biological clucks

If you’ve spoken to me about Winged Migration or Grizzly Man, you might be aware of the expectations I hold for nature documentaries. So last night, I went into watching March of the Penguins with a critical eye. The film has been both censured and lauded for the sympathy it garners through its anthropomorphized penguins. People everywhere gave their enthusiastic thumbs up, way up, for those cute, downy chicks. Indeed, such strategic heartstring tugging makes me skeptical about the goals and effects of most any film. But oh come on! They’re baby penguins. And when those little, fuzzy creatures with their tiny, tiny beaks and their plump, plump bellies appeared on the screen, I found myself leaning forward on my sofa; the left side of my mouth curled upwards; my forehead went taut as my eyes widened; and oh the kinds of cooing sounds I made! I would take a quick breath in, and then exhale with an “Awwww.” Or I would tsk my tongue once, and then promptly follow through with an “Ohhhhhh.” Should I feel guilty that my heartstrings were playing mad concertos, crescendoing each and every time a tuxedoed bird slipped on the ice?

But then I had to ask myself whether I should judge March of the Penguins by the standards by which I judge most documentaries. One of the film previews included on the DVD introduces us to a Pixarish tap-dancing penguin; and one of the special features is the Bugs Bunny episode in which Bugs befriends the dancing penguin from Hoboken with the top-hat. And we need not look outside of the film for betrayal of the documentary objective; Morgan Freeman tells us, close to the beginning of his narration, that “This is a story of love.” So, no, you don’t watch March of the Penguins to learn about how the digestive tract of a penguin is able to store food for such long periods of time (I mean, if I ate that much food and was asked to walk seventy miles, you can bet I’d be shitting all of it out along the way). And you won’t learn what that milky white substance is that the male penguins produce out of their throats to feed the newly-hatched chicks (when all they tell you is male and milky-white substance, there’s only so far the anthropocentric mind can go). And what distinguishes the calls and chirps that makes recognition amongst mating pairs and their offspring possible? Forget about it. No, you watch March of the Penguins to learn about how much we like the idea of formal-wearing, fancy foot-working birds falling in love with each other. Chilly-Willy, I’m so winking in your direction. Wallace and Grommit, how dare you!

In other words, March of the Penguins is about what we want. So don’t watch it expecting to learn about penguins. Watch it to learn about what you want out of your own life. You like to be around people like you, who share similar goals. You know that amongst these people, you will find a mate. Or you better find a mate, because if you’re one of those unlucky and partnerless ladies, your story isn’t important enough to be told (seriously, do the spinster penguins just go back to sea? Do they dig a hole and die in it? Do they start a blog?). You like to cuddle (have sex). You like it that you can leave the house to have a bite with the ladies while Daddy stays at home to care for the kid (oh and Daddy, you be careful. We’re very, very proud that you’re taking on child-rearing responsibilities, but if something happens to Junior while mom’s away, your story is even less important than that of the spinster). And you don’t mind so much that your gut has become a bit flabby because it means that you now have the cutest ever offspring to keep warm and nurture. Ah humanity.

Of course, I’m very uncomfortable right now for many reasons. My cooing at the baby penguins … does that mean I secretly harbor a desire for offspring of my own? And when I find a mate, does that mean I need to go to the designated mating ground and have a kid? Or if I do decide to have a kid, does that mean that my life becomes an easy set of decisions and actions determined by a list of shoulds and should-nots? Will Morgan Freeman suddenly identify me only as “the mother,” and that guy next to me as “the father”? I felt so sorry for the young penguin parents who couldn’t get their egg to roll from the mom’s feet to the dad’s feet the right way; the egg kind of just rolled around on the ice until it cracked. Along with the spinsters and inadequate fathers, their story was left untold too, but the camera made sure to rest on the image of the cracked egg before returning to the moral families and their displays of masterful egg transfer.

So I don’t think that my main problem with the film is the anthropomorphizing of the penguins; you realize pretty quickly that you don’t watch this film to gain knowledge. My problem is with what the anthropomorphizing entails. If we understand these penguins as humanized, then what it means to be characterized as human, and humans in love, and humans with kids, is so simplified, so limited, so … not human. If the film were also about digestive tracts, and the content of regurgitated food matter, or what happens to penguins that aren’t “fit” parents for whatever reasons, it seems like audiences might not only be able to learn about actual penguins, but also begin to appreciate the complex and variegated nature of nature; penguin, human, or otherwise.

In conclusion, baby penguins are totally cute, but ew, it's not like I actually want one.

Second person

Seattle wasn't designed to get this hot. You know it's bad when your cat is staring up at you with that, "Oh my human, please make it stop," kind of look in her eyes. You tell her, "Oh my kittie, I'm sorry you have fur." And then you try to comfort her by petting her, but that's the last thing she wants. She walks away, her head hanging low, disappointed. You yell after her, "I can shave you if you want." She's not amused.

And then when she's not in the room any longer to distract you, you're confronted with your own discomfort. It's dark outside. The windows are open. Even the fan is on. But the air is sitting and warm. You've recently grown attached to sparkling water and so there's a tall, cold glass of that on the table, which offers some comfort. But then as you reach out for the glass, you realize that the skin on your back has blended somehow with the fabric on the sofa. You become fascinated by the way your back almost peels away from the dampening material when you lean forward. You listen closely for the "pop," but it doesn't happen, so maybe you mimic the sound you wanted to hear with your tongue. Maybe. The playfulness passes to be replaced by worry that the sweat will stick and sit and smell; you're having guests this week. Will they smell your smell? Will they smell?

And you wonder how hot it is in San Francisco. Los Angeles. Louisiana …

You know its just a matter of waiting--it will get cooler and the tiredness will take over. In the meantime, distractions help. You're almost done reading Ian McEwan's Atonement. But Briony seems particularly annoying right now. You know that you're supposed to appreciate the development of her character from the precocious but bratty child she was to the world-weary and heart-heavy nursing student she is. And there are times when you slip into the story; I mean, imagine the guilt if you weren't exactly in her shoes when she's faced with caring for the soldier with the shrapnel in his leg, or the one with the missing nose and cheek, or the french one—half his skull gone, his brain exposed. But then, and maybe it's the heat, you can't help but get annoyed with Briony because you remember what she was like when she was younger and maybe she's just playing out another fantasy of what she thinks her life should look like if she wants to be our heroine. You want it to be about the soldiers, maybe returning to Robbie's perspective. But it's hot and maybe you just need something different to read. Or, for now, to realize more familiar fantasies.

And so you pick up the book you bought earlier today and you realize you should have gotten some more lighthearted reading material because what you pick up is Brian Fies' graphic novel, Mom's Cancer. And, yeah, this one you can't put down even if you wanted to because imagine the guilt now. And you think, I can't write about mom's cancer better than he does, so maybe I should just stick to my bogeys and my pirates. There are tears in your eyes because the story has a happy ending. And then there are tears in your eyes when you read the afterward and learn of another ending. And you've known so many of these endings.

A lot of it is the heat--because heat makes you feel your body just a little bit more than you normally would--but you imagine what it would be like to be like that. To see the seizures, or the fever delirium, or to have to joke about things because how else can you deal with dying. Sometimes you don't have to imagine too far. And then you know it's like you're seeing yourself on the pages in front of you, and then you're standing outside of yourself, looking back at yourself.

Your first person and your second person.

There’s a cat attacking your foot—the foot that’s still a little tender from a couple weeks ago. And you forgive her because it means that it’s cooler now and she has fur and you're her human.