METAL BOX AT 40

METAL 1

Forty years ago, on November 23rd, 1979, Public Image Ltd unleashed their second "album".  Its initial release was in the UK, coming a year after their debut LP.

That "First Issue" had come at the tail end of 1978, a year which had begun with the infamous Sex Pistols disintegrating while wrapping up their one and only US tour.  In the wake of that chaos and all the recriminations surrounding their demise, Johnny Rotten, now back to being John Lydon, went on vacation to Jamaica where he scouted reggae acts for Richard Branson before returning to the UK to get back to the business of making music himself.  Once home, he recruited a couple of friends for his new venture; a bass player who didn't know how to play bass plus an ex-Clash guitarist.  A quartet was completed with a Canadian drummer found via a music press classified ad.  Together they knocked up an album which was greeted with a mixture of suspicion, contempt and occasional praise.  It was an uneven affair, offering glimpses of genius when they'd been able to pay for proper studios and production, but it lagged in spots once the money ran out and they had to tack on rushed pieces recorded in budget studios.  In at least one self declared case, they "only wanted to finish the album with a minimum amount of effort".  It was a contentiously auspicious debut that demanded an unequivocal follow up for this entity to be taken seriously.  So during the beginning months of 1979, PiL set about assembling new tracks while churning through drummers like toilet tissue. 

Prior to it's release, Metal Box was buffered by two singles, Death Disco (issued in June) and Memories (in October).    Both of these set the stage for what was to come, but no one was really prepared for the full force of the post-punk monolith which was about to descend.  Recorded in fragmented sessions at various studios throughout the year, Metal Box rolled out of the gate while smashing it to pieces along the way.  It was unlike anything anyone had seen or heard before, both in structure and content.  Housed in a logo embossed circular metal canister, it contained three 12" 45rpm "singles" with a dozen tracks spread across them and a  running time of about an hour.  It posed questions on every level, from how to get the records out (they were so tightly housed, you'd have to shake the container and try not to scratch or drop them as they tumbled out), to what order to play them (play order was meant to be flexible) to what kind of stereo system was capable of reproducing the sound in the grooves (I personally know people who bought whole new audio systems in order to handle the extremes of bass and treble contained on those records).  

Where their first LP had indicated movement into new musical directions, such as the nine minute dirge of Theme, it still retained remnants of what could legitimately be called "rock & roll" on songs like its title track and Annalisa.  This new product, however, left those conventions behind on all fronts.  There were elements of disco, dub, German "motorik", martial music, funk and some unidentified strains in the mix.  That "mix", itself, was another thing all together.  The bass was front and center, pushing the capacity of the medium to reproduce it.  Guitars & synths buzzed, scraped and squalled in thin ribbons across the top.  Drums were generally utilitarian, minimal and repetitive, providing support for the bass, but never offering too much flash.  Kick drums were EQ'd with enough thud to pop needles out of the grooves and hi-hats sizzled with enough top end to fry bacon. Occasionally, a drum track was no more than a tape loop of a simple beat.  Lydon's voice moaned and squeaked or screamed in vacant hallways, always sounding lost or distant.  Even the editing of the tracks was fair game for mischief.  Some tracks would abruptly cut off and bump into the next.  Sometimes it sounded like the tape player was shut off or switched on as the music did a sharp pitch drop into a halt or lurched to a start.  A song might trail off into the locked groove at the end of the record and either loop there indefinitely or be roughly snatched away by the auto-return kicking in on the tone arm.  It all felt inside-out, like a building with the plumbing and wiring deliberately showing on the outside.

SECOND EDITION

It wouldn't be until early in 1980 that the album would find its way into my 16 year old hands in Canada.  By then, it had been reissued in a more conventional double LP format, in a standard gate-fold cardboard sleeve, as "Second Edition".  I remember going into Records on Wheels, which had opened up recently in a little strip mall next door to the Burger King where I worked, after my shift on a cold April day in Thunder Bay, ON.  I spotted it instantly as I entered the shop and saw it on the wall in the new releases section by the entrance.  I'd heard of PiL by then, but never heard them.  The first LP was never released in Canada, so I had no idea what they sounded like.  I didn't even know if this was a different album from the one I'd read a review of in CREEM magazine the year before.  I knew I had to check it out, so I plunked my hard earned burger flipping money down and then had to wait until later that evening to hear it.  The whole family went out that night to visit friends, so I spent most of the evening staring at the cover graphics while the adults talked and drank.  

I was fascinated by the photos on the front and inside the gate-fold.  I didn't know who was who yet.  I knew what John Lydon used to look like, but not the rest of the band and the distortion of the warped image effect used made it nearly impossible to tell which one was him.  The cover also had all the lyrics printed on the back.  They weren't originally included with the Metal Box edition due to cost, so PiL had run an ad in one of the UK music papers with the lyrics printed in it so people could take that and fold it up to stick inside the tin.  They were in the same hand written style in both cases, I'm assuming in Lydon's writing.  They weren't in the same order as the songs on the LPs, so when I did finally get to hear the records, it took a bit of sorting to figure out which song was which.
 

When I finally did get home that evening, I went to the big old wooden console stereo system in the living room, grabbed the headphones, set myself up in a comfy chair and dropped the needle on the first track.  It wasn't a great system, so I didn't have the best first listening experience, but it was good enough for me to be able to appreciate how different this all was.  Looking at the labels on the records, I noticed the run times for the track listings.  Side one started with Albatross, which clocked in at an intimidating 10 minutes!  I wasn't used to songs being much longer than 3 or 4 minutes.  Maybe 6 was long when you're talking about something like Bohemian Rhapsody or a Zeppelin track and, in those cases, they were intricately orchestrated with major changes in structure and arrangements as the track progressed.
 

YOU ARE UNBEARABLE

Albatross kicked in and I was immediately anxious and anticipating when it was going to start changing.  After a few minutes in, it became apparent it wouldn't.  Jah Wobble's bass line comes in first and it sounds lazy, like it can barely stand to differentiate the three notes it keeps repeating.  It doesn't even want to try to do anything but lumber along.  And it's so deep!  It's just this rumble under the floorboards.  It sounds scary and maybe a little pissed off about something. Brooding?  Yeah, that's the feel.  Then the drums start plodding along and this scraping, screeching noise from Keith Levene's guitar comes in like a carrion bird way up in the sky, circling and waiting for something to die so it can swoop down and gorge itself.  The ghost of Johnny Rotten then looms up from his grave and starts moaning about something he can't get rid of.  His thoughts are fragments, piecemeal musings you might extract from a cadaver's brain.  "Frying rear blinds"?  What does that even mean?  It's bits and pieces of ideas and images, but there's a sense of exasperation  and boredom.  What's he on about?  Is it his career and fame?  Is it the carcass of rock & roll being flogged like that dead horse?   "Slow motion... slow motion..."  The whole thing fucks with your sense of time.  It goes on so long and is so ruthlessly repetitive, that you lose any sense of time passing.  Everything stands still.  Then it's over and the last thing you hear is that squalling vulture flying off into the distance.

IT SHOULD BE CLEAR BY NOW

Next up, Memories kicks off with some pep as the tempo picks up.  Now, the bass is hollow sounding and bouncy while a disco beat pops along, encouraging some toe tapping.  A curtain of vibrato guitars starts shimmering in the background.  There's something vaguely Latin about it, like flamenco or something, but it's not even certain what instrument you're listening to.  It sounds a bit like an organ too.  There's a flurry of notes that dance around, but they never quite create a melody.  It's merely a suggestion of conventional structure.  Lydon's voice comes in with a sneer and declares he's "had enough of useless memories" and proceeds to tear into the concepts of sentimentality and nostalgia.  Then, just when you think you've got a handle on things, the entire mix suddenly cuts to something completely different.  The bass is back to booming again.  The drums are heavier now too, with the kick threatening to bounce the stylus right out of the grooves.  It's all compressed so that the loudness of the track hits the maximum and you can imagine any VU meter pinned to the top when the mix cuts over.  That curtain of Spanish moss is now a wall made of steel and it's pushing that voice as it bellows and snarls about being "used" and "dragging on and on and on and on and on AND ON AND ON!"  Back and forth, the song snaps between the two mixes until it goes careening out of sight.  As previously mentioned, this song was released as a single, but that version only used the bottom heavy mix throughout and did not have the abrupt edits between mixes.  Personally, I can never really decide which is more effective, though I tend to favor the single most of the time, but the juxtaposition of the two mixes on the LP was a fresh, jarring concept and executed flawlessly. 

FLOWERS ROTTING DEAD

By the time I'd finished the first side, I was feeling like I'd been punched in the head in the best way possible.  My initial apprehension was replaced by an exuberance as I could feel the sense that something new was taking hold in my brain.  Flipping the record over, the next track up was Swan Lake.  This had been released in a more stripped down, rough mix as Death Disco in the summer of that year.  This finished mix would take the rawness of the single and refine it into a truly heartbreaking exploration of loss and death.  The song was written by Lydon about watching his dear mother pass due to the ravages of cancer.  His delivery during the song is nothing short of agonizing.  There's no measuring or muting his suffering and he lets it out with every excruciating wail of "words cannot express!!!".   Again, a disco beat provides the bedrock while Wobble's bass thunders with the tension and anxiety of an anxiously racing heartbeat.  Levene's repeating guitar and synth motif, borrowed from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake, creates the sense of mourning and lamenting the loss of a loved one.  The emotion in the song is so raw and uninhibited, it's very strange to see the promo video made for it as the band seem to be mugging it up during their miming of the track for the camera. On Second Edition, the track spins into a frenzy before before being abruptly cut off by the next track while, on Metal Box, it bleeds into the run-out locked groove to find its terminus.

THE SMELL OF RUBBER ON COUNTRY TAR

Things abruptly switch to the next track, Poptones.  The song tells the tale of kidnapping and murder, snatched straight out of the headlines of the tabloids.  It's almost beautiful, musically.  Keith spins a delicate spiderweb of guitar notes, cascading down upon each other and churning like a glittering Ferris wheel.  I say "almost" because it's all a bit like a bouquet of flowers that has died on the dressing table.  The tale being told is past tense, so there's no sense of urgency or threat.  There's only the aftermath as the deceased in question relates its own demise, the sound of music playing on a cassette in the car communicating the dispassionate telling of this sordid true crime story.   A walking bass loops around along with the guitar, meandering through a cycle of notes while the drums tumble along for the ride.  It's a dizzying swirl of sound as we feel the chill of a car boot in the country air and the "wet" of the dirt while we lose our "body heat".  Lydon intones the vocals in a cracked, reedy tone that reinforces the detachment from any direct experience.  Faintly in the background, his voice echoes down into the vortex, barely audible amid the distortion. 

MANGLED MACHINERY

Cut to the battle field for the completion of the trifecta on side two of the 2nd-E track listing.  The tape machine kicks into gear with a sweep of the pitch and we're marching.  The drums pat out a militant trundle while the bass, deep as usual, pushes underneath,  an insistent drill sergeant, counting out steps as the troops move forward.  All around, synthesizers swirl, discordant and droning, swooping through as teargas lingers on the horizon.  We're going to war, but it's corpses for cash in this modern military industrial complex.  The big money is meticulous and well organized as it poisons the landscape.  Lydon's voice searches for "meaning behind the moaning", but all he finds is dollar signs.  This is not conflict over ideals or beliefs or even traditional material concerns such as land rights.  This is military for money, as a mechanism for generating financial profit.  PiL were predicting the future here and, 40 years on, it's horrifying how precisely accurate their prediction was.  Synthetic gunshots ring out in jarring bursts.  When they hit rapid-fire, it makes you jump in your seat.  It's frightening and relentless and it all ends in a crescendo barrage.

IT IS YOUR NATURE

The next set of tracks gives the listener a bit of a breather.  I'm going by the double LP track listing here for this article as this is the ordering I was ingrained to follow until I finally got a proper copy of Metal Box a good year after first getting Second Edition.  First up are a couple of instrumentals.  Socialist comes staggering out of the speakers like some sort of short-circuiting robot.  The drums are weirdly syncopated with the bass and the whole thing is sprinkled with nothing more than some random synth bleeps and bloops.  This is followed by Graveyard, a track which previously appeared in a different mix with vocals on the B-Side of the Memories single as Another.  It was also recycled by Wobble for the track Not Another, reverting back to an instrumental, on his first solo LP.  It's a rhythmic, atmospheric piece with a decidedly morbid mood, most suitable for some midnight forays to the land of tombstones.  It would make a good soundtrack for waiting for The Great Pumpkin in the pumpkin patch.  This moody, brief trio is rounded off with The Suit, also recycled by Wobble for his solo album as Blueberry Hill.  Here, it's little more than a lonely bass line playing against a tape looped kick & snare with Lydon doing some of his infamous piano tinkling in the background (he often did this in the studio simply to annoy everyone).  Keith is nowhere to be found here.  Lydon's lyrics sneer and snigger at those who live off the ideas of others, never originating anything themselves.  Their look, their attitude, their manners, all borrowed from others and sold cheap to anyone stupid enough to buy into their fake personas.  It eventually  disappears down an echoing corridor to end this set.

ONE MORE SOB STORY

The final quartet of tracks brings us to some of the most harrowing moments of the album.  First up is another story torn from the morning papers, Bad Baby.  This was the audition piece for drummer Martin Atkins, who knocked it out in a single take, thus clinching his hiring by the band.  Here, he drops a minimalist funky beat while Wobble saunters along on bass.  Keith ads no more than the occasional car horn inspired atonal synth stab, but that's enough.  The track doesn't need any more.  Lydon fills in the rest with his recounting of a story of an infant being left alone in a parked car.  It's a story you hear every year, at least a dozen times, still to this day.  Lydon relates it rather offhand and almost distracted, like he's busy looking for gum in his pockets or something.  It's a song about thoughtlessness and that's the feeling that comes across in the delivery.

DON'T KNOW WHY I BOTHER, THERE'S NOTHING IN IT FOR ME

Things start to get harrier with No Birds, the post-punk equivalent to The Monkees' Pleasant Valley Sunday.  In this case, it's suburban malaise taken into discordant abandon.  The drums ripple with tribal toms while the bass pushes them along.  Once more, Lydon's piano is plinking in the background while Keith shaves off sheets of searing guitar.  Lydon's vocals paint a picture of disaffection, "a layered mass of subtle props."  He keeps insisting "this could be Heaven", but you know it's a long way from that.  The song trots along until it's suddenly struck down by the most manic piece on the album, Chant.  The drums are primal and thudding, like a mob stomping in rage.  The bass grumbles underneath and, like Albatross, there's barely any distinction between the notes, only an uneasy minor variation.  Keith's guitar thrashes and spits in all directions.  There doesn't seem to be any pattern to it, it's chaotic flailing imitating the mob mentality being evoked.  There's a "chant" building in the background.  "Love, war, fear, hate"!  At lease, that's what it sounds like.  It's not really possible to say for sure.  The chanting is so incessant, the words lose their meaning from repetition.  Then the lead vocals charge in, scouring the air with condemnation.  "Voice moaning in a speaker, never really get too close".  Riots, protests, demonstrations, a futility of empty gestures accomplishing nothing.  Meaningless slogans, unfulfilled promises, empty threats.  It's the anger of the world stewing away with no target, no hope of success and no objective to accomplish.  The song riots along until the channel gets abruptly changed because it's too miserable to take any more. 

It's all been a pretty bleak affair up to this point with the music and lyrics and even the packaging painting a grey, metallic picture of death, despair and hopelessness.  So how come I felt so good listening to it?  The final track in this assault, Radio 4, finally lifts us out of the bleakness for a brief glimpse of beauty.  It's the third instrumental and it's pretty much all Keith (though I've heard rumors that Ken Lockie, of Cowboys International, had a hand in it).  It's essentially no more than a wandering bass line and washes of synth chords moving in like waves crashing on the shore while a lonely lead line drifts over top.  Occasional cymbal splashes are the only accents.  It's peaceful, serine, contemplative and brings you back down to earth after the rest of the album's jarring, hypnotic melee.  It's waking up from the nightmare and realizing you're still okay... for now. 

WE'RE NOT A BAND, WE'RE A CORPORATION

After my first listen, I was stunned.  I went to high school the next day and tried to explain that I'd heard something beyond anything I'd heard before, but I didn't have the words and no one took note of me.  For the next 6 months or more, Second Edition was played at least once, start to finish, every single day.  I obsessed over it. I played it for anyone who would listen. It made most of the other records in my meager collection irrelevant.  Verses and choruses?  How quaint and old fashioned.  Melody and harmonies?  Passé.  It had thrown itself so far ahead of the pack, listening to most other music seemed pointless.  It also inspired.

Before hearing PiL, I'd had ideas of wanting to make my own music and had even taken guitar and bass lessons.  As a result, I had instruments sitting in my room and a cheap amp, which were mostly ignored for the prior two years.  I never seriously felt like I could do music myself.  I never thought I had the ability to make anything anyone would want to listen to.  I didn't think I was good enough and I didn't know where to start.  But Second Edition was like an instruction manual and it was a tool kit and a pile of building blocks, all in one.  It wasn't something to merely listen to.  It was something to study and learn from.  Its structures were primary and easy to comprehend.  Throw down a simple beat, add a few notes on bass, jam some guitar on top or just make weird noises and blather on about whatever you wanted to finish it off.  That was it.  That was all you needed to make your own music.  Within a year, I'd managed to buy a synth and a drum machine and a cheap cassette recorder.  I'd met a few friends who were also interested in fucking around with music, so we'd hang out in someone's basement or bedroom and crank out some noise.  I wouldn't have felt like I could do it if it weren't for PiL and this album, in particular.

PiL made you question every structure around music and understand that the rules were not fixed and that every aspect could be played with.  The way you play an instrument, the way to make a record, the way you package it, the way you structure your band.  You could have an accountant and a publicist be part of the band.  They did.   It was all up for grabs and you only needed to have the nerve to throw caution to the wind to try to make shit happen.  That was an important lesson and one I will always be grateful for learning. 

Eventually, as I mentioned, I got my hands on a sanctified original pressing of an actual Metal Box.  Back in 1980, living in Canada, that wasn't easy to do.  The Records on Wheels shop was getting in copies of NME and Sounds music papers on import, so I was buying them and checking out the classified ads at the back.  I found one selling copies of Metal Box plus the 12" of Memories and Death Disco.  I got my calculator out, went to the bank and managed to figure out the exchange between British Pounds and Canadian Dollars, bought a money order and sent it off in the mail.  With no internet or cheap overseas phones, it was a huge risk to send so much off like that.  It cost about $60 all total, which was a lot back then.  I had to wait about 3 months and often wondered if it would ever arrive, but one day, it finally did and at last, I had my hands on an actual copy of Metal Box.  I still have all those records today, prominently displayed on my CD shelf.

Over the years, I've purchased this album more times than any other.  There was my original Second Edition Canadian release in 1980, the above noted original Metal Box edition in 1981, a UK pressing of Second Edition in 1983  (still have that one),  my first CD copy of Second Edition circa 1989,  a CD replica of Metal Box sometime around 2002, the 2006 4 Men With Beards vinyl Metal Box reissue and, finally, the 2009 Virgin 30th anniversary 3 CD Metal Box replica (which I also still have).  That makes 7 different versions.  I couldn't get the expanded edition from 2016, sadly, because I'm poor now and can't afford such things.  At least I was able to hear the bonus material thanks to YouTube.  Anyway, the point is that no other piece of music in my life has demanded my attention and collecting obsessiveness like Metal Box.

Since its release, it has gone on to secure its position in popular music history as one of the most significant and influential albums of all time.  It rehabilitated dance music, allowing it to move into more experimental realms in the 1980s, after "disco" had made the 4x4 beat a cocaine dusted disgrace.  It can credibly be sited as the seed that grew into the bass music culture that spread throughout the 1990s and 2000s via downtempo, drum & bass and dubstep.  It may not have had the sales figures of a Sgt. Pepper, but it was no less revolutionary in terms of the effect it had on people who make music and art.

Where the Sex Pistols had been an attempt, at least for Mr. Rotten, to blast apart the ramparts of "rock 'n' roll", Metal Box showed you what could be built in its place, once you'd cleared away the rubble.  It was the next step beyond the nihilism of punk and actually a positive statement about the nature of creativity, which is why it had the odd effect of making me feel good even when the themes of the songs were so bleak and unsettling.  It made you feel like something was possible, in spite of all the horror.  And it also told you the truth about how fucked up things were.  You felt like it was honest about the world.  There was no fake optimism or plaster over the horrors "feel good" bullshit.  And it concealed a wickedly dark sense of humor, if you knew where to find it (just ask Dick Clark or Tom Snyder). 

In the end, it has proven itself more than capable of "sowing the seed of discontent". 

GAME OVER

Life is a game, often a "team" sport, where you arbitrarily get born into one social group or another and spend the duration of your existence in a competition for resources and rewards.  At this point in my experience of this engagement, I'm pretty much ready for the coach to come in and tap me on the shoulder and say it's time for me to hit the showers.  In this case, the "coach" is wearing a long black robe and carrying a scythe.  To carry the analogy a bit further, I've been benched for a while now and will likely never be called in to play again.  I'm worn out, injured and unable to perform at the level necessary to compete with the younger, more talented players on the team.  Going out on the field is pointless as no one is going to pass me the ball and I simply don't have the drive and energy to fight my way into the fray to get my hands on it.

The point here is that, while I have no immediate plans to quit the team just yet, I would not be resistant to being retired.  I know where I'm at in this scenario.  I know that there just isn't any more for me to contribute and, frankly, the game is looking like a washout for all the teams involved anyway.  The truth about this tournament called humanity is that no one's going to end up winning anything.  Sadly, we've all spent the last few eons evolving into this magnificent creature only to slit our own throats just as we're about to hit the goal line.  

It all comes down to motivation and there simply isn't any left when you know what's coming and know there's no avoiding it.  Whether or not I even have the ability to contribute to this world anymore is irrelevant since there's just no point in even making the effort.  There's nothing I could create or communicate or instigate that would have the power to deflect the juggernaut of self-destruction humanity has unleashed upon itself.  The inertia of ignorance and stupidity that is dragging us down into the abyss of annihilation is too massive to counter with any degree of intellect or activism.  The willingness necessary to assail the halls of power and control in order to right this course does not exist within our species.  The heads of state and industry must roll.  There is no avoiding this truth.  They must all be pulled down by force and smashed into dust.  But humanity is too distracted and set upon false rivalries between races and creeds to recognize the real enemy and turn on them.

But it is or no consequence since the time for that drastic action has already past.  Pundits who talk about how we have X years to make changes before the effects are too late are all overly optimistic.  As the stats of what's really happening keep rolling in, the shocking results are that the degradation and imbalances within our ecosystem are far more advanced than anyone had predicted.  It's already too late to fix anything.  We should have been on this in the last century, but we're still debating whether it's even real or not.  We're still giving voice and credence to cretins, liars and criminals as if their thoughts are worth consideration.  They aren't.  They should have been shut down and muzzled long ago so that the work of people who understand the physics of the world could get on with the business of not shoving the planet down the toilet.  

I wish I was wrong about this.  I would be so gloriously joyous to discover the flaws in my assessment and predictions.  I would also be just as happy to be wrong about religion and faith and to discover there is a just creator and the evil in this world will come to a reckoning.  But the only reckoning to come is the failure of our species to survive and, while there may be some rough justice in that, it's a shame to see all the goodness be taken down with the bad.  We are capable of goodness and creativity and inspiration, but the math simply doesn't work out.  Though individuals have made great strides in advancing us from the muck of our ancestors, the tidal wave of ignorance, greed and fear has ultimately won the game in favor of nihilism. 

This, I will be told, is "wrong thinking".  I should be "positive" and "optimistic".  I shouldn't give up or admit defeat.  The system has placed all sorts of triggers and reminders into our experience that tell us that it's the worst thing of all to admit to failure.  I know there will be people who read this and think that I should "hope" for a better future and have "faith" that the good will ultimately prevail.  But I've spent too much of my life living in that bubble of false optimism and found that it has only been another distraction and kept me away from the outrage and anger that I should have had and maybe could have used when I was younger and more able to take action.  If we all felt the despair and  betrayal we should have instead of wrapping ourselves in the security blanket of "positive thinking", we might have taken to the streets and pulled these fuckers out of their seats of power before it was too late.

So I'm still here on the team, but I"m just gonna sit on the bench and watch the game until my little light flickers out.  I won't cheer for anyone anymore, however.  There's no "rah-rah" left in me at this stage.  But there is still a comedy of errors to observe and it makes for some dramatic viewing. 

LIKE A ROLLING THUNDER

I think there's a case to be made that Bob Dylan created the "toxic fan".  I say this after having seen an interview with Martin Scorsese regarding his new Rolling Thunder Revue "documentary" on Netflix.  In the interview, he's discussing his reasons for making this film and he comments that Dylan always seemed to be pissing people off and something about that caught my attention, especially after watching the film.  

Who could forget his pivotal transition from acoustic troubadour to electric rocker?  His so-called "fans" were absolutely livid!  We're getting used to this sort of revolt now, what with the likes of Star Wars fans bemoaning any attempt to move their precious franchise into new territory, but back then, it wasn't so common for fans to react so harshly against an object of their affections.  Sure, the Beatles had spurned some by making an unfortunate comparison of themselves to Jesus, but with Dylan, it was purely a revolt triggered by the artist's decision to evolve into something new.  

Dylan's willingness to let people be confused and even irritated with him is a big part of what makes this film so compelling.  It's also something of a horse of a different color in the sense that it doesn't fit neatly into either slot of "fiction" or "documentary".  Here, both musician and film maker collude to blur the lines between truth and fallacy and create something thoroughly dishonest, yet paradoxically sincere in a single turn.  It's the kind of thing that would leave a Star Trek android grasping for logical validation as its circuits shorted out while struggling to sort through fact and fabrication.  Watching the film, one gets the sense that one is dealing with some big truths while we're being buried in deceptions.

What we're presented with here is a willful act of misdirection.  I went into it knowing that it was partly fictionalized, though the big question for me was why they would want to do this.  What would be the point of mythologizing this story and introducing deliberate fallacies into the product?  I think a big clue to the answer comes from the opening sequence showing old film of the great Georges Méliès performing one of his early film "special FX" magic tricks.   Scorsese sets his intentions on the table up front.  He's going to use the medium of film to play some tricks on us, but within that process, he's going to reveal something deeper and more meaningful.

Let me backtrack a bit here and state that I'm not an actual "fan" of Bob Dylan in any significant regard.  I don't have any of his recordings in my personal music library, but I do have a passing respect for his legacy and have at least some familiarity with his more famous songs, mostly thanks to other artists' renditions of them.  As such, the thought of watching this movie was a bit daunting, especially given its over 2 hour run time.  But my respect for Scorsese piqued my curiosity and I finally made the effort to give it a go.  I have no regrets about that now as I was engrossed by it from beginning to end.

Why it had this ability to hold my attention is something that I'm continuing to grapple with as I try to pull this apart and understand its appeal.  This project could easily have settled on mere nostalgia and reminiscing on times gone by, but it manages to do more than that by showing us the creative process in action in a way that is stripped of preconceptions and pretenses.  Whether you're a fan of Dylan or not, you can't look at these performances and the processes leading to them without marveling at the creative spirit driving it all.  Ultimately, this film is a celebration of that unbridled creativity, even in the license taken with the truth in its creation.  

I think that, perhaps, the introduction of fictional elements into this story is part of the magic which makes it more than just a document of the past and gives it a life in the present.  That unhinging is a means of making it live in the now.  Watching it, you don't feel like it's just old history, but something alive and responsive.  Even in the transitions from contemporary interviews to the archival film of the performances, there's a dynamic tension that wrestles with the viewer and pushes you to engage in a more active way.  You can't simply accept anything at face value and that demands you question everything you're watching.

You kinda need to go into this with one foot in the world of fact and one in the world of fiction, looking at it as a story, but also a history come to life.  As a fiction, it needs good characters to work and there are no shortage of them here, whether they were real or not.  Dylan himself is both ethereal and down to earth, depending on where you find him.  His present day interviews offer a character who is matter of fact and plain spoken, but his archival character seems more enigmatic and obtuse and then his on stage persona becomes something else altogether.

Visually, he was into wearing white face paint, crudely applied, for these performances.  At one point, he comments that someone wearing a mask is "always going to tell you the truth".  It's a line that stuck out for me as it touches on the heart of this film; the interplay between "fact" and "fiction".  The fiction of the mask enables the fact of the words to come through as the distortion of the ego is negated by the mask.  Then there's the hilarious confession that he got the idea for the makeup after seeing KISS perform in New York (he didn't).  Topped off with his flowered hat and hobo vest, the look is perfectly contrived, but also perfectly natural.  RuPaul says that "we're all born naked and everything after that is drag" and Dylan's "drag" on this tour works brilliantly to create the traveling carnival ring master.

It all works to manifest an iconic persona which makes you want to pay close attention to what he has to say.  Often, lyrics in music can lose much of their meaning and impact as the melody and rhythm of the song turns them into an abstraction, but here, I found myself paying particular attention to them and feeling myself drawn into their stories.  Dylan's timing, phrasing and cadence all conspire to hook your attention into what he's saying even if he might be caterwauling somewhat off key, though that never seems to matter.  The force of his convictions makes the sound of his voice seem like an incantation, conjuring up the events and people he's written about.  

Beyond Dylan, there are many other notable characters.   Scarlet Rivera is magical as the so-called "Queen of Swords".  She is quintessential in defining the musical idiosyncrasy which is core to the band and the sound they make.  Her violin lifts these performances into something more metaphysical that simple "folk" music.  And her presence on and off stage offers a perfect example of how Dylan put this band together and then let them all shine as individuals within that setting.  This ties back into the idea of thwarting expectations as this "revue" deftly avoids playing into what the audience may have wanted in terms of "the hits" and offers them the "now" instead.  

The other key figure here is Allen Ginsberg, who, in his "old man of the mountains" role, doesn't demand his disciples climb up to him, but rather brings his mountain on the road and offers it to the people.  It is Ginsberg who provides the philosophical foundation upon which this endeavor is built.  His exhortation at the end of the picture is profound and inspiring as he pleads with the viewer to go out and try to create something for themselves, to set their own "traveling circus" in motion.  Earlier in the film, Dylan says that life is not about "finding yourself" or anything, but rather "creating" yourself and creating things.  The entire film is an example of this process, a reflection of it and a product of it. 

With this exploration of creativity comes a sort of "lament" for something which seems to be in danger of extinction as humanity swirls around the drain, preparing for its final flush.  There's a melancholy about the transience of the creative process and how it can leave only "ashes" in its wake.  Scorsese seems to be desperately trying to rekindle the kind of creative spark this film celebrates as we get a glimpse of an American spirit which has largely vanished.  This film appears at a time when the country is in a state of crisis like it has never seen before.  It's an existential watershed moment where what humanity does in the next few years will have profound effects on whether or not we can even survive as a species. 

Yet, within that big picture, the kernel of truth is best found in the smallest of moments.  The finest example of this is the scene where Joni Mitchell is performing at Gordon Lightfoot's house along with the rest of the band.  It's a moment of pure intimacy and raw creativity as she does what she does best.  And I have to say I was struck by how much it reminded me of what Laurie Anderson does, though without the technological trappings.  But I could see a clear line of connection between the mannerisms and narrative techniques of the two which I'd never seen before.  Regardless, the moment is precious and personal and clearly illuminates the essence of what is being celebrated and cultivated. 

These moments are all wrapped up in this crazy story about a group of artists flying in the face of practicality to produce something that can reach into the human heart.  The fictional film makers, managers and hangers on woven into this tapestry serve a purpose in underscoring the mammoth impracticality of this whole concept while highlighting the magic that it creates.  The concept of the Rolling Thunder Revue was to set a group of creative souls on the road and have them go to places where regular people rarely get to see artists of this caliber in a setting where they were able to present a performance free from  expectations.  While the general critical consensus at the time was decidedly mixed and the economics of it were a disaster, the emotional impact of it is profound when you catch it.  This becomes crystal clear in one shot of a woman after a performance who, at first, appears to be stunned and then breaks down into tears as the impact of what has just happened sinks in.  It's a perfect portrait of the interplay between artist and audience when that connection reaches its full potential.

I'm still trying to understand why this film connected with me as much as it did.  I wasn't expecting it and wasn't prepared for it, which is why I've felt compelled to spew so much verbiage.  I suspect I'll be delving into aspects of this for some time, which is a wonderful thing for any creative product to inspire.  It's not just something you watch and then forget and I think that's a pretty significant achievement for everyone involved. 

IF I COULD TURN BACK TIME

If I could go back in time and give my younger self some advice, I'd tell that young boy some things which would change the way he'd live his life.   You see, from the vantage point I have now, I know that the world he's going to live in is far different from the one he thinks is ahead.  Back there, he was thinking about a world based on romantic notions of progress, potential and possibilities.  But what is really around the corner has nothing at all to do with any of those things.

Firstly, I'd tell him that, above all else, money is the most important thing with which he'll ever need to concern himself.  Acquiring it, keeping it and increasing it is the holy trinity he should be focused on to the exclusion of all else.  Money is power and influence and security and control.  Money is a passport to any lifestyle one chooses to live.  Money can buy whatever you need in any circumstance.  Money paves the way and makes all things possible. 

This, of course, means that the very first thing he needs to put aside is any inclination towards the arts.  My God, what a colossal waste of time and effort is contained in that pursuit!  I would regale him with terrifying tales of years spent pouring physical and emotional fuel into creating piles of useless expression never appreciated by a single soul.  I would horrify him with the hopelessness of trying to communicate with a world completely indifferent to every effort.  I would crush his hopes by painting a pallid picture of tossing great pearls before a world of porcine ignorance and swine incapable of appreciation or comprehension.  No, no, no!  First and foremost, forget all about that.  

Instead, I would suggest real-estate as one profitable pursuit.  Property ownership in the right areas is paramount because when you control property, you control people.  But there's also much to be done in the speculation and investment markets.  In fact, a good con can move masses into unleashing great gobs of capitol into your disposal.  The main point to remember here is that one need not be concerned with legalities or ethics in any way.  The acquisition of wealth is its own end and any means to that end is justifiable.  The only consideration is that, if you're going to play outside the rules, be smart about it and don't get caught crossing the lines.  However, if you do find yourself afoul of the law, be assured that money has its privileges and that "greasing" the right palm can go a long way to avoiding issues.  

As for people and relationships, I would counsel to view them as resources and always consider them expendable.  Other humans are merely there for your convenience and should be used unflinchingly and thoroughly and, once exhausted of their value, discarded with as little consideration as one would give a piece of soiled tissue.  Anyone who would be unwise enough to attempt to thwart your objectives or interfere with your plans should be dispatched as quickly, efficiently and mercilessly as possible.  Again, one should endeavor to avoid legal complications, but be cognizant that there are always means by which individuals can be cleanly "eliminated", particularly when the price is right.  

Romance is a trap and should be avoided at all costs.  Romantic entanglements will only ever compromise your standards and dull your judgement.  Indulge your sexual proclivities as freely and frequently as you like, but maintain authority over anyone whom you would involve in such activities and be prepared to dispose of that relationship the instant you detect any attempt to influence your actions or interests.  All such efforts by others are a distraction.

The future is only that time in which you expect to live and anything beyond that span is of no concern.  Therefore, plan only to secure your own comforts for as long as you can reasonably foresee your survival and no more.  What state you leave the world when you die is irrelevant because you won't be around to experience it, so don't worry about it.  It's unlikely that you'll leave any heirs behind anyway, so you don't need to make provisions for them or any other descendants.  

These are the core values I would impart to my younger self in the hopes that he would avoid the wasted life I have lived.  These are the true values of the world he will have to live in.  These are the codes driving the most successful people he will encounter in his life.  Look around and find a single example of "success" in this world which does not rest atop these very principles.  Look no further than the current leader of the free world to find the most perfect expression of these truths in action.    Don't tell me that there's another way of living, a "righteous" way where people don't trample all over each other to secure their success.  I don't see that world anywhere and I don't see any evidence it will ever manifest.  

No, this is what I would tell that boy before he set off on his journey.  This is the roadmap I would place in his hands and this is the future for which I would make sure he was prepared. 

THEY'RE EVIL AND THEY KNOW IT

I am primarily a rationalist in the sense that I tend to defer to a logical, reasonable analysis before considering anything more esoteric.  When it comes to concepts of "good" and "evil", I've tended to consider them relative rather than absolute.  Unlike religious believers, who anthropomorphize these concepts into concrete personifications of "God" and "Satan", I see them as an outcome of actions and events where living entities are either positively or negatively impacted by them.  The measure of this is whether or not the result promotes life and well-being or compromises it.  That which helps me live comfortably and securely is "good".  That which interferes with or threatens to terminate my continued existence is "evil".   Also, I've considered them to exist along a continuum where there is some shading of gray rather than purely black or white dichotomies.  This is the core of my ethical foundation in terms of assessing and evaluating behavior and events occurring in the world around me.

In recent years, however, what I've been witnessing in the world of human endeavors, particularly in the realm of politics, is something which seems to contradict this "relativistic" view.  I say this because what I'm seeing is so completely horrific and dispiriting that I cannot assign it any kind of "gradation" or relativism.  A "generous" interpretation of human motivations often asserts that people doing "bad" things usually don't think of themselves as "evil" and that, in their minds, they are engaged in perfectly justified and ethical behavior.  Nobody really sees themselves as the "villain".  We are all the "hero" in our own story.  But I can't look at some people and see someone behaving according to any kind of social value system, no matter how warped it may appear.

I can't look at someone like Donald Trump and see anything but a parasite motivated by nothing more than a desire to serve himself in a way which disregards the welfare of everyone else, even close allies and family members.  There is no sense of idealism in him beyond satisfying his immediate whim.  I don't believe he cares for or values anyone beyond what he perceives they can do to benefit him at any given moment and I don't believe that it bothers him to put anyone in jeopardy in the process.  I can't conceive of any redeeming quality within him.  He is absolute.  He is evil.  He is not misguided or ignorant of moral principals.  He knows what he's doing within the bounds that he sees his objective, seeks to satisfy it and then moves on to the next.  But there are no larger values involved in this process.  It is no more than self aggrandizement for its own sake within any given moment.  It is self contained and pure, like a shark prowling the ocean waters.

This is a true embodiment of malignancy.   He's like some villain from the old Batman TV show; crudely rendered, consistently contemptible and self actualized in his awareness that he is a criminal and a conman and his objectives are purely self-serving.  And these traits are blatantly obvious, even to the casual observer.  They couldn't be more apparent if he paraded around in a purple suite and pancake makeup.  Yet somehow, there is a significant segment of the population who support him and I cant' figure out what it is that sustains this loyalty.  There is not one trait about him which speaks to honesty, integrity, reliability, intelligence or any other characteristic normally sought in a leader.

The cronies and henchmen he surrounds himself with are also no more than a motley crew of fellow hustlers, thieves and deceivers.  Every one of them has the stink of criminality about them and I've no doubt that, if their closets were ever emptied, the corpses of their corruption would come tipping out  in a cascade.  And there is no self-deception going on there either.  They are all completely aware of their nature, their goals and their methods and the impact they have on others.  

All of this brings me to the inescapable conclusion that there is some form of maliciousness inherent in these people which is more than the product of a misguided or distorted value system.  This is a malevolence which lands squarely and unambiguously in the darkest pit of human psychology and it is not a trait which succumbs to any form of "redemption".  People who manifest within this state of being aren't going to turn around and respond to education or "enlightenment".  They are what they are and they are going to remain that way until the day they die.  The most appropriate psychological term which could be applied to these people is psychopathy. 

When it comes to differences of opinion, I'm a "live and let live" kinda guy.  I'm happy to let others live their lives as long as they're happy to do the same with me.  But these people, those marked by this "darkness", aren't looking for that.  They are actively engaged in an program of direct interference in the lives and livelihoods of others.  They wish to restrict women through regressive legislation, they wish to inhibit select races, creeds and religions and would no doubt resort to genocide were they given the opportunity.  They aren't looking to "get along".  They only seek to "get one over" and to take control. 

This all means that we can't simply treat this as an ideological disagreement.  We aren't debating economic systems or customs of behavior.  We're in a pitched battle for our very lives and it's about time we recognize this and stop playing like we're dealing with an adversary who respects boundaries and responds to reason and rationality.  They don't.  They never will and they'll never give up the power they've stolen without a fight and we have to be prepared to wage war with them.  Otherwise, we're all doomed as they destroy what's left of this planet to satisfy their own short sighted ends.  No election is going to fix this either.  They've corrupted and co-opted all the processes which were supposed to protect us from this kind of criminal.  All those systems are broken.  

In the end, short of waging bloody battles in the streets, what can reasonable people do about this?  Well, the first step is to stop pretending this is "normal" and to acknowledge the evil in our midst.  We have to call it out, name it and stop trying to be "polite" and "respectful", as if this is just a little tiff and a difference of "opinion".  This is a difference of fundamental metaphysical incompatibility.  As much as we don't want to take away someone else's freedom, we have to recognize that it's OUR freedom at stake here and compromise with this enemy isn't possible.  We have to make it clear that we see who they are and what they're doing.  And we have to stop cooperating with them.  We have to stop playing their game.  We have to refuse to let them pretend that what they're doing is "fair play" or moral or justified.  It isn't and it never will be.

This is real evil and it knows what it is.  It's palpable and defined and sitting right there in the seats of power all over this planet.  It must be stopped before it's too late.

THEY BUILT THIS CITY FOR SOMEONE ELSE

I've lived in Vancouver, BC, since October of 1982.  I came here by way of Powell River after leaving my home town of Thunder Bay, ON, in August of 1982.  I remember coming into the downtown on a gray, rainy day, but for me, the city shone like the Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz.  I was 19 years old, I'd just left home and this place seemed like it might have some possibilities for a young man just starting out on his own.  It's been my home ever since then and it has generally felt like home for most of that time, but the last few years have made it feel more like a place being built for someone else and not me.

I've noticed it primarily in the boom of construction which has erupted in the West End and across the city in the last few years.   So many towering luxury high rise apartment buildings are leaping up into the sky, it staggers the mind to think of all that real-estate propagating so quickly.  But I don't know who is going to live in all of these places.  I don't have any relationship with the people who are building these structures nor the people who will live in them.  I only know that I won't be one of them.  I'll never set foot in any of these places and I'll never know anybody who lives in them.  Somehow, I got left out of this new city.  It's not being built for me and it has no interest in me or my welfare, regardless of what I might have to offer. 

You might ask what makes me think this way and, to be honest, I'm not sure how I know this, but I am as sure of it as I am that the world is round (though even that has become debatable again, somehow).  What is certain is that I've been disconnected from the economy which is driving this construction and growth and there does not appear to be any means of interacting with it in such a way which would make it possible for me to even conceive of living a lifestyle which would include inhabiting one of these steel and glass stacks.  Whatever it takes to earn the kind of money that one needs to rent or own one of these homes is completely beyond the scope of my abilities.

I'm not at all certain of how I got to this position.  In fact, I was gainfully and relatively affluently employed for many years, but even then I was somehow not able to work myself into a position where accessing this level was possible.  Even when I was pulling a high five digits for my annual gross income, I was only ever able to indulge little beyond splashing out for a bit of takeout food and a few tech toys here and there.  I never owned a home or a vehicle and never had a family to support.  Yet I didn't even have enough to get my damn teeth fixed, something which now poses a serious health risk to me and also, aesthetically, means I can't present myself in public with any confidence, given that a gap-toothed, dingy yellow smile is nothing less than a stamp of impoverishment.  16 years working "professionally" still left me with no foothold by which I could maintain even a modest lifestyle.  

While I may not be in possession of formal accreditation in any field, I worked professionally in technology, including documentation, testing, design and implementation, long enough to merit those qualifications based on experience alone.   I am in possession of ample natural talents and acquired skills to enable me to perform exceptionally in many different fields and applications.  Yet, none of that bares any weight anymore and, going into application or interview processes, I can sense, intuitively, that I am automatically excluded from consideration the moment I present myself.  There is some factor involved which shuts the door to all avenues of potential for me.  The days when friends and family networked together to help each other secure employment seem to have vanished.  Even with social media, it seems that the process of using personal relationships to remain connected to society have broken down and ceased to function.

In some regard, I suspect my age, being over 50, has played a significant role in this.  My ongoing health issues may factor in as well, though they are neither obvious nor chronic enough to be apparent without actual knowledge of my medical history.  Whatever the case is, I'm certainly the "potato" that's fallen off the truck and there doesn't seem to be any way to get back on.  The city that is re-inventing itself before my eyes most definitely has no role for me to play in it.  This place is now a playground for the wealthy and nothing being built here is manifesting with any intent to create communities or social infrastructure. 

What we have is purely driven by economics.  It's about money and nothing more.  These places are investments, not homes.  They're tools for laundering illicit cash flows.  It's just a means to an end - busy work for the sake of "growth", but without any conscious goal where the lives and well-being of people are in mind.  When I walk around certain areas in the West End, particularly along Coal Harbor, there's a faint sense of emptiness as so many of these properties sit vacant, purchased by people who aren't there and may only show up once in a while, if at all.  These properties are no more than line items in a portfolio of assets.  No dramas will play out within their walls.  No events of lives lived will haunt their interiors.  Only the movements of soulless automatons calculating interest rates will disturb the dust as it settles in these lifeless abodes.  

This flurry of activity flies in the face of the looming ecological and climate crises which lurk at the threshold of the "day after tomorrow".  It's so close to landing on our heads, but the busy bees keep working, oblivious to the futility of their efforts.  I think of the "ghost" cities of China, built for no one.  They were driven by the myopic obsessions of hyper-capitalistic investments with no human condition perceived within their planning.  Money disconnected from benefits other than increase.  

I've lived in my building since 1986, nearly 33 years.  I've somehow managed to maintain my existence here by the skin of my teeth and through sheer force of will.  I dangle on a precipice, only needing the occurrence of a property sale to trigger the "renoviction" process which has consumed so many low income residents in the past few years.  I'm in a prime location for something like that to happen.  I've seen building after building torn down across this city only to be replaced by greater, grander structures with price tags exponentially higher than what was there before.  None of this is meant for so-called "regular" people.  Only those of extreme affluence are welcome here and I don't know them at all.  I don't know who who they are, I don't know what they want, I don't know where they think they're going with all of this.   

It's like aliens have landed and taken over.  They have no interest in our existence.  We are a mere inconvenience to them.  We will be eliminated in time.  So I hang on to what little I have left until I can do no more.

BELIEF IS FOR THE BIRDS - BIRD BOX ANALYSIS

A while back, I watched the Netflix film, Bird Box, and wrote out a few thoughts.  This is less a review and more an analysis of the themes and symbolism used in the film.

There was a lot of chatter about this movie when it was released and I can see why.  It's one of those films which is just vague enough to illicit speculation and varying interpretation while giving enough specifics to ground it in experiences that anyone can relate to.  Personally, there were some things about it that I found a bit frustrating as someone who generally likes to know what's going on and why. Also, the practical logistics of all this suggest some massive plot holes in terms of how anyone could survive this scenario at all.  However, when you're dealing with allegories, sometimes its best to put practical considerations aside and deal with what's being presented with a certain suspension of disbelief.

Allegory is certainly what this presents the viewer, but which allegory is where interpretation may vary as I can see a few possibilities cropping up.  I saw some comments before watching this which theorized it's about racism, so I went into it looking for those references, but honestly, I don't know if that's really very pertinent to this tale.  For me, the most obvious conclusion to draw from this story is that "ignorance is bliss", given that the main contention here is that what you don't see can't hurt you.  From there, I suppose the question is, what could one ignore to the point where it would be advantageous to one's survival?

In the film, "seeing is believing" takes on a new meaning as each individual goes through their own reaction, though these reactions tend to break down into two main variations. Either one becomes suicidal and self destructive or one becomes a "convert" to whatever this menace is and attempts to ensure everyone around them is exposed to it as well. The "converts" seem to be able to continue to function in the world in some sense while the others seek nothing beyond immediate and irreversible annihilation. What's left are those few who remain ignorant or unexposed as long as they don't see what's in front of them.

When I consider the symbolism, I can't help but see a connection to the current political climate, particularly in the US.  People who get wrapped up in the madness either feel hopeless and helpless or they become part of it and try to encourage it. Those who refuse to get absorbed by it seem few and far between, but maybe they're the ones who are best off. I don't know. This idea that being blind to something can protect you from it seems counter-intuitive to me.

Since watching it, the interpretations I've come across have focused on Mallory and how the story is about her connecting with people again after starting off as an isolated, detached character afraid to love or commit to relationships. I'm not so sure that's the real point of what's going on here either.  I don't know how the act of cutting off perception of the world around you is supposed to help bring people together.  I've always felt that the opposite of that was true.

I guess where that leaves me is confused as to the moral of the story given that we never find a way to exist in this world without being restricted in a very major way. Though the main character finds herself discovering her ability to care about others and create relationships, she's still trapped in a world where exposure to it leads to destructive and devastating consequences. It's a place where, ultimately, the people who are most adapted to it are those without the ability to perceive it. Truly a case of "the blind leading the blind".

After considering it for a day or two, however, I finally hit on something that made sense to me.  The key is looking at the basic metaphysics involved here and the question of whether what's happening is "natural" or "supernatural".  The answer to that, for me, is obviously the latter.  This is not some virus or man made contagion or invasion.  This is some kind of divine judgement.  This is what happens when humanity sees that there is no "God".  

Most people can't deal with it and, faced with an indifferent, uncaring universe, implode and self destruct.  Some, the "atheists", embrace it and want everyone to see what they see.  They go around trying to make everyone look at what they see.  The "monster", for them, is beautiful and they're shown as godless heathens.  The "believers" that remain spend the movie trying not to see the "truth".  They end up trying to survive in an isolated enclave run by "blind" people, those who are incapable of seeing the truth of a godless universe and continue to live in ignorance. They survive by ignoring the evidence of their senses and clinging to their belief.

This is what religion offers.  It's an excuse to keep your eyes closed and not see the vast indifference of the universe and how it swallows us up in its enormity.  Those who embrace this knowledge are characterized as fanatics and insane, when the reality is that the believers are really the ones who are locked away from understanding reality.  Ultimately, this film is an endorsement of ignorance as a means of security and safety.  It tells the viewer that seeing is a curse and that blindness is a blessing.