I Got Cancelled

My sister stopped engaging with me several years ago. “My therapist thinks it’s better this way.” My brother decided the same this past Christmas. “You’re no fun to talk to.”

Linked as children by our sweaters. (Columbia Icefield, 1972)

I had never got along exceptionally well with either of them, but I did strive to maintain at least a superficial relationship, if not for anything else, to stay connected with my nephews and nieces. I haven’t seen my sister’s son since he was seven; he’s now finishing his undergraduate degree in Italy.

The final descent of my sister’s Iron Curtain was triggered after our mother’s death, the last of the preceding generation, meaning there was now no one to say no.

My mother in the backyard of my childhood home in Toronto

The odd thing about this is that we all share financial stability as well as similar social and political grounding. There are no real axes to grind, no addictions or houses burned down. The main point of contention stems from 2006 when I sublet my sister’s Manhattan apartment and a couple of curse-laden messages were left by my former girlfriend on her answering machine.

My sister arranged a group therapy session with my brother and I. The session foundered the moment the therapist instructed us to step back from our conflict and share a personal issue with which we struggled. I shared my regret about never having children. My brother offered that he could get frustrated with fund-raising issues at his linguistics lab. My sister’s answer was exceptionally terse. “There’s nothing.” “Nothing at all?” The therapist prodded. “Nothing at all.”

My penchant for getting buried began in Anna Maria Key, Florida

I should have seen the writing on the wall at that moment, but I also knew that her operating mechanism was to avoid emotions at all costs. Which of course leads to my cancellation, a choice that’s not actually surprising given our current cultural climate.

No matter the reason – difference of opinion or indifference – our odd world continues to devolve into a social media platform where faces are deleted, voices silenced with a tap on the screen. Different perspectives aren’t negotiated but blocked, the sphere ever smaller, down the worm hole with the AI avatars, where the friendliest and most wonderful perspective of all are offered, where friends and brothers are always compliant and understanding, where my sister is probably talking to her new AI brother now. That jerk.

The Wisdom of Jafar Panahi

I attended a screening of Jafar Panahi’s latest film It Was Just an Accident at the Jacob Burns Film Center after which the director offered his thoughts on filmmaking and life. The experience has left me in absolute awe.

Mr. Panahi has directed eleven films over a span 30 years, a remarkable career not just for his masterfully inspiring work but also as he’s worked under an oppressive Iranian regime which has repeatedly interrogated and jailed him and then banned him from filmmaking for the past 20 years. And what did he do over these years? Made films.

Jafar Panahi, while banned from making films, made his film Taxi Tehran, telling the stories of an array of Iranians as he drove them in his cab.

It Was Just an Accident asks the question: “What we would do if we were able to capture our torturer. Would we berate them? Torture them? Kill them? Bury them alive? Let them go free?” It is a punishingly raw story, dotted with humor and revelation.

As in almost all Panahi films, a little girl speaks loud and true in It Was Just an Accident

Mr. Panahi’s humility is astonishing. He praises the people for sharing their stories and his actors for their bravery, claiming that he does little beyond frame the work. When asked why he does not leave Iran, he simply states that it is his home.

His strongest opinion is perhaps that there are two kinds of filmmakers: those who make films for the audience and money – some 95% – and those who tell their own stories and make the audience come to them. They’re now coming to Mr. Panahi; the Oscar extravaganza awaits. And little will he care. I just hope that he is treated properly when he returns home, and the threats abate.