Monday

I returned to the doctor's office today, where I waited an hour for someone to touch the tubercular poke in my arm, say "negative", and let me leave again ten seconds later. I also swung by the cell phone store and bought myself a new phone. I'd lost the ability to recharge my battery (which has, in turn, lost the ability to hold a charge for longer than a few calls). I broke down and replaced everything knowing I've only four months remaining within the service area. That's my day today, in just under ninety words. One movie I saw in Silver Spring Saturday was John Ford's the Searchers (1956),* a deep-photo-field ode to rough-and-tumble determination in the post-war American West. Ethan has returned from duty to be welcomed by his brother and sister-in-law, bitterly managing a dusty homestead in an iconic corner of Monument Valley. When neighbors lose their cattle to Comanche raiders, menfolk posse-up and travel out to discover the rustling was a ruse to separate the womenfolk from their protection. Sure enough, upon returning, they discover the house burning and everyone dead or, worse in Ethan's eyes, stolen. Ethan has a problem with Indians in general, possibly harkening to years spent astray since the end of the war. He's leery of his quarter-Cherokee foster nephew and hatefully vehement against Comanche marauders. He's sure fatalist about the missing woman: too much Indian company and they will become defiled and corrupted savages themselves. The two men light out after the Comanches, the foster nephew looking to rescue his remaining family, and Ethan looking for something a little darker: cleansing. The movie is harsh and magnificent, though sops to comic relief break the tone and Jeffery Hunter's supporting performance is eye-rollingly ham-fisted. One of the best westerns ever. [Cavin]