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Review of Which Way is East and Investigation of a Flame in LA Weekly

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LA Weekly, Nov. 22, 2002  Vol. 25,  No. 1

Filmforum – Two Films by Lynne Sachs

By Holly Willis


In her new film, Investigation of a Flame, experimental filmmaker Lynne Sachs returns to May 1968, as the U.S. under Lyndon Johnson grew increasingly embroiled in Vietnam, and sentiment about the war was decidedly split.  The film opens with a volatile mix of footage showing Johnson addressing the nation, shots of American troops carrying injured soldiers, and home-movie footage of teenage boys.

Rather than focusing on the era at large, however, Sachs examines a single incident, when nine Vietnam War protesters in Catonsville, Maryland, poured homemade napalm on draft records and set them on fire.  Footage of the event shows the well-dressed, courteous “Catonsville 9” – who included peace-activist Catholic priests Daniel and Philip Berrigan – gathered around their small fire, calmly explaining their objections to the war; after they were arrested, they even sent flowers to a clerk who had been treated brusquely in the tussle.

While the event illustrated a quiet defiance, it more powerfully sparked other acts of civil disobedience, and Sachs included contemporary interview footage in which she asks many of those involved to comment. The result is a complex rumination on the power of protest.

In her earlier film Which Way is East? Sachs travels with her sister to Vietnam, looking for traces of violence in the often-beautiful countryside.  Together the films offer thoughtful reflection on the traumas of the past, the continued mistakes of the present and the necessity to reflect actively on our government’s wartime antics.

Review of Investigation of a Flame in The Nation

IOF-Nation-Review016for-web

Films, The Nation

June 10, 2002

By Stuart Klawans


Screening Schedule: Speaking of people who broke rules, Lynne Sachs has made a fine, artful documentary about the Catonsville Nine, the war protesters who walked into a Selective Service office in 1968, grabbed as many files as they could carry and burned them with homemade napalm.

She’s got the surviving protestors down on film, Philip and Daniel Berrigan among them; and she’s got other interested parties too, including the district attorney who prosecuted the Nine and one of the jurors who convicted them.  The juror weeps now, out of respect for their courage.

The film is titled Investigation of a Flame, and it’s showing in New York at Anthology Film Archives, May 29-31.

The distributor is First Run/Icarus Films, (800) 876-1710.

First Steps in a Terra Incognita

First Steps in a Terra Incognita (2002)
4 1/2 min.
by Lynne Sachs

House of Drafts/ Dom Promaha is a virtual apartment building inhabited by the imaginary characters created by eight Bosnian and two American media artists. Our characters have refused the opportunities of exile and instead have chosen to stay in Sarajevo. We invite you to enter this apartment building through our website or by watching the tape as a way of meeting the characters who live here.

This building relies on an architecture comprised of images, sounds and text. The project as a whole is shaped by our autobiographical experiences as they are filtered through poetic reflections, original music, and video. From a performance artist who moonlights as a de-miner, to a cinematographer who uses his camera to turn a decaying Sarajevo into a bustling Bangkok, to a traveler caught by the inferno of a burning library — the website and corresponding video represent our ruminations on a city and its inhabitants during and after a period of war. On the website you are invited not only to enter and explore our House of Drafts but also to participate by leaving your own writing and images on the walls of the space.

Created by Jeanne C. Finley (San Francisco) and Lynne Sachs (New York) with the participation of Larisa Hasanbegovic, Adla Isanovic, Timur Makarevic, Tvico Muhidin, Alma Suljevic and Enes Zlater (Sarjevo, Bosnia Herzogovina).

Script for Investigation of a Flame

Investigation of a Flame

By Lynne Sachs

Transcription

…If I should leave you, I do remember all the good times. Long days filled with sunshine, and just a little…

Tonight the cup of peril is full in Vietnam. Tonight as so many nights before young Americans struggle and young Americans die in a distant land. Tonight as so many nights before the American nation is asked to sacrifice the blood of its children and the fruits of its labor for the love of its freedom.

…and just a little bit of..

Our country says its independence rests in large measure, on confidence in America’s words and America’s protection. Undermine the independence of another; abandon much of Asia to the domination of communists.

And we do not intend to abandon Asia to conquest.

The ancient Israelites used to believe that in the stream of blood in a person’s body, the spirit reigned. And it’s a pretty accurate depiction of the reality, you know, and in Biblical lore too, blood is the sign of the covenant between God and us.

Not too many years ago Vietnam was a peaceful if troubled land.

I had a lot of anger, and I certainly didn’t like the idea of old generals sitting behind the lines, serving me up on a platter in Vietnam. And if the Vietnamese were being killed you could do a commensurate; you would do something strong, something risky.

The war was getting worse, and young draft resistors had actually started to burn their draft cards, which they were sent to Allenwood for two years. They really led the way. Those 18 year olds, 17 year olds, who went to prison.

And we said well let’s do something to these draft records. And that’s how we emerged with the idea of putting blood on those records. First of all to show what they are, they are blood. Blood is real, that’s not paper.

All of us active in the interfaith peace mission, walked in to the door of the main selective service headquarters in Baltimore with little containers of blood in our pockets, and we had looked at the place before because we wanted to be sure that you know that there’d be no, uh, if there were armed guards, we just wanted to be clear about what we were doing. And that whatever we would do that it would be a non-violent witness.

This covenant, this agreement between god and us, is sealed in Christ’s blood. This is the blood of the covenant as he said before he went to his execution. But anyway this was all misunderstood and our using of blood and it was denounced and ridiculed and misinterpreted and ridiculed and so since we were so strongly opposed to the war, we started thinking about other symbols.

And then we published something against the war, I think it’s the biggest ad that was published against the war in the whole county.

Oh, do you have a copy of that?

Yes.

I’d love to see that.

It was a 2-page spread in The Baltimore Sun. We knew that Johnson read that paper; it was one of the 3 or 4 papers he read, so we joked about it, and you know our little vision of Johnson taking a crap in the next morning and opening this, the The Baltimore Sun and seeing a 2 page spread with a promise that more was to come.

And we will stay until aggression has stopped.

Well this is the story of the infamous incident at Catonsville, Maryland, in May of ’68. My brother’s involvement of course went back to ’67, because he and 3 others had already burned their draft files in inner-city Baltimore, and they were out awaiting sentences and Phillip came up to Cornell and stayed overnight, I guess we stayed up most the night talking, and he said, some of us are going to do it again, and you’re invited. Where upon I started to quake in my boots. It had really never occurred to me that I would take part in something that serious as far as consequences went. But the idea of putting myself in to the furnace of the king, or being thrown there, was a pretty shocking and new. So I told Phillip, “Give me a few days to think this over and pray over it, and I’ll let you know.” So I did, I went through some very serious soul searching and talked to my family and couldn’t see, I’ll put it negatively, I couldn’t see any reason not to do it. I didn’t’ want to do it, but I couldn’t not do it.

By the time the Catonsville Nine happened, they switched from blood to fire.

The enemy, they’re no longer closer to victory. Time is no longer on his side. There is no cause to doubt the American commitment.

…and decency and unity, and love. Amen. And we unite…. And identify with their interests… And we stand witness…Unite in taking our matches, approaching the fire…

The idea of going into a selective service office, taking out files, and then taking them outside, where there would be no danger to the building or and people and burning them with napalm, that would be homemade napalm according to the handbook that the green berets had.

And he says it was just gasoline and soap suds – not soap suds, but Ivory flakes, the soap powder; and you stir it into the gas; you’re supposed to actually heat the gas and we figured the heck with that, but they just stirred it into the gas until it jellied a little bit which was our napalm. And the idea of it though, how it sticks to people you know you can’t pat out the fire, it just gonna stick to you and continue to burn. To me it was just overwhelming to think about that and using that.

Bureaucracy is fantastic. We walked in and nobody would look at us. Tom came up and started reading. “We are a group of clergyman and laymen concerned about the war.” And nobody would look up.

….based on the situation now, you can’t participate.

Alright.

…what we’re looking for now…

I was sitting at my desk doing my work, and these two ladies were in the office with me and those two gentleman came up in the hall outside there, and I said, “Yes sir, may I help you?” And so then right on top of him came another man.  And then he started to come in; he looked right; he looked in here and then he looked over there, and he said, as he walked into the office and I said, “ What can I do for you?”  And with that all of the rest of them came all of a sudden. Quickly. And the one man with the trash burner, he went around to my files and stood there and started dumping files into this trash burner, and this one man, I tried to prevent it, this one man attempted to stop me from doing it, and he did succeed.

I felt that we were doing the right thing by being there because I was sold on the idea that we were trying to fight communism in that part of the world. And that China and the other countries might be involved and I thought, I figured that we were a free country and had all the benefits of being in a free country and I was all for helping out any country that could fight communism. So I never even thought about being in a draft board except for helping my country and the boys that were going over and actually fighting for that war. I was trying to help them. Particularly ones that had gone for long years before and had to have some relief by sending them new recruits, and that’s what happened when you drafted new people you were able to send them, the people that were already over there fighting, some help.

Poor old Mrs. Murphy, they grabbed her, I think there was some sort of tussle, and there was a feeling she was defending her turf and in order to get to the records, they had to get her out of the way. I mean that’s an assault, that’s not the way we’re supposed to react to each other as citizens.

We’re gonna take you to the station…. Right in the back here.

Now you had to draft people, in order to replenish our forces and in Vietnam where we had half a million troops. So when you started messing with selective service, you were messing with the core of the whole war effort.

We’re all part of this. It is a symbolic message, bringing home to the American people that while American’s who are, while people throughout the whole world in especially in Vietnam now are suffering, and being napalmed, that these files are also being napalmed, so that these lives can find the same freedom. Amen. We think also those negotiating in terrorism, be asked through this action, that they take there work seriously, especially the Americans. And understand that Americans are able undergo some risk in the name of justice and the name of the dead.

It was like just trying to put a log in the path of the government, you know, to try to stop it from, to stop and reconsider what, what’s going on here, you know. And you know that it’s like a miniscule little log that you’re getting into, but what I wanted to do anyway, I said that is was similar to like children in a bus coming down a hill and the bus was a runaway bus and that what you really had to do was like something was gonna, you had to smash into it, into this other vehicle that was going to smash into the children in order to stop it so that you would prevent the kids from getting injured or hurt. And I still think that Catonsville was that, was just a little attempt at trying to stop the war.

Three, two, one, zero .We have commit. We have, we have lift off. Lift off at 7:51am….the clock is running…

We’re all at death’s throw now…

Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed by thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day, our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses and we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not to temptation, but deliver us from evil, amen.

You might say almost the residue of Pope John XXIII’s ideas, are spread throughout the Catholic world, you know, the American Catholic world and these guys all kind of came up to be Americans. So it’s kind of interesting that he kind of culled them out.

What does that mean, what does that mean Pope John XXIII culled them out?

Well, Pope John XXIII was the guy who, the first thing that he did when he went into the Vatican was opened up the curtains and said, “Let’s let some light into this church.” He more than any Pope, since or before, called for the resuscitation of the social gospel. That the church has to be about fighting poverty and fighting oppression and fighting war. So I think that, you can ask them themselves, but that all these folks are definitely children of John XXIII spiritually. And that’s when kind of liberation theology, which Pope John Paul has really quashed came to the fore. You know, the whole idea that the gospel has to be a living thing, even revolutionary.

Well this was a former priest and former nun, and they had met in Guatemala and had fallen in love and married. And came back and their whole focus as far as the trial was concerned and the action, was to shed light upon the betrayal of Guatemala by the US government.

She’s up their in the mountain and what am I gonna do? Stand around and baptize and say mass? No I can’t do that. So she got me more involved in Guatemala and I got her involved in Catonsville. It’s kind of reverse of it you know. And you know she said, well the only way that we can maintain our relationship is if we go through it together.

I was still full of the possibilities of a real revolution taking place, and a change where there would be a greater justice and then I just started thinking how does anyone dare go against the power of the United States. United States isn’t with you even though your cause is just. Forget it.

Not only are we killing people through violent physical war, but we are also killing them through the extension of our economical political empire. So let us all pray for those people who are dying from hunger and starvation throughout the world so that American’s can have a higher standard of living.

When people started calling me a communist, then I said now I understand, you’re a communist when you are looking for social justice. You’re a communist when you’re looking for the rights of the underdog. That’s the way they use the label. And so that for me became a huge change and I began to see US foreign policy in a whole different light.

Now were looking straight down over Australia, now we have the terminator out our right window, we have the whole further part of the world out one window. Fairly fantastic. The world is a different thing for each one of us, I think that each one us will carry his own impression of what we’ve seen today. You know my own impression is that it’s a vast, lonely, forbidding type.

But we were frankly worried about the state of euphoria that was beginning to set in, in the public mind about how easy this particular thing was. Light a match at the pad, the bird goes up, everything is great. Guys come back down again, you’ve got some heroes.

I remember our one friend who gave us a flag, and he, remember him Rita, and he, I thought he had three young children, and he was a helicopter pilot and he was very, he was a recruiter too, but then they called him back to active service, as a helicopter pilot and he died, he was killed in the war. And things like that happened all during our time of service. And we were strictly for the men who served for our country, so whether or the not government was right or wrong, I’m not in a position to know. I had to take what was told to me at that time. And what I understood at that time. So I don’t know whether it was right or wrong or why or who or what. We just tried to help, we just tried to help out to make our boys as safe as we could and send them people to help them when we could.

It is young men dying in the fullness of their promise. It is trying to kill a man that you do not even know well enough to hate. It is a crime against mankind. And so are the fires of war and death.

Napalm, which was made from information and from a formula in the United States Special Forces handbook, published by the school of special warfare, by the United States.

We all had a hand in making the napalm that was used here today.

These were folks who went to burn records that they thought had no right to exist. Well if everybody who feels that certain records don’t have a right to exist are entitled to do that, there is not only anarchy; there is a tearing of the social fabric that is intolerable. And I didn’t feel any sense of guilt or regret at prosecuting, what I regarded as excessive arrogant attempts to inflict their views on others. That’s not the way a democracy is supposed to work. You can’t burn what you hate.

We regret very much, I think all of us, the inconvenience and even the suffering that we brought to these clerks here; it was done so quickly and we hoped that they wouldn’t be so excitable over a few files, it’s very hard to bring home exactly what they are doing by being custodians of such files, but we certainly want to say publicly our apologies for hurting them.

And we tried to interpose ourselves between them and those who were gaining the drafts files here on the ground from the cabinets themselves. But I think that in a sense, we were a little unsuccessful, because we did have to struggle a bit with them, and I’d just like to repeat what Dan has said, we sincerely hope we didn’t injure anyone.

Um, I tended to be too damn angry all the time. I was ashamed of this country, and what we were doing in Vietnam and I was ashamed to be an American and I was angry as hell of over it, you know? And while I would never raise a hand against another human being, there was too much contempt in me and too much hatred of the system here. Forgetting of course, that the system is made up of people and according to our tradition and our religion and according to our scripture, we’re obligated to love the people. We’re obligated to love even our enemies. We’re obligated to love the people. And there wasn’t much of that in my make up in those days. Yet at the same time I was deeply convinced even then of the necessity for direct action. And now I know that it is the only resource that people have.

Well the Catonsville episode called to mind then, the life of a great Catholic lawyer the patron saint really of all lawyers, Thomas Moore, and the scene that makes this point best, is a scene in which Moore’s about to be betrayed by a disappointed office seeker and Moore’s family urges Moore to arrest him because he’s bad. And Moore, the lawyer, says, “There’s no law against that.” And he self righteous son in law, Roper says, “There is God’s law.” And Moore says, “Then let god arrest him.” And the impatient son in law says with sophistication upon sophistication. “Sheer simplicity,” says Moore, “The law, Roper, the law, I know what’s legal, not what’s right. And I’ll stick to what’s legal.” And Roper says, “Man’s law, above God’s?” “No, far below,” says Moore, but let me draw your attention to a fact, Roper, “I’m not God. The currents and eddies of right and wrong which you find such plain sailing, I can’t navigate; I’m no voyager, But in thickets of the law, there I’m a forester. I doubt there’s a man alive who could follow me there. Thank God” He said. And his wife then says, “While you talk, he’s gone, the bad guy’s getting away.” “And go he should,” says Moore, “if he was the devil himself, until he broke the law.” And Roper, now outraged, says “so now you give the devil the benefit of law?” Moore, “Yes, what would you do Roper? Cut a great road through the law? This country’s planted thick with the laws coast to coast, man’s laws, not God’s, and if you cut them down and you’re just the man to do it, do you really think you could stand up right in the winds that would blow then? Yes I’d give the devil the benefit of the law for my own safety’s sake.”

We’ll take you to the station. Right in the back of the paddy wagon. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

These individuals were certainly at the very least, guilty of malicious destruction of property, and at the very worst, possibly even treason. The country was engaged at that time in a war, even thought it was an undeclared war, and certainly this action would give aid and comfort to the enemy.

In the race to the moon, in the race to the moon. Oh mister spaceman, you sure have started something, oh mister spaceman, don’t you know you got my heart a pumpin’, oh mister spaceman, I want to be spaceman too…

Oh mister spaceman don’t you know you got my heart a pumpin’, oh mister spaceman, I’m not really very far behind…

There wasn’t a single dinner conversation in Catholic families, that didn’t refer to that action, where people weren’t arguing passionately about it one way or the other.

And it split so many people, so many families, churches, clubs, what not, in Catonsville, because some of the people would say, it’s wonderful what they did, it needed to be done. Vietnam is not where we should be. Then part would say, they shouldn’t of done it, it’s a crime, they shouldn’t of done it. Everyone I knew, thought the government was doing the right thing. Then after that we began to have questions and we began to have concerns.

Ground action during the day was reported to light and scattered. The most significant engagement during the past few days took place near a US Special Forces camp in the central lowlands. It came after enemy troops…

As the trial progressed, I began to develop a lot of feelings for what they were doing, how much courage it took for them to do what they did. They surely knew it was going to change their whole life. I’m sorry.

It’s ok.

I could never be that courageous, never.

We strategized from the start. Our whole idea was to dispense with bullshit and with niceties of the courtroom to draw the thing tight like a spring. Each of you tell your story, where have you been with your life, and how did you come here.

And the whole process of the way that the judge handled the trial, really gave us a tremendous opportunity to speak. He asked me, “Well why didn’t you do this in Guatemala?” Well, I really, I relaxed then, and then I laughed out loud, I said, “Cause I’d be dead. You don’t demonstrate in a country that doesn’t let people speak out. I mean that’s one of the advantages of being an American. Why am I here. Why am I here, because you i have an opportunity to speak. Even if, I mean, this is civil disobedience. Taking part, and being willing to take the punishment for it, but allowing me to do it.”

They walked two miles, about 3,000 of them. The march was peaceful differing only from an ordinary parade by the chants, “end the war and the draft.”

Well, on a dolly, you know, they rolled in these boxes, these wooden boxes, that were the size of infant caskets. And I had seen infant caskets with the bodies of infants in Vietnam, burned infants. And so I just went like that and that’s were the booing started.

And what was, the people in the courtroom, did they know, who, how was it described, what was it, can you tell me what was in those boxes?

In the boxes in the courtroom?

In the courtroom.

Well there were nothing but burnt, have burned ashes papers and so on and so forth and they introduced those as evidence, as though they were important, you know and and they were nothing. We had burned papers instead children, that was our crime.

In Baltimore today, 9 Catholic war protesters were sentenced to federal prison for burning draft card records. The prison terms range from 2 to 2 and half years. Most of the active opposition to the Vietnam war in the United States…

Nixon was invading Cambodia and bombing Laos and Cambodia; the war was worse than we started. It had advanced into those other countries. There was huge turmoil on the campuses all over the country; strikes and occupations and so on. And a few of us decided when we were summoned, to give ourselves up, that that would be like giving ourselves up to military induction. They were worsening their criminal war and we were giving ourselves in, I said, “What is this?” So I went underground, a delaying tactic. It was to call more attention to the war. And in the process, give Mr. Hoover a headache. And a backache.

And that rationale, really caught fire, both within the Catholic left and throughout the country, and emboldened a lot of peolpe. If Catholic priests can go and make a statement like that about the war, surely in small way, I can do something, if only to speak up in some small gathering and express my opposition to the war.

I’ve been underground, if you can call it that, for only a short time. I was supposed to show up at the federal marshal’s offices in Baltimore on Thursday, April 9th at 8:30 am, to begin serving my sentence, which is 2 years, I think. We’d gotten together, the remaining 8 of us, about a week or so before that and the decision that came out of the meeting, was that we would do our own thing. I hadn’t intended at all to show up, but then neither had I intended to, so to speak, go underground. I don’t think the feds are looking very hard for us, because we’re certainly not the 10 most wanted, and yet in one sense, I think we must very irritating to them and in this perhaps is our greatest impact.

The idea of jail doesn’t bother me that much. The idea of cooperating with the federal government in any way at all, irritates the hell out of me. My alternatives are, to go to jail, go above ground with an assumed identity, stay underground, or leave the country. Anyway I choose, the government is choosing for me. But what we’re questioning is their right, and they lost that right, because of the obscenity and the insanity of their actions, were are growing more and more obscene and insane.

Mr. McKinley, he didn’t do no wrong. He rode on down to Buffalo, and he didn’t stay too long, hard times, hard times, hard times….

I believe if we are really confronting the empire as Christians as that’s what we’re called to do, that’s a very clear Biblical message, and we have to be prepared for disruption. If we’re about, we need change through non-violence, then we should think seriously about being free enough to go to jail.

The train, well the train, running on down the line. Blowing out of a Henry station, McKinley is a die’n, hard times, hard times….

And so they took me to a restaurant to have a real meal for the first time and they hand me the menu and they said, “What would you like to order?” and I couldn’t believe it but I could not order, I could not think for myself, I could not figure out, “This is what I would like.” It’s not like, “Oh boy, I’m finally out, this is what I want.” I just couldn’t. And they looked over and they said, “Well just take your time, pick whatever you want,” and finally, tears came to my eyes and I just felt so helpless. It was like the first time that I was able to do anything for myself, ‘cause you can’t even get an aspirin, you know when you have a headache, you just go to the medicine cabinet and get and aspirin and you’re all set. Here you have to put in a request and beg and it’s a very dehumanizing kind of experience.

The rationale of those actions of going to jail, was that first, it’d fill up the jails, well you know it’s not gonna fill up the jails, two it would radicalize people, three, it would build communities, out of people coming out of jail, going into jail would build communities. I don’t, I think it’s failed on every score there.

I can’t achieve identity with the poor except when I’m in jail. I always tend when I feel, when I start feeling sorry for myself, I always tend to think, about what it would mean if I stopped. So that’s a terrible prospect, and I’ve never been able to acclimate to that, and I won’t I hope that I can keep going until I die.

I very definitely see myself as a criminal. I think if we’re serious about changing this society, that’s how we have to see ourselves. We’re all out on bail, and let’s all stay out.

And if you look back on their lives, they never really stopped. They never really stopped. And there are not many people around like that. They, they, they felt so strongly about what they were doing and about what the government was doing that they were willing to risk everything.

…now Roosevelt is in the White House, he’s doin’ his best, and McKinley, he’s in the graveyard, taking his rest, hard times, hard times, hard times….

The Vietnam war, produced the largest and most significant movement against war in American history, so I could see this myself and through the course of the war, as the acts of civil disobedience multiplied.

…yes, Roosevelt, he’s in the White House, drinking out of a silver cup, and McKinley, he’s in the graveyard, and he’ll never wake up, hard times, hard times, hard times….

Mr. McKinley, he didn’t do no wrong. Just rode on down to Buffalo, but he didn’t stay too long, hard times, hard times, hard times….

What Catonsville did was they became a kind of model for, you know, all those others, they were the Catonsville Nine, they were the Milwaukee Fourteen and they were the Camden Eight and they were the Boston Five.

One unit moves up the hill and drops a violet smoke bomb, to designate their point of contact with the enemy at the top. With the enemy positions marked, allied planes roar over the hill, and send napalm flaming along through the enemy bunkers.

Enemy troops moved into one little village only three hundred yards away, and started mortaring the camp. Most of the villagers were out of the way, when American air strikes were called in to silence the mortars. Now the villagers move their few remaining possessions to a hamlet even closer to the camp. Pigs and chickens and whatever is left where their houses used to be. The Special Forces know they will have to work hard later on to regain the confidence of these villagers. But even with the air attacks, it is still to Hattan, that these mountain people turn for security. Intelligence indicates, that this is to be the night of the attack on the base camp, so the Special Forces, want to take outpost four by nightfall. But the Special Forces unit still can’t dislodge the enemy after three tries, so a mobile strike force is sent up to assist in the assault.

I’m gonna throw a smoke right below me, and everything below this smoke is enemy, I say, and everything below the smoke is enemy, just have ‘em work the whole hillside below me, uh, copy..

Was that Frank?

Lynne Sachs and Investigation of a Flame in Baltimore Sun

IOF-BaltSun-Review0121

Igniting a Movement
Baltimore Sun, May 3, 2001

Lynne Sachs’ new documentary on the Catonsville Nine shows us an era of protest beginning with soul-searching and civility.

By Carl Schoettler

Article on Lynne Sachs in Baltimore Sun


The Catonsville Nine have become legendary in the three decades since the group’s May 1968 “action” against the war in Vietnam, perhaps the most famous protest during an epoch of dissent and discord in the United States.

Filmmaker Lynne Sachs takes a fresh look at the seven men and two women who made up the Catonsville Nine, their friends and their detractors in her impressionistic documentary, “Investigation of a Flame,” which opens the Baltimore Film Festival tonight.

Sachs, who has been making films since 1989, moved to Catonsville about three years ago when her husband, Mark, also a filmmaker, took a teaching post at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County.

She began hearing Catonsville Nine stories. She heard people once arrived at UMBC believing Catonsville was a hotbed of radicalism because of the Nine. She started reading about their protest, and she was hooked. She began looking up the people caught up in the action, and her project began taking shape.

Howard Zinn, the historian who wrote “A People’s History of the United States,” told her that the Catonsville Nine “became a kind of model for all the others. There was the Milwaukee Fourteen and the Camden 28 and the Boston Five.”

All the “Number People,” as they were then called, mostly disparagingly, and all the others who protested against the war, went to jail and helped bring about peace.

As a reminder for people for whom the war in Vietnam seems as remote as the Peloponnesian War, the Nine entered a Catonsville draft board, took records and burned them in a trash container in the parking lot.

The Catonsville Nine may have been models for the dissent that followed, but their protest was the most civil of disobedience.

“The myth of the ’60s is that anybody who cared had long hair and was on psychedelic drugs,” says Sachs, 39. “They were living an alternative lifestyle, so they had these alternative ideas.”

But in archival footage she unearthed, mostly unseen for three decades, the action unfolds almost as a religious rite, purification by fire, perhaps. The Nine clasp hands and recite the Lord’s Prayer. They apologize for jostling a couple of clerks. They finally file quietly into a paddy wagon as a cop counts them off, “… seven, eight, nine.”

The whole action takes perhaps 10 minutes.

“I was kind of intrigued by it as a kind of performance piece,” Sachs says.

She’s not a political documentarian. Her style is impressionistic, her images lyrical, as Jed Dietz, the director of the Baltimore Film Festival suggests, even poetic. She found her closest rapport with Daniel Berrigan, for example, when they talked about his poetry.

“To me it was like they were in their costumes, their clerical collars and the women in their skirts,” she says, of the action. “I think it was very well thought out. It was saying that they were people from Middle America, citizens of the United States who were passionately against the war.”

“And they were older, too,” Sachs adds.

Daniel Berrigan was the oldest at 47, Philip was next at 44, all the rest except Tom Lewis, 28, and David Darst, 26, were in their 30s. They were not counterculture hippies, rebelling against their parents.

Darst died in an automobile crash in October 1969. Mary Moylan, who was in her late 30s in May 1968, went underground for nearly 10 years after the trial. She died alone and infirm in April 1995.

The tone in the archival footage is quiet, almost somber. The Nine seem a bit uneasy. They were uneasy, even Daniel Berrigan.

He recalls for Sachs that his brother was awaiting sentencing in the 1967 Baltimore Four protest, where he helped pour blood over draft files at the Custom House. Daniel was a professor at Cornell University when Philip came up in the spring of 1968.

“He said some of us are going to do it again, and you’re invited,” Daniel Berrigan says. “Whereupon I started quaking in my boots.”

Berrigan’s face in close-up in Sachs’ film is a glowing landscape of the furrows and planes earned in a lifetime of activism and poetry. He will be 80 next Wednesday.

“It had never really occurred to me that I would ever take part in something that serious as far as consequences went,” he says. “The idea of putting myself in the furnace of the king … was pretty shocking and new.

“So I told Philip give me a few days to think this over and pray over it, and I’ll let you know. So I did. I went through some pretty serious soul-searching and talked to my family. I couldn’t see any reason not to do it. I didn’t want to do it. But I couldn’t not do it.”

Sachs has been making documentaries since 1989, when she completed her thesis film for a masters of fine arts degree from the San Francisco Art Institute. (She received her undergraduate degree in history at Brown University.)

She’d grown up in Memphis, Tenn., and her first film was “Sermons and Sacred Pictures: The Life and Work of Rev. L. O. Taylor.” He was a fiery African-American minister from Memphis who made his own films of black life in the south in the 1930s and 1940s.

She’s made a half-dozen movies since then, notably “Which Way Is East.” Her sister, Dana, lived in Hanoi for about five years, fell in love with Vietnam and produced her own book: “The House on Dream Street: Memoirs of an American Woman in Vietnam.”

Sachs visited her for a month or so in 1992. They traveled from Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi, and Sachs came back with the makings of a film about her relationship with her sister and Vietnamese culture. Her trip to Hanoi also gave her a certain cachet with the Catonsville Nine.

For the Catonsville film, she often had to catch her subjects more or less on the run. She interviewed Philip Berrigan in her car.

“Which isn’t the most visually alluring thing,” she says. “He was only out of prison for about a year in this whole project, and he had warned me there was going to be another action and either I was going to talk to him or he was going to be out of commission.”

Philip Berrigan is jail today. He’s serving out a sentence for banging on some military airplanes at the National Guard base at Middle River in an anti-nuclear “action” aimed at highlighting U.S. use of depleted uranium weapons and the source for AR-10 upper’s parts. “I called him one day,” Sachs says, “and I said can I interview you sometime in the next week, and it was raining. And he said you have to do it today, right now, because I paint houses for a living. If you want to do it we have to do it now because I can’t paint the house I was going to paint.

“I had none of my equipment. Nobody to help me. I had to pick him up in my car and go to the Knights of Columbus building.”

The building housed the Catonsville draft board office in 1968.

“He wouldn’t go inside. So we had to do it in the car,” she says. “This was the closest he wanted to get to that building and to those memories and to that time.

“I can’t achieve identity with the poor except when I’m in jail,” Berrigan says. “When I start feeling sorry with myself, I always tend to think about what it would mean if I stopped. That’s a terrible prospect, and I’ve never been able to acclimate to that. And I won’t. I hope that I can keep going until … until I die.”

A letter from Mary Moylan, while she was underground, is read in the film. “I very definitely think of myself as a criminal,” Moylan says in the letter. “I think if we’re serious about changing this society, that’s how we have to see ourselves. We’re all out on bail, and let’s all stay out.”

Sachs caught Tom Lewis, the artist who was at both the Catonsville Nine and Baltimore Four protests with Berrigan, coming out of prison.

“He was walking out the door,” she says, when she showed up to interview him. His wife, Andrea, and daughter, Nora, then 6, were there, too. Nora, a lovely child, blonde and blue-eyed, nestles in his arms during the film interview and walks with her father in the woods as he answers questions.

Lewis was in Allenwood for an anti-nuclear “action” at the Bath Iron Works in Maine, where he and Philip Berrigan and Susan Crane from Jonah House and three others poured blood on an Aegis destroyer, hammered on the components of missile launchers and unfurled their Prince of Peace Plowshares banner.

The Catonsville Nine survivors all remain social and political activists. And for that matter Mary Murphy, a clerk at the draft board now in her middle 90s, still believes she was doing the right thing.

“I was sold on the idea we were trying to fight communism in that part of the world,” she told Sachs.

Steve Sachs (no relation to the filmmaker), who led the prosecution of the Nine, hasn’t changed his position one whit in 33 years. He opposed the war, but his belief in the sanctity of the law seemed and seems immutable: The Nine erred when they took the law into their own hands at Catonsville. In the film, he reads from St. Thomas More, the great Catholic humanist lawyer beheaded by Henry VIII, to argue his case.

“I didn’t feel any sense of guilt or regret at prosecuting what I regarded as excessive, arrogant attempts to inflict their views on others,” says Steve Sachs. “That’s not the way democracy is supposed to work.”

Steve Sachs and Mary Murphy, and Daniel Berrigan, John Hogan, George Mische, Tom and Marjorie Melville from the Catonsville Nine, and their admirers and supporters, detractors and opponents plan to be at the premier of Lynne Sachs’ film tonight.

“Jed Dietz said let’s bring everybody in and see what happens,” Sachs says. ” ‘Let’s put all these live wires together and see what incendiary events we get.’ ”

“None of them have seen the movie,” she says. “And they’re all coming.”

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Investigation of a Flame in the New York Times

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Daniel and Philip Berrigan in Investigation of a Flame

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Keeping Alive the Spirit of Vietnam War Protest

By Francis X. Clines, New York Times, May 3, 2001


CATONSVILLE, Md. May 2 — As they round out their eighth decade, the Berrigan brothers, Philip and Daniel, are entitled to retire from the protest wars, but they are still up to their fervid old ways of getting arrested in nonviolent resistance to American military policy.

No one is more delighted at their constancy than Alva Grubb, one of the jurors who reluctantly convicted Phil Berrigan 33 years ago in one of the brothers’ then-famous protest trials — the “Baltimore Four” resisters who spilled pig’s blood on military draft records and helped stoke the furious national debate over the morality of the Vietnam War.

Never ones to protest once, the Berrigans, amid that trial, organized the Catonsville Nine act of resistance: They walked into the Knights of Columbus Hall here in their Catholic clerical garb, seized documents from the Selective Service military draft board and burned them in the parking lot.

“This little village never got over the audacity of their protest,” said Ms. Grubb, a 79-year-old resident who opposed the Vietnam War then and now. “But just look at Phil Berrigan all these years later, still getting arrested for the courage of his convictions. He had very strong opinions and that’s what this country is about.”

Two years’ fresh imprisonment in Ohio for nonviolent interference with a modern weapons system is the reason Phil Berrigan, 77, will miss the Maryland Film Festival’s premiere on Thursday of “Investigation of a Flame.” This is a documentary by Lynne Sachs about the protest events that made this unpretentious suburb on the cusp of Baltimore a flash point for citizens’ resistance at the height of the war.

“Phil’s been consistent; he’s been faithful; he’s been stalwart;” said Elizabeth McAlister, his wife. She awaits his next return from prison to Jonah House, a Baltimore religious residence for eight people who are still dedicated to a level of nonviolent protest forged in the Catonsville Nine days.

“Phil’s been amazing,” said Ms. McAlister, who noted that Daniel Berrigan, who will be 80 on Sunday, has not lost his protest edge either. “Dan was last arrested Good Friday” at a demonstration in New York.

After the film is shown at The Senator theater in Baltimore, there will be a discussion featuring protest participants, law enforcement principals and assorted adherents of the Berrigans’ tradition.

“I left the seminary in ’67 to protest the war,” said Brendan Walsh, a gray-haired activist just up the road in West Baltimore at Viva House, once a sanctuary for conscientious objectors and now a soup kitchen for the city’s teeming poor. “The war keeps coming back; it’s forever,” said Mr. Walsh, noting how it retains a definitive power in American life, exemplified lately by former Senator Bob Kerrey’s admission of killing Vietnamese women and children.

“Back then, we thought Vietnam was some terrible aberration but the country would come to its senses so that we could engage the poverty of the cities,” Mr. Walsh said, grimacing. “To see 250,000 flee this city since then and things get worse for the poor — that’s the craziest thing of all about that war.”

Ms. Sachs, who created an earlier documentary in touring post- war Vietnam, lives here and decided to explore the protest story as Catonsville’s asterisk in history. She found assorted characters still firm to fiery on the topic. The Selective Service clerk, Mary Murphy, once a famous figure here for signing every eligible male’s draft card, remains opposed to what she views as the Berrigans’ intrusion on the government’s war mission, just as Ms. McAlister remains proud.

“This has been an odyssey,” said Ms. Sachs, a 39-year-old who has been fascinated since childhood by the war’s divisiveness. “I’m interested in pivotal choices people make in their lives, the moments from which there’s no turning back,” she said, noting she came to admire the consistency of the mutual antagonists in an argument that still rages.

At the Knights of Columbus hall, the only contentious event in sight lately was a bingo game. But Wilbur Baldwin, a 79-year-old veteran of World War II, recalled the Catonsville Nine days and his distaste for the behavior of the dissenters.

“The Berrigans are troublemakers,” Mr. Baldwin said. “That’s a war we never won,” he said, looking back and glowering as he blamed the use of the defoliant Agent Orange for the death of his brother, Frankie, in Vietnam. This was exactly the sort of war technology decried by the Berrigans, but Mr. Baldwin was adamant. “The Berrigans are troublemakers.”

And on a good day, they remain troublemakers, by the accounting of Tom Lewis, one of the Baltimore Four who, like the Berrigans, has been arrested many times over the years. Most recently Mr. Lewis, a 60-year-old artist close to the Catholic Worker movement in Worcester, Mass., was arrested at a Raytheon weapons factory where he prayed and blocked a road to protest against a part of the Star Wars research program known as the “Exo-atmospheric Kill Vehicle.”

“My feeling is the Vietnam War was a war against the poor,” said Mr. Lewis. He views Star Wars as a continuation of the same issue from his protest youth, contending that it shows military spending as overshadowing the unmet needs of the poor. “There’s been a certain consistency in making nonviolent creative statements against the madness,” the aging protester said as he took inventory on all the troublemaking still sparked by the Catonsville Nine. “An important consistency.”

First Steps in a Terra Incognita

FIRST STEPS IN A TERRA INCOGNITA BY LYNNE SACHS

Feb. 17, 2001  I tell my next door neighbor that I’m going abroad for a couple of weeks and she wishes me a good vacation.  I tell my old boyfriend Sam, I’m going to Sarajevo on a student exchange program, and he asks me how it will feel to be part of target practice.  I feel a shiver surge through my body, pushing me to come up with some equally witty, sardonic retort.  I never was as clever as he, maybe that was our problem.  It’s as if I’d strolled into a restaurant to meet a guy I used to kiss but hadn’t seen in years.  I’m in a new dress that I think makes me look very chic, and he asks me if all the pressure of being in college has forced me to stop running.  I take a big gulp and start reminding this guy I hardly know or care about that the war in Bosnia has been over for five years.  I recite statistics and quote diplomats and still feel somehow wounded.  My muscles just aren’t what they used to be and I am actually wondering if I’m strong enough for this crazy journey.
You see, my step-father is Serb, at least that’s how he refereed to himself until I was about eleven years old.  That was about 1991 and things were getting really horrible in this country whose name most of my friends could hardly spell.
My mom traveled by herself through Yugoslavia.  She  collected a drawer full of Tito paraphernalia. One evening when I was about eight, she regaled all of us with her adventures.  Camping out in Lubjliana with two timid Dutch brothers, barricading herself into a rented room at the end of a dark hall in Zagrab, getting off the train at midnight in Belgrade with hundreds of soldiers there as if to meet her at the station.  This was my first real chance to invite a bunch of girls to a sleep over at my house, and my mother keeps us up all night talking about her European escapades.  All I can really see that came out of this is that she’s married to a man who now refers to himself as a Yugoslavian but who formerly was proud to say “I am a Serb.”  Sometimes I wonder if the reason she chose him is because he reminds her of those adventurous years in her twenties.
Anyway, it’s all kind of complicated because part of the reason I’m going to Bosnia is because I really need to understand that time in her life.  I need to know why she was so transformed by those few months she spent by herself in Yugoslavia and why she gravitated toward a man like him.  The more I learn about this part of the world, the more I find my head starting to spin.  By allowing their pasts to emerge through the landscape, I am able to pull apart a  wrought mess of conflicting information.

May 18, 2001   I’m flying into Sarajevo now realizing that I don’t actually have any one place etched in my mind’s eye.  For me, this ungrounded sense of the city’s physical qualities is something I will only be able to savor a few more minutes.  Unlike Paris or Rome, cities with a specific, timeless character, Sarajevo is a mismatch of horror and multi-ethnic notions of community.  I know there was a time when one could arrive in this city struck by the mingling of its people and its cultures.  That’s what a bird might have seen from a car before all of this lively color was quickly dimmed, squelched and killed.  So now I guess I should think about the mountains but all I really can wonder about it whether or not the kids will be smiling.

June 20, 2001  In the tub I am intoxicated by the warm, clear, clean water.  My mind travels; my body stays put, and the room is locked shut, set apart from the busy chatter in the living room of Dzenid, my uncle; Amra, my aunt: and Timur, their teenage son.  They talk of dinner plans, the closing of a Sarajevo bank, the last time they saw my stepfather Robert.  Or at least this is what I imagine they are saying.  Really, I understand nothing of Bosnian and so I invent not only the words but also the emotions.  Everyone in this house is a character in my radio play, and I am the naked director in the tub, the privileged thief of all the hot water left in this city.  For these fifteen minutes, this new family of mine becomes the actors in a story I’m free to improvise.  Soon the lovely hot water will become tepid.  There will be no more of the precious liquid until the morning.  I grab a towel, dry off and put on my clothes.  As the water flows down the drain, wickedly, as if to tease, I am quickly reminded of my own, unshakable awkwardness.  Whoever said that ignorance is bliss?
These new post-war days are like a fabulous blue sky that engulfs us with warmth and good spirit.  For my cousin Timur, however, each numinous cloud is a clever reminder of the rains that fell and fell and just wouldn’t stop.  “This bathtub,” he laughs, “the one you claim each night as your private luxuryship, was once dismantled, carried four flights down to the backyard and filled with dirt.  Of course no one had enough water upstairs to take a bath, so my mother claimed it for herself, filled it with dirt and watched her green beans and a transplanted rose bush grow there through four summers of shelling.  Now that it’s back upstairs, I can’t imagine you could ever really get clean in it.”

July 3, 2001  The B shelf of the tourist section in the used bookstore on 7th Avenue is lined with vibrant paperbacks full of details about scuba diving in Bermuda, tropical adventures in Bali and cheap eating in Beverly Hills.  There is nothing on Bosnia.  I’m hardly a seasoned traveler, yet, but I do know that a dog-eared guide book can serve as a real companion when traveling alone.  Yes, I have a few so-called family members who will meet me at the airport in Sarajevo, but how will I know what to do after that?  Somehow I feel that my whole sense of independence as a 20 year old woman in a foreign country depends on my ability to look through such a text. But there is nothing to be found and so I carefully, almost apprehensively, unfold the wrapping paper around a book my step-father must have hid in my suitcase just a few days before I left New York.  It’s a tattered, hard-back copy of some Balkan tome I’d never intended to peek into.  You see, I met this gift with the hard-scrabble resentment an ice skater feels when someone offers her a pair of knee pads.  I had no use and no interest in anything more Robert thought I would need.  He’s the kind of man who considers himself an expert on everything from inter-galactic phenomenon to fashion so I really wasn’t keen on giving him the thrill of guiding me through his own country if he wasn’t even brave enough to return himself.  He says he’s too old.  Is he too old for the nine hour plane trip?  Too old for foreign water?  Too old to go back to the place of his youth where time has not frozen, pristine, tree-lined, scar-free.  I didn’t even realize that I had actually lied to the airline functionaries when they asked me “Have you remained with your luggage the entire time?  Are you fully responsible for everything it contains?”  With the flippant brilliance of a girl on her own for what feels like the first time, I unpack my suitcase in my new Sarajevo home only to find to my complete surprise a well-worn copy of his book, Bosnia Chronicles.  Now as I begin to read, I realize this is not actually a dry historical treatise, but rather a highly compelling philosophical voyage through a land torn by the yearnings of east and west, cosmopolitan desires and the reveries of geographic isolation.  Despite myself, I am consumed.

August 5, 2001   I don’t know why a full eclipse sends shockwaves through my cornea.  I don’t know why I can’t get along with the man my mother loves.  I don’t know how my Uncle Dzenid holds a teacup with such elegance using only a thumb and an index finger.

Aug. 28, 2001   Timur and I are just about the same age, our birth dates hovering around the year 1980 like hungry flies on a peach.  We talk about listening to U2 as teenagers.  I in the comfort of my best friend’s refurbished Volkswagen bug and he in the basement of his four-story apartment building, pedaling a makeshift bicycle that generated just enough power to run a transistor radio.  We sit drinking Turkish coffee in the kitchen.  It’s Saturday morning, no work today, so he finally agrees to take a walk through Sarajevo with me.  Somehow I feel that there is an unspoken contract, a promise of sorts, between us.  We will talk about Madonna’s comeback at age 40 (the same age as our mothers so we giggle at this one), our interest in yoga, how much memory our computers can store, but we will not discuss the war.  At every turn in the road, with each bullet hole I see in a wall, I resist the temptation to ask. I want him to tell me if these skeletons of buildings that look as if they were bombed not more than a week ago are there to remind us of the war, if they are invisible to the people who walk past them everyday, or if they have been left to decay, allowing the winds to carry their dust , grain by grain away to the sea.  I never imagined that cement could be twisted into such horrid sculpture.
The bitter coffee burns holes in my gut.

Sept. 1, 2001  My mother called today, in the late afternoon, just as the prayers had begun at the mosque a few blocks away.  I was watching the shadows from a group of swallows swooping and swaying through the air, listening absent-mindedly to the Muslim chants, thinking about nothing and feeling a heightened sense of presence when the phone rang.   Aunt Amra, who speaks no English at all, picked up the receiver and immediately dropped it in my lab, as if to say she had no interest whatsoever in communicating with her brother-in-law’s family.  Ever since I arrived here I’ve come to realize that she, more than anyone else in this house, resents that my parents did virtually nothing to help her or her children except for making an occasional, expensive international call.  So now, when the phone rings, and she realizes it’s my mother, she uses a beautifully choreographed gesture of disdain to reveal her real feelings.
I’m no more happy than she to hear this familiar voice.

Sept. 4, 2001 My fingers follow a path through murky water, old, dry morsels of bread, broken toys.  I touch a wall, before I know it is there, startled not by the wall itself, but rather by the cracks and fissures in its surface.  At nine years old, I memorized the ridges and gullies of my grand-mother’s skin, observing an intricate web of surface texture that gave clues to the mystery of her life.  Each freckle, each shift of pigment, each mole, the number and the star etched on her shoulder.  I transcribed meticulously, as a way of unearthing an anatomy of time, when she slept, … as she did most of the daylight hours those months before her death.  At night she was startled by the slightest shift of our old, rumbling house.  Awake, awake, awake, she drove us mad with concern.  And now in the squid ink darkness of this Sarajevo night, I am again confronted by her skin, this time as a wall in an ally behind our apartment.  It’s as if she’s standing there before me, finally demanding an explanation for my invasion of her skin.

Sept. 5, 2001   My body is a suitcase full of souvenirs from the falls I have taken in my life.  The scar between my eyes came from a dive I took at age seven into a backyard pool near my mother’s home in Memphis.  My shoulder length red hair has just the slightest resemblance to a fried egg.  It’s what’s left from my botched attempt to transform myself a few hours before college graduation.  Too much peroxide landed on the back of my head that morning.  I whispered some insult to myself and went on to accept a diploma in the afternoon.  To this day, I am not sure if my grand-mother was weeping out of pride or sorrow.
I have a tattoo on my right hip that uses my own invented alphabet from childhood.
My voice is embarrassingly soft, so soft it draws far more attention than it deserves.  People always assume I am telling secrets.

Sept. 5, 2001  An unforgettably warm winter day.  I watch peer into the courtyard of the old mosque from my window three floors above.  The young mother with the turquoise veil pulled tight across her head scoops the water into her palms, then tenderly lets if fall into the mouth of her son below.  I watch his jaw, imagining the liquid as it passes into his throat, and down.  How did it feel five years, I wonder, when her mother merely wet the inner lining of her cheeks?  Was it enough for her daughter to forget her thirst?  A tall businessman in an Italian suit looks left, then right, perhaps ashamed I think, bends over, awkwardly you know, like he’s wincing with an old back injury, takes a gulp of water without wetting his hands, then quickly scoots along.  The white rabbit with a somewhere called nowhere to go. More water continues to form a liquid arch that soars up, then dives down onto the polished cobblestones below.

Sept. 7, 2001  Sarajevo airport.  A place is not a thing, but rather an uncontrollable sensation of memories that twitch at my nose, make me swell when I have nothing in my mouth, bring a stream of tears to my eyes when I am not sad.
This is a place I don’t just want to remember.  How do I keep the dirt under my nails?  How do I breath the air and keep it there, locked tight inside my lungs.  In a jar, I preserve a street I never had the chance to follow to the end.

Sept. 9, 2001   On a large treeless hill in a wooded area across from the house where I grew up, sit about a dozen stately homes half way through their construction.  It’s late spring now and they’ve been that way for about six months.  The first time I saw this new addition to the patchwork quilt of new housing communities, I decided I would use my imagination to inhabit each and every house. There were the Ringels with their just-a-little too rambunctious dog and their commitment to good cookware.  Then the Bradley’s with two boys and one on the way, a playroom large enough for a track and a husband with a long-awaited promotion at the firm.  In my mind, I couldn’t figure out why this impeccably dressed couple drove only one rundown car that needed a paint job.  Their muddy yard titled on a grate that exceeded the forty-five degree limit for a swing set.  Things just didn’t quite fit.  In fact, I believe, it is the Davis’ fragmented, no longer modular, life that was the first clue that the situation on the hill was not what it had first appeared to be.
You see I’d known this particular hill on an intimate basis ever since the summer between ninth and tenth grade when there were still at least a dozen Japanese Maples left.  It was there in that high summer glow of moonlight that I first let Phil, the gangly boy who walked with me silently to the bus stop, reach under my shirt.  I figured nothing too complicated would happen considering Phil’s taciturn ways and his inability to do anything with great panache.  He was so extraordinarily tall that I took great pleasure watching him wander absent-mindedly amongst the maples in the warm, midnight air.  It seemed right that his head soared amongst the delicate web of branches that sheltered our place below the sky.
It makes me sad to think that I have absolutely no mental image of Phil’s face.  He is even gone from my peripheral vision.  All I have left is the memory of his strange smell — like dirt from a garden rinsed with Ivory soap– and his height.  I remember something about his having had a twin brother who died at birth.  Could that boy possibly have been as tall and also fit inside his mother’s womb?
With all of the maples gone, it is becoming more and more difficult for me to remember either the touch of his hands or even the way his curly hair would get tangled in the branches.  I’d always thought I could come back to this spot, whenever I fancied, to claim those strands of hair.  I would giggle, thinking what it would be like to come home after years away, how I would steal a moment from a family dinner, run underneath a maple and delicately untangle a lock of his hair.  Then I would seal it in an envelope, look his name up in the phone book and send it to him.  Somehow the entire gesture seemed more like an archeological research project than a mean-spirited mockery.

Sept. 16, 2001   A tornado is a spinning cyclone of nature.  It stampedes like an angry bull through a tranquil pasture of blue violets and upright blades of grass.  A tornado kills with abandon but has no will.  Last Tuesday, September 11, I saw one of the two Twin Towers vomit dark clouds of venom into the air.  Before my eyes, what appeared to be an unimaginable accident of chance was transformed into something unworthy of a breath. Unable to comprehend the reality of death, my neighbor’s son mourns the death of the twins.  Like my friends in Sarajevo ten years ago, my house of drafts is pummeled by the danger that is now the wind.

Interview with Scott MacDonald

Interview with Scott MacDonald by Lynne Sachs
Published in the Independent Film and Video Monthly

I’ve been teaching filmmaking and film studies for just about a decade, and nothing has helped me introduce my students to the wonders of an alternative cinematic vision better than Scott MacDonald’s three volume set of books entitled A Critical Cinema: Interviews with Independent Filmmakers.  These intimate, forthright and revealing conversations offer readers the chance to immerse themselves in the creative process and thinking of 63 different  contemporary filmmakers. With the passion and insight of someone who believes in the importance of avant-garde film,   MacDonald conducted his first interview in 1979 with Hollis Frampton.  He’s been listening to the reflections of makers such as Charles Burnett, Craig Baldwin, and Yvonne Rainer, ever since.   These in-depth conversations give readers the feeling that they have spent hours with  a filmmaker.  Autobiographical connections to moments in the movies, expansive explanations of narrative decisions, struggles in the realm of everything from finance (approach to the Remote Quality Bookkeeping for help in this field) to illness —  here is the life of an artist as told to a writer who believes deeply in the work at hand.   After twenty five years of full time teaching at Utica College in Central New York, MacDonald retired this year in order to devote himself to writing Volume Four in the series.    In August, I decided to turn the microphone back on MacDonald.

Lynne:    How and when were you first drawn to avant garde film?
Scott:    The experience that changed me with avant garde film was seeing Larry Gottheim’s Barn Rushes, Ken Jacobs’ Soft Rain, Ernie Gehr’s Serene Velocity,  Stan Brakhage’s The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes —  all on one Saturday afternoon in the Spring of 1972. I was teaching American literature and a standard film course (Griffith, Keaton, Murnau, Lang, Renoir)  at Utica College at the time; and I sat there so furious I couldn’t speak.  I HATED this stuff.  It just made me FURIOUS! Well, I kind of liked Barn Rushes; it reminded me of Monet, but the others, they were shit! I didn’t get Soft Rain at all. Serene Velocity totally annoyed me; and The Act of Seeing With One’s Own Eyes revolted me.  I remember being doubly steamed after the screening because everybody seemed to take this stuff seriously.  I  fomented against the films all the way home in the car and spent days bitching about this atrocity of a screening.  Then it hit me that I was still thinking about this stuff.   I actually couldn’t get it out of my mind.  By the end of the year,  I found I wanted to do it to my students because I knew it would energize the classroom incredibly.
Lynne:    Could you talk about  trying to have a relationship with this kind of work while living in Central New York?
Scott:    Thoreau talks about how every walk you take in nature is a pilgrimage in which you try to win back the Holy Land from the Infidels.   Going to the avant garde screenings in New York City was my pilgrimage   By the mid-1970’s I was planning my season around the schedules from Anthology Film Archive, Collective for Living Cinema, Millennium Film Workshop and Film Forum.
Lynne:    I noticed you dedicated one of your books to your students and the insights you’ve gotten from them.  What films have most excited your students and turned them on to this kind of film making?
Scott:    Window Water Baby Moving by Brakhage is as powerful now for undergraduates as it ever was, maybe more powerful now because they’re not used to looking closely at anything, especially a body and especially a female body in process. I use Window Water Baby Moving in virtually every class I teach, including written composition, and it blows classes away continually, creates incredible discussion.  The other one is Larry Gottheim’s Fog Line which for me is one of the great teaching films of all time. It’s a 10-minute single-shot film of fog lifting over a green Upstate New York landscape.  Beautiful.  A meditational film.  And food for fury for my students who are so frustrated with it after a minute or so, they don’t notice the tiny horses that cross the image halfway through, and are dumfounded when I ask them after the screening if they saw the horses.  “Don’s miss the horses” becomes a mantra for the course from then on.
Avant garde film is probably the best set of teaching devices in existence. That people don’t use these films more often in academic work, especially at the college level, is astonishing.  I mean, if you want to get students to think, argue, talk, really reconsider their media training, their whole experience of a consumer culture, nothing is better.  So, one of the ironies to me of this whole history is that here’s this pedagogical resource of unparalleled value that fuckin’ nobody seems to use. This stuff remains in the margin when it should be part of everybody’s introduction to American culture, to environmental studies, to art history.
Lynne:    Talk about an interview that moved you absolutely to the core, that changed your perspective on that person’s films, or maybe on film in general.
Scott:    One of the things I committed to when I decided to do interviews is that I didn’t want to be a journalist. I’m not after exposé. I’m not trying to catch somebody saying something that later they regret .  I really wanted to create a space where filmmakers could say what they wanted people to know about their work.  I tried to interview Yvonne Rainer in 1985 or so, for the first A Critical Cinema book, before I really understood her films, because everyone seemed to think she was important, and I guess I couldn’t resist the idiot’s urge to be stylish; but when I called her to ask “how she found” the edited interview, she said, and I quote — it’s etched on my soul– “I found it singularly boring and redundant.”  Ouch. I deep-sixed that interview!  But later in 1990, when I saw Privilege, I suddenly GOT Rainer’s postmodern aesthetic and her dispersion of so many of the conventions of both commercial and avant-garde film.  I loved the film in part because it helped me understand my partner Pat’s menopause, to be interested in it, to share the frustrations and the excitments of it. And Privilege helped me to understand the earlier Rainers that had befuddled me so. So I called her up and said “Would you be willing to try it again?  I loved Privilege.  I get it.  I want to interview you again.”  And  she said “Okay.” Talking with Yvonne about her films was a wonderful reward.
Lynne:    I felt like you got Ross McElwee to enter this revealing, very thought provoking space of reflection that I hadn’t seen in his films.  Instead of being glib and self-mocking, he seemed much more down-to-earth and contemplative. He says these really personal things to you about being a film maker and what the camera means to him philosophically.  He explains his movies ever so simply –“I create a persona; it’s not really me.”
Scott:    Well, I guess I felt very simpatico with Ross.  I’ve always felt that if I were born in North Carolina I might be Ross!  I thought  his creation of a persona  for his films that was him, but only one version of him, one aspect of the more complex individual not just behind the camera, but behind the film, was very much like what happens in some of the books I was teaching in my American literature class;  Hemingway’s character, Nick Adams, is based on Hemingway but he’s only a version of Hemingway that Hemingway uses to explore certain experiences.
Lynne:    Talk about your interview with Yoko Ono. I thought that reading it taught me a great deal about the conceptual vision.  She’s also just so funny.
Scott:    Yeah, she is. I really enjoyed the process. I think that her influence has always been very underrated.  Ono’s minimalist, structuralist aesthetic produced some remarkable work, especially No. 4: Bottoms and Film No. 5 (Smile), that can stand beside Michael Snow’s Wavelength as crucial works of the 1960’s.  Lots of people saw the work and when I looked at the stuff again it just knocked me out.  If you want to get a rise out of a nineties audience, show Bottoms. You realize when you see it how our butts have been colonized.  It’s a fantastic cultural document but it’s also a wonderful movie.  And I think almost everything I’ve seen of hers I’ve really, really liked.   I think she was glad to be able to talk about the work without talking about John Lennon.  Both she and John Waters, and later, Sally Potter–filmmakers much in the public eye– were unusually forthcoming, generous interviewees.  On some level, they were the easiest.  They were totally prepared; and they seemed to appreciate that someone had actually looked at their work closely and was willing to take some time and have some patience with it.
Lynne:    Where do people of color fit into the avant-garde for you?
Scott:    I’ve always been interested in ethnicity in film.  The film course I most enjoyed teaching at Utica College was African-Americans in Film, which I taught every other year for 20 years.  Like so many of us, I slowly became aware that there was an alternative vision amongst Black independents  — Oscar Micheaux and the Black Underground,  Melvin Van Peebles “Sweet Sweetback’s Baadassss Song”, Kathleen Collins’ “Losing Ground”, Julie Dash’s “Daughters of the Dust”, Charles Lane’s “Sidewalk Stories”.  And the more fully aware of this history I became, the more I wanted to interview filmmakers whose work seemed to challenge viewers the most.  I had a great time interviewing Bill Greaves about “Symbiopsychotaxiplasm:  Take One”  and it was a pleasure to talk with Charles Burnett.  “Killer of Sheep” is a favorite of mine.   I never interviewed anyone who let it fly the way Christine Choy did — I can’t believe that shit she says and later admits to having said.  I admire her engagement with the confusions of ethnicity in America.  Chris is part Chinese, part Korean, and somehow a quintessential American.  What is she?  Her films sometimes deal with this kind of ethnic complexity in an  interesting way.
Lynne         What is Critical Cinema?
Scott:    When I was first seeing these movies, they were like critical notations on conventional film-going for me.  The films are also a form of religion for me.  In Lost, Lost, Lost, Jonas Mekas portrays himself and Ken Jacobs as the monks of cinema.  I’m not a Catholic but I certainly am a Protestant version of that. I believe in this work.  I believe that people who don’t make a lot of money in a capitalist economy who put thousands of what little money they have into making a film that they know cannot possibly make that money back, are doing something that is fundamentally spiritual.
Lynne:    You rarely compare these films to mainstream cinema, you rarely bring that up at all.
Scott:    Well,  commercial film is certainly an understood context for all my work.  One of the themes of A Critical Cinema 4 will be filmmakers who have worked as part of the avant-garde and as members of the Industry. My interview with Sally Potter in A Critical Cinema 3 is a premonition of this theme.
Lynne:    Talk about some narrative directors who interest you.  Do you also rush out to see mainstream movies?
Scott:    Sure.  I like lots of commercial filmmakers and films:  Jonathan Demme, Carl Franklin, often Spielberg. I remember calling up a filmmaker friend of mine after seeing Titanic and saying to her “Have you seen Titanic?” and she said, “I’m not going to support that shit!”  And I said, “You mean you want it to fail?” And she said, “Yes, I want it to fail.”  And I said, “Well, if Hollywood fails, you’re out of business, too.  Kodak’s not making film stock for avant garde filmmakers.”
Lynne:    Have you ever thought about making a movie?
Scott:    The thought fills me with horror.  I would rather dig a hole. But I hope my interview books reveal an element of creativity–I just need to be creative in the service of other creators; that’s my MO. The Critical Cinema books have always been nonfiction novels.  When I was studying American literature in graduate school, one of the dimensions of modern American fiction that interested me most was the fascination of Gertrude Stein, Henry James, Ernest Hemingway, Erskine Caldwell and Richard Wright with writing narratives that take place entirely in dialogue.    Also, my graduate studies in the 1960’s brought me into a lot of contact with James Boswell’s documentation of Samuel Johnson’s career; Boswell Life of Johnson is an early nonfiction novel.  Like me, Boswell was Scottish (well, I’m just partly), and he made himself a kind of country bumpkin character who came to London to meet the sophisticates — sometimes I play the country bumpkin card too.
Lynne:    What’s your interview process?
Scott:    I see my interviews as a reaction to the usual sense of an interview as a quicky:  you know, you tape the person, have someone transcribe the tape, and do some editing and, bam, an interview.  I want to honor the independent filmmakers I admire by taking time with them and their work.  Some of my interviews take as long as five years. I begin, whenever it’s possible, by looking at every film an interviewee has made, as carefully as seems justifiable.  Once I feel I know the work well enough to be able to surprise the interviewee, I begin recording tapes.  I talk as extensively as possible with the maker.  I used to transcribe the tapes myself, by hand, so that I’d internalize the way the maker talks, so that I could create their evocation in the finished interview; but that wore me out.   Speed is virtually never a factor. Sometimes an interview passes back and forth between me and the filmmmaker many times–a different level of conversation. One of the reasons I waited so long to interview Stan Breakage, for instance, is that I couldn’t figure out how I’d ever look at all the work, and even if I did, he’d have made so much new work that I’d still not be able to start talking.  I’d be like Sisyphus in the Greek myth.  But I do have a Brakhage interview underway; it will be in the fourth volume.
Lynne:    Which film makers do you see taking risks  aesthetically or politically today?
Scott:    There are all kinds of risks.  Cameron took a hell of a risk making Titanic.  And in a culture which tells us all the time to consume as much as we can, making films that ask for quiet, patient, loving attention–the way so many of the filmmakers I interview do–is also a risk.  Of course, in a culture where you can’t get attention unless you eviscerate a nun, it may not seem like a risk; but beauty IS a risk in film.  In the classroom, most of the avant-garde remains risky, in the sense that it confronts, annoys, angers students–which of course gives a teacher something to work with.  My students sometimes complain that the avant-garde filmmakers I show them are pretentious.  Sure!  I’m all for pretentiousness–if you’re NOT pretending to do something important, something worth my time, my life, get out of my face!  Go be a regular guy or gal somewhere else.  I want you to try to do something that moves me, shocks me, makes me fell like the moron I often am, teaches me, helps me grow.
Lynne:    What’s the weather report for avant-garde film?
Scott:    As usual, it’s the worst of times AND the best of times.  One moment it seems as if the avant-garde will be gone and forgotten in a week; the next moment, I’m thrilled by how alive it is.  Film itself may be gone someday, not just avant-garde film–but we can sing it as it goes; hell, we’ve been enjoying the demise of the novel and of painting for centuries.

Published in THE INDEPENDENT FILM AND VIDEO MONTHLY

Mary Moylan: Nine Years Underground

handcuffs

“Mary Moylan: 9 years underground”  by Lynne Sachs
a multi-media biography using video, audio, postcards and artifacts

Premiere:  Maryland Film Festival, Charles Theatre;  Maryland Art Place Artist Residency

Mary Moylan, a 32-year-old registered nurse and midwife from Baltimore, was one of two women in the infamous 1968 anti-war group the Catonsville Nine. A feminist and a passionate critic of the Vietnam War, Moylan was sentenced to several years in prison for burning draft files with homemade napalm. From 1970-79, she lived underground, in disguise, traveling from city to city across America.   During this time, Moylan –the felon on the lamb–  created a fabulous wigged persona who wrote hilarious, yet strident  letters to the world at large from her place “underground.”    Mary Moylan:  Nine Years Underground is a visual meditation not only on Moylan’s life as a woman in America in the 1970’s but also on the role of civil disobedience in American culture and politics.

Entire piece measures 24’’ long  x 24” wide x 24”high with simple electrical connections to TV/DVD ;  all electronic appliances are hidden within purse and small suitcase. Gallery visitors listen to actress reading Moylan’s letters  through headphones in purse.   Small television images of a woman’s hands in handcuffs are under glass casing.  Video and slide documentation give some idea of project, though set will no doubt change with the particulars of a space.

Mary Molan 9 Years Inst003
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Below are excerpts from articles and interviews on Mary Moylan.  Some of these texts are also under glass casing in the installation

Nine Catholic clergymen and laymen who oppose the war in Vietnam doused the Selective Service records of 600 draft-age men with napalm and set them afire yesterday in a cement lot behind the Catonsville draft board.  …among the demonstrators was Mary Moylan, a 32-year-old registered nurse and midwife from Baltimore.    The Baltimore Sun
May 18, 1968

A chipper Mary Moylan, the missing Catonsville Nine defendant who turned herself in to federal authorities after nine years in hiding, took the phone at the Women’s Detention Center today and gently refused to be interviewed.
“Where have you been these last nine years?” she was asked.
“Here and there,” Moylan answered, and laughed heartily.
“What have you been doing?”
“Oh, this and that.”                    The Baltimore Sun,  June 20, 1979

Mary was so successful in her Orphic descent underground she lost contact with old comrades, friends and family.  Some of the people who loved her most never saw her again.   “She talked to me about things I would not have talked about,” remembers her sister Ella. “She didn’t go to our mother’s funeral in 1970 because she believed the FBI would be there.  I think they were.”    Mary Moylan died sometime in late April in Asbury Park, N.J.  She was 59, alone and blind”  The Baltimore Sun   May, 1995

Below are authentic handwritten year-book style writings about Mary found on side panels of piece.  These are thoughts by those who knew her before her life underground:

“I remember the bell she wore during the trial in Baltimore, a constant and wonderfully irritating tinkling throughout the proceedings.”
Bill O.

“After the action in Catonsville, we piled into the police van. I stared at Mary’s bright red hair and then noticed she was sliding her hands, ever so delicately, out of the cuffs.”
John H.

“She lay on the beach, a stack of trashy romance novels on her right side, Roszak’s The Making of a Counter Culture on the other.”
Willa B.

“She and the other members of Women Against Daddy Warbucks hurled 1000’s of draft files from an office building in Times Square.”
Bill O.

“She wouldn’t stay with families, the whole time she was underground.  ‘Hon, it’s too damn dangerous,’ she told me.  ‘If the FBI storms in looking for me, there’ll be gunfire.  I can’t take that kind of risk with kids around.’”
Willa B.

“I met her on the boardwalk at Rehobeth.  She was wearing a wig and stood a little hunched over.”
Brendan W.

“I think she died alone, somewhere in  New Jersey, almost blind.”
Brendan W.

mary-moyland-post2forweb

The House of Drafts: A Bosnian-American Web Collaboration

Burning Sarajevo Library

THE HOUSE OF DRAFTS/ DOM PROMAHA
www.house-of-drafts.org

House of Drafts/ Dom Promaha is a virtual apartment building inhabited by the imaginary characters created by eight Bosnian and two American media artists.  Our characters have refused the opportunities of exile and instead have chosen to stay in Sarajevo.  We invite you to enter this apartment building through our website or by watching the tape as a way of meeting the characters who live here.

This building relies on an architecture comprised of images, sounds and text.  The project as a whole is shaped by our autobiographical experiences as they are filtered through poetic reflections, original music, and video.  From a performance artist who moonlights as a de-miner, to a cinematographer who uses his camera to turn a decaying Sarajevo into a bustling Bangkok, to a traveler caught by the inferno of a burning library  — the website and corresponding video represent our ruminations on a city and its inhabitants during and after a period of war.  On the website you are invited not only to enter and explore our House of Drafts but also to participate by leaving your own writing and images on the walls of the space.

Created by Jeanne C. Finley (San Francisco) and Lynne Sachs (New York) with the participation of Larisa Hasanbegovic, Adla  Isanovic, Timur Makarevic, Tvico Muhidin, Alma Suljevic and  Enes Zlater (Sarjevo, Bosnia Herzogovina).

Web site consultation and development donated by Teri Rueb.

Supported by ArtsLink, the Trust for Mutual Understanding, the Sarajevo Center for Contemporary Art and Women Make Movies. The House of Drafts videotape is available by contacting either Jeanne or Lynne by email through the site address.

Lynne Sachs and Jeanne Finley in workshop

Jeanne Finley and Lynne Sachs in Sarajevo

Jeanne Finley in Sarajevo Media workshop

pano