Descent into Darkness

 

by David Sheskin

I don’t want to demean this movie in any way. Frankly I’m still not quite sure whether this review concerns a rather remarkable movie I saw entitled Plumber’s Pipes or whether it is a synopsis of a dream I had shortly after I saw the movie. I definitely want to review Plumber’s Pipes, and I want to say good things about it because I have this intense feeling that it is a good movie. In fact, I suspect that it is a lot better than good. Yet my dilemma — as I said before, I’m really not sure that I did see the movie (even though the newspaper in front of me does more than suggest on page 41 that a movie titled Plumber’s Pipes is currently playing in town). I fully realize that this reluctance on my part — specifically my hesitancy to identify the precise nature of a perception I obviously believe I had, regardless of whether it was real or imagined — almost guarantees that a large number of my readership will go see this movie. And I suppose my reluctance comes from the possible embarrassing consequences which might accrue from sending one to see a movie which is not a movie — more specifically, not the movie the reviewer believes he saw, but instead is a dream. Going one step further, if in the final analysis that which I am deciding whether or not to describe is, in fact, a dream, it is obviously a dream that has made an indelible impression on my mind, and perhaps for this reason alone (in other words, I remember few if any of my dreams, and those which I do remember do not impress me) I should shrug my shoulders and damn the defiant and review or describe or do whatever this newspaper paid me to do when they told me to go see Plumber’s Pipes.

But even after all these ruminations I am still left with one major reservation. Anyone who has read me to any extent full well knows that I have no use for reviews which attach plush and hyperbolic adjectives to movies. I have always been something of a conservative — hard-headed and objective, avoiding hyper-intellectual reviewing. I like to describe what I saw, but briefly. I like to talk about the performers and the extent to which they’ve realized their roles. I’ve never subscribed to either idle philosophizing or literary overkill — neither in movie reviews nor in everyday conversation. Yet, in spite of all this, if I decide to review Plumber’s Pipes there is a feeling within me that I would succumb to using such terms as superb, startling, poetic, beautiful, etc., and I don’t like to read, let alone use such terminology. Not because I don’t believe that such adjectives are relevant to nature, but because it is my impression that over the last few years such adjectives have been abused and overworked (especially by movie critics) to the point where they no longer have any tangible reference value, be it printed or spoken.

So, at this point I find myself seated in front of my computer totally confused — not quite sure whether my review would concern a movie titled Plumber’s Pipes or whether it would be the synopsis of a dream of an irresponsible reviewer that by some strange trick of the mind happened to be assigned the same title as the movie in question. To go a step further, I have a gnawing feeling that if, in fact, I did see the movie I may not have seen it all. Perhaps in one of my frequent trips to the bathroom (which I indulge in more often as old age and diabetes get the better of me) I missed the better part of it. Frankly, I don’t know. I do know, however, than an old writing teacher once told me that dreams are best left in the bedroom or the analyst’s office, and my subsequent experience with both literature and dreamers supports this viewpoint. Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if I considered this whole matter at a later date. So I vow that next week, having had a good night’s sleep and having emptied my bladder, I shall return with the best of intentions to the theater listed on page 41 of this newspaper and re-review Plumber’s Pipes.

Scoletti

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Let it be noted that one week following the publication of the preceding review one Babbit Scoletti did attend that same movie. One hour into his second viewing of that film Scoletti was heard to scream... 

“JESUS CHRIST, I CAN’T SEE! I’M BLIND! I CAN’T SEE ANYTHING!”

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An extract from the report of the certifying physician follows.

The symptoms most frequent in conversion hysteria — motor paralysis, contractures or involuntary motor movements or motor discharge, pain, hallucinations, blindness — are cathectic processes either permanently sustained or intermittent; but to say this only introduces new difficulties into their explanation. One really does not know much that can be said about these symptoms. Through analysis one may learn for what particular excitation whose discharge is interfered with they are the substitute ..... .

In retrospect we thus arrive at a conjecture as to what it is that distinguishes the defense process in hysteria. It appears that this is limited to repression, in that the ego turns away from the objectionable instinctual impulse, leaves it to work out its destiny in the unconscious and takes no further action in its fate. This cannot be correct in the last detail, for certainly we know cases in which the hysterical symptom signifies at the same time the fulfillment of a demand for punishment on the part of the superego, but it will describe a general characteristic of the behavior of the ego in hysteria.

Sigmund. Freud
Vienna, 1936

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In my blindness I feel a definite frustration I’ve never before experienced — that which arises from an inability to deal with life’s necessities. But, undoubtedly, for this blind and frozen critic of the arts, there must come a period of adjustment. A time will come, hopefully not an eternity, when once again the smooth syntax of the morning edition will give a feeling of pleasure — a pleasure associated with the persuasive logic the brain can put into print, even if one must depend on the fingers instead of the eyes to read. Yet, even if that primitive human curiosity for knowledge returns, there will always be the mystery. The sudden blindness. This mysterious affliction of frigid Victorian feminists. How could it sneak up on a man of the world? A man who offered his seat to lust and violence. A man of vision. You know, don’t you all know, can’t you all sense that I am a man who always will put down the truth? One who doesn’t believe in distorting reality, let alone denying it.

But to go on with this rambling is foolish, frustrating, and, above all, inconsiderate. So, to get down to business. Back on the job I worked at so diligently before the mind and the body decided to play the clever game, I could hear the rumors. A general dissatisfaction with a review written by a certain man. This dissatisfaction (which had taken a number of weeks to materialize) seemed to be the result of a chronic ambiguity inherent in the theme of that deadly review. Now, a good month after its release, clearly no one knows much about Plumber’s Pipes. And because of the almost supernatural fiction associated with the movie (imagine a man like Scoletti losing it all in a movie theater), before daring to encounter it with the eye, let along the rest of the body, shouldn’t it be reviewed again — for two reasons, for reasons of safety, and for the usual question of content, which Scoletti in that first and ultimately tragic effort almost totally ignored. Just how unstable is the reel of celluloid that spins each night at our favorite movie house? Isn’t there someone on that learned staff of yours with the guts and talent to once and for all settle the issue? Why is it that since Scoletti’s symbolic castration the management of that theater no longer considers $10 equitable remuneration? Gentlemen, if you would, please clarify exactly what they are now offering the public at our local cinema.

Neither surly nor pretentious, I volunteer. I swear that to the best of my ability I will listen to the words carefully. I will invoke the texture of my skin as a metric of mood on and off the screen and, once and for all, finally, I shall offer a verdict on that movie. A verdict unique in its objectivity and unparalleled in its descriptive discipline. And if (and one should remember that for this reviewer this remains a not so remote possibility) during that third attempt to deal with Plumber’s Pipes (whether they be woodwinds or brass or perhaps just the fleshy cords of speech) my hearing should adopt the ways of prim and frigid ladies, I can only say fuck you all who have this urgent need to get all the details on this piece of art, but especially fuck that movie — that probably run-of-the-mill, second rate flick that by some incredible freak accident had the good fortune to immobilize the senses of a once capable and respected man. A lover of fun. Who, when he was younger, received enjoyment and learning from movies.

So I go. That is I went. I told the editor I needed this third chance. I don’t think I pleaded, yet I know the drama of my request both amused and saddened both my friends and admirers. Something like a dying gunman whose hands had become palsied screaming for a last chance to avenge the killers of his family — not desperados or vicious thugs. Just a reel of 35 millimeter Technicolor film produced somewhere in eastern Pennsylvania.

Scoletti

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Plumber’s Pipes is the story of a prepubescent Italian youth (who has his Christian name of Plumbo legally changed to Plumber on his fourteenth birthday) who, because of a fascination with human waste, elects to quit junior high school and become a “Plumber’s Plumber.” On call twenty-four hours a day, young Plumber takes a Hippocratic Oath of sorts that he will attend to all pipes, whether they be leaky or smelly or what have you. As Plumber (who at first is regarded as a curiosity and something of a nuisance by those who know him) matures, people begin to notice that he no longer lures them into monotonous conversations regarding the contents of the pipes he scrapes. Instead, the young man, who has begun to dress with the style of a British baron, focuses on the structural aspects of the pipes. The shapes, the textures, the resiliency and capacities of the metal or plastic — all these things become crucial to the now pubescent Plumber, who once had only cared about the smelly wastes of life.

Along with this new interest in structure, Plumber becomes a vocalist of sorts. Rediscovering an old childhood pastime, he takes to practicing his songs whenever he can find the time. His big break comes when while soldering some pipes an impresario overhears him humming an aria. Offered the chance to sing at the local opera house, Plumber goes on the stage and chants like a Tyrolean troubadour. His voice, his poise, his strangely expressive limbs hypnotize all who hear him. From that night on his life becomes a pleasant series of solos and duets — beautiful women adore him, little children aspire to emulate his skills.

It should be noted that at the point in the movie where Plumber abandons sinks and toilets for the stage, the film loses a good deal of its charm and intelligence. The once clever and amusing references to pipes no longer seem relevant. For no apparent reason, pipes assume a sexual symbolism. Thus, the final hour of the movie is characterized by overlong scenes in which the once charming Plumber is playing with genital pipes — his own, his friends and those of strangers.

Although somewhat disgusted and exhausted by the final hour of the film, and although in the final analysis this film doesn’t quite make it as an authentic work of art, this reviewer must admit that the last five minutes prove to be both clever and touching, and certainly surprising. I won’t go so far as to reveal the quasi-surprise ending, but I will disclose that it deals with a rather startling disclosure Plumber makes regarding his bisexuality, his incestuous adventures, and the anal preoccupations of his youth. Plumber’s final statement must surely go down as one of the most important insights in the history of the cinema, modern or otherwise. A hint — the last word of a final sixteen-word compound sentence uttered by Plumber (who is talking in the shower of the White House scrubbing the back of the President of the United States, who throughout the film it is hinted is a hermaphrodite) is for. Yes, incredible as it may seem, the producers of this unusual film have dared to end it with a dangling preposition!

Scoletti

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Dear Editor,

Mr. Scoletti’s review of Plumber’s Pipes astounds me. Why he should elect to do such a disservice to a movie, which in the opinion of all responsible reviewers is a serious work of art, is beyond me. In the past I have been a great admirer of Mr. Scoletti. Some of the movies I’ve been involved in have not received his endorsement, yet in spite of this, I retained my respect for his opinion. This is because he was honest in his description of these movies, and because his reviews reflected his usual intelligent and constructive attitude toward the cinema. However, his latest effort regarding Plumber’s Pipeshas the appearance of being the dream of a madman. It is a total distortion of reality. The movie has nothing to do with a boy who becomes a plumber and later a singer. Mr. Scoletti’s allusions to the anal and genital symbolism in my movie are totally absurd. But why go on. Obviously Mr. Scoletti was either attempting to be unmercifully cute or was just plain psychotic when he wrote the review. Plumber’s Pipes is an important movie. Even more important, it is a serious effort by a talented group of dedicated people. The flippant and irresponsible treatment accorded it by Mr. Scoletti does neither he nor your paper any good. I am shocked that a paper of your caliber would be party to such a slanderous review. I expect and demand a full apology and an immediate rectification of the situation.



Sincerely,
Stanislaw Sachs
Director of Plumber’s Pipes
Global Cinematics Industries

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Among other things this was received. This poignant letter on gaudily colored stationary from the very man who directed my darkness. There were letters from other participants, in fact, all of those who’d had anything to do with the production of Plumber’s Pipes. And there were the moviegoers — that candy rattling, whispering, popcorn munching, I’m willing to pay ten bucks so that I might sit on red felt for ninety minutes offspring of evolution. One and all appalled at Scoletti. Scoletti is mad, is perverse, is ill, is blind (that he is!), is incompetent, is definitely not qualified to be trusted with the responsibilities of a reviewer. A cinematic suit for malpractice appears to be in order!

Into the office of the Editor-in-Chief, in front of the paper’s CEO, winding my way with vigilance, gingerly tapping my cane along the marble floor. In my other hand the leash which holds my loyal and furry seeing-eye-dog. An optical wonder, a paragon of repression who has dedicated himself (or, to be more truthful, who has been dedicated by someone) to a life of canine asceticism — a dog of the cloth. I keep calling the kennel every day asking whether it’s just pride or a fantastic sense of self-discipline which prevents him from chasing the furry little bitches who daily cross our path.

“Mr. Scoletti, you have been an employee of this organization for ten years. The caliber of your work has always been nothing but outstanding. Your reputation as a critic is unparalleled. Our calling you here should not be interpreted by you as being a disciplinary measure. Just, please do rectify matters by reviewing the movie in question once again.

“And Mr. Scoletti (chuckling) ..... you know, we hear the audience for the movie in question has quadrupled since the review which has been so severely castigated. But, in any event, let’s try to set things right. Okay Babe?”

“Sure gentlemen. Oh, by the way, my name is Babbit to you. Yes, Babbit. That’s B as in blind, A as in Amen, B as in blind, B as in Blind, I as in I and T as in TNT.”

..........

This is my first re-review. To be more precise, it is actually a re-re-review. Naturally, it’s getting to be one big pain in the ass. Isn’t it bad enough that because of this movie I’ve lost my sight? So, why this sadistic compulsion which has me back in the theater once a week to see Plumber’s Pipes? Is this the normal progression of events in a case of hysterical blindness? I’ve read Freud, yet I can find nothing to parallel my unnatural desire to constantly renew contact with the traumatic event. Suffice to say, these will by my final comments on Plumber’s Pipes.

The notation from one Stanislaw Sachs certainly must be numbered among those pieces of correspondence which have caused both a curious and querulous pang in my gut. But wait! The notation of Mr. Director Stanislaw Sachs seems to represent a viewpoint which the mails suggest is quite popular. This viewpoint holds that Scoletti goofed — it even goes so far as to imply that he goofed on purpose. Some are so bold to insinuate that Scoletti still sees!

But, let us get down to business. Let us ladies and gentlemen and Stanislaw Sachs examine the hard facts. Number one, in both my reviews I have generally praised Plumber’s Pipes. Of course, there has been a classic ambivalence which surrounds both reviews, but if one is objective one has to admit that I’ve endorsed the movie, and if one wishes to go a step further the crowds at the theater bear this out. So number two, the only people losing money (if going to good, bad or indifferent movies is losing one’s money) is the audience. Number three, is Stanislaw Sachs’ concern with Scoletti’s perceptions of the content of Plumber’s Pipes. Certainly a lot of reviewers don’t dare describe the same thing. But, if in the final analysis critics are objective and sane, they will describe approximately the same film. Since what Scoletti describes is totally alien to what everyone sees, the man must be either lacking in objectivity, be insane or be blind. And that ladies and gentlemen is the crux of the matter. I am blind! It is not a lifelong affliction. At least these are my present feelings regarding the matter. Suffice to say, my sightless state is a derivative of a recent trauma. So yes, I AM BLIND ladies and gentlemen! My frontal vision is nonexistent, my peripheral vision is nonexistent, my blinking reflex has a latency which approximates infinity. So, for the final and last and definitive and consummate time, I AM BLIND! Perhaps this is why my reviews strike so many people as being strange. How does one resolve one’s feelings regarding my reviews? If you will, listen to me and I shall give you the same advice my analyst gave me the other day when I questioned both the caliber of his skills and his mental competency — “Please bear with me, I am trying to do the best that I can.”

Scoletti