I don’t think I’ll see any other finer movie than The Shawshank Redemption, bar none. It’d be hard to beat such a well orchestrated combination of theatrical elements.
For one, it’s got social relevance. Brooks epitomized the stigma of being imprisoned: how people lose themselves in such a controlled setup with little interaction with variables, how it’s basically impossible to start anew, and how it’s morally degrading to live without any sense of purpose in life. Even if it romanticized corruption and injustice through its happy ending, it also sparked hope that someday, someone with brains and balls as colossal as Dufresne’s will pave the way to the redemption of a handful of souls in this fucked up society.
And speaking of Dufresne, he’s one hell of an intellectual candy for the sapiosexuals to boot. I, personally, think of him as the retro version of Prison Break’s Michael Scofield. At first, I thought that it was him who needed the redemption. I supposed Red would have been the one to pass on his wisdom to young banker since he was more acclimatized to the prison atmosphere. In the end, Dufresne gave Red something that Brooks wasn’t privileged enough to have when his pardon was granted; a reason to live beyond his life sentence, something to look forward to outside the walls of Shawshank.
Not only that, who wouldn’t love the occasional narration of Morgan Freeman? He even encapsulated the subtle feeling I’ve been struggling to describe this past few days with his words, (and I quote) “I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. The truth is, I don’t want to know. Some things are better left unsaid. I like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can’t be expressed in words and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a grey place dares to dream.”
I’ve unsuccessfully converted my infatuation into any form of indifference. In the process of stripping myself off unnecessary emotions, I wound out totally devoid, left with nothing but meager wrath. I’ve got nothing, not even a hint of fondness remaining, not even for AL. I’m not empty, though. In fact, there’s too much external activity at the moment that I find myself dazed at the mere chore of finding room to spare for anything else.
I want to go back to the time when things made sense. I want to say “some things are better left unsaid” the same way as Red’s and actually mean it. I want to restore my confidence that my faith in something or someone won’t ever be shaken no matter what I may come to know in the future.
I want to find my Zihuatanejo.