Minnesota) opted not to change their mottos, or in the case of Utah, claimed that they were, "Keeping the new one a secret." After some investigation, both North and South Dakota appear to have have vanished altogether.