Holes
Against the interior of the dome of Nature's Cathedral anemic white clouds, seemingly painted with broad strokes by a master painter, hurried, his passions and desires elsewhere.
A light breeze at high altitude, gently pushing the clouds, tearing them apart, slowly.
Then, seemingly from the sun itself, a thin black line. As it approaches it turns, becoming fuller, becoming a dark form.
A Golden Eagle, in the hunt.
The great bird turns, riding invisible thermal currents, clockwise.
A young boy far below it sees the skydancer, squeals with delight, and exclaims, 'Wouldn't it be cool if this were in a movie?'
Whenever people find out I enjoy the outdoors the first response is, 'Oh. You're an environmentalist.'
No.
A second response quickly follows: 'Oh! You're a conservationist!'
Again, the reply: No.
Confusion, now. 'Then what. . . are. . . you?'
I am a lover of Nature. An admirer, with great respect for it and all that it is. I recognize Nature for what it is, for what it could be, if only certain burdens were eliminated from it: Environmentalists and conservationists who often do more harm than good with their myopic idealism and various degrees of self-serving silliness.
I mention this not to impress or annoy but as prelude, disclaimer: Any time a film or movie comes along, one that celebrates Nature I cast aside civilized conventions and considerations, revealing my prejudices on the matter, and hurry inside, between the flickering light and shadows, to see there what I can see.
And what I have seen is joy. Certain joy. Absolute delight.
Even though it is contained in a less-than satisfying flick called "Holes".
"Holes", superficially, is the story of a rather unorthodox juvenile correction center, located in the middle of the desert, the landscape surrounding it riddled with an almost infinite number of holes--hence the title--with each of them measuring approximately five feet deep by five feet in diameter. Headed by a man named 'Mr. Sir' (Jon Voight, in one of his more bizarre, yet memorable performances of late), this facility exists to make apparently bad boys toil day after day, digging hole after hole. Like the historical literature figure, Sisyphus, their task will come back to run them down, and to force them to face the same punishment again and again for a crime forgotten or unknown, undefined.
Yet watch this curious tale for just a moment and come to find this story is not what it seems, that it defies logic, reason, and genre. (Although I don't think it wrong to suggest this might easily be categorized as 'speculative fiction'.) Like other such efforts--yes, they do exist--as "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" "Holes" is not actually about wild boys and digging holes. It is about much more. So much more.
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