It snowed today, for the first time. October 6th.

When my family moved to southeast Idaho, we knew that Winter was one of the by-products we were choosing. That “W” is capitalized, because winters here are real winters—you couldn’t survive without shelter. In Utah Valley, where we’ve lived the last ten years, you likely couldn’t either, easily… but there’d be a chance. Some random steaming garbage pile might keep you warm at nights if you found yourself homeless.

Not here.  We now live in Idaho’s Siberia. You’d think that, farther north in places like Sandpoint, it would be much colder, but no. The carryover from Washington state’s more temperate coastal climates makes the panhandle and other, more northern places a much easier place to grow things like tomatoes, for instance.

Here in Idaho’s Siberia there are miles of landmass and ridges of mountains to keep us from any friendly ocean breezes. In January it dips down toward negative twenty. And the winds are to be reckoned with—tearing in from the southwest, lifting sod off the fields before the ground freezes, withering the branches of any non-hardy fruit tree.

You plant your Polly peaches northeast of your house, here in southeast Idaho. The Honeycrisp apples and sour pie-cherries and, perhaps, the pears and plums might survive (all these are currently imaginary—a vision dancing in husband’s head and mine.) But not the peaches.

Our new home is hyper-insulated. Six-to-ten inches of polyurethane foam keep the elements away, and our body heat, so far, has been enough to keep us toasty and warm, even at that lethal six-o-clock hour when bare feet hit concrete floors and children shiver through showers.  But it’s coming. I know it is. My Viking blood is waking up, warning me, prompting me to drag out the giant tupperwares full of snow rompers and wool socks and mittens and hats and thermal underclothing.

We have neighbors close by who warned me that the key to life in our new little city is to “live it up in the summers and fall. Take every second you can and enjoy them… because when winter hits, everyone shuts themselves indoors. You don’t see anybody. And it drags on so long… the snow. The cold. The isolation.”

I asked him, don’t you go out to play in the snow.

He shrugged. “Yeah. But it gets so cold. Cross-country skiing and sledding just aren’t fun in below-freezing weather.”

Of course, he’s part Samoan and part Jamaican—he’s not used to this. Well, neither am I; I grew up in Northern California. But my Viking ancestors will jeer at me from the other side of the veil this winter if I don’t make the attempt…

Winter and I are going to be friends. I’m determined.

So this morning when the first snow started slanting down, soaking our alfalfa field and bringing out the sweetness of it’s purple smell and swelling the gutters with puddles, I shook it off. I  piled coats on my kids, snapped the baby into her fleece bear-hoodie and we walked to our homeschool co-op.

On the way home, two of my children slogged through a puddle. They were chattering by the time we got home and whimpering a bit. They will learn about winter, that the friendship has boundaries.

I fed my kids lunch and made my year’s first pan of cottage-friend potatoes, the most wintery of foods. My husband came home from work tonight and spent eight hours prying the lid off the boiler that heats our house and examining the rusty innards. I sense    already that his friendship with winter will involve more of a wary respect. And I admit I’m nervous. For me, friendships can be awkward at first. I get overwhelmed. I have my moments of despair: Did I say the right thing? Did I do something that revealed too much of my vulnerability, too soon?

Today I watch the snow fall through the big French doors and the windows that look south, east and north from our kitchen/dining room. I pretend nonchalance and think of the flakes as gifts. I allow the excitement to well up inside me at the prospect of four-foot drifts, of building a sled hill in the backyard, of cross-country skiing on the groomed trail by the icy-jade river that runs through our town. Of family snowball fights and cozy evenings cuddled around a TV screen watching movies that aren’t too scary but are scary enough to send my five year old shuffling to our room in the middle of the night, asking to be kissed and tucked back in.

We chose winter, and so winter will be a highlight of our year. We will make friends with winter. I’m determined.

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Sarah Dunster is an award-winning poet and fiction writer. Her poems have been published in Dialogue: a Journal of Mormon Thought, Segullah Magazine, and Victorian Violet Press. Her short fiction piece, Back North, is featured in Segullah’s Fall 2011 issue. In addition, Sarah’s first novel Lightning Tree will be released in spring of 2012 by Cedar Fort. Sarah has six children and one on the way and loves writing almost as much as she loves being a mom.

Torrey House is offering a special arrangement for entrants who can present “reasonable evidence” that they’ve bought Torrey House’s first novel publication, Crooked Creek. For more information about this special arrangement and for the competition in general, go here.  For those of you who don’t know, frequent WIZ contributor Steve Peck will also be releasing a novel through Torrey House Press in October.  Look for an excerpt to be published here on WIZ.

Also, Peculiar Page’s landmark poetry anthology Fire in the Pasture has announced a release date of October 1st.  It’s available for pre-ordering NOW!  This is an exciting and, really, quite astounding project.  I’m very pleased to say that many WIZ contributors make a showing in this important anthology (including me–what an honor!).  To view Fire in the Pasture’s product page and to pre-order your copy, go here.  You can also read Peculiar Page’s Theric’s triumphant promotional post about Fire in the Pasture here.

Also, I’ll be making a brief show of poetry in an anthology titled Vintage: A Harvest of Poems from Fortunate Childe Publications.  Carla Martin-Wood, another frequent contributor to WIZ, is one of the beating hearts of Fortunate Childe Publications.  If I remember correctly, most of the poems I’ll have in this anthology were published on WIZ.  Delightfully prolific poet Karen Kelsay will also be making an appearance therein.

Finally, occasional WIZ contributor Val K. has had her essay published first on WIZ, “Our Very Own Toad Hall,” accepted into the first  issue of Desert Voices, a regional anthology published by the Moab Poets and Writers’ group.  Congratulations, Val K.!  Your mother would be proud.

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To satisfy any curiosity you might have about the Professor and enjoy more of his artful aperçus sprinkled about on WIZ, go here, here, here, and here.

I am the very model of a mollusk* made of minerals.
At least my calcareous** shell is, and that shell is typical—
You’ll find me in the finials
And jewelry made by criminals—
I am the very model of a mollusk made of minerals!

Our bodies aren’t segmented so no one can tell a part from us
(Excepting snail antennae, octopodal arm***—they’re obvious):
We’ve all a mantle, nephrostome,****
We metamorph in monochrome
And if you mean to murder us, just be aware, we’ll make a muss!

It’s true that though we’re spineless,***** this is merely anatomical,
For we’ve defensive strategies both multiple and plentiful:
Our bites and stings aren’t minimal,
We’re poisonous, in general,
Our reputation’s well-deserved: when threatened, we’re maniacal!******

So if you meet a mollusk at the mall, though we look marvelous
Do not make contact (hand or eye), don’t moon about or munch on us
For gastropod or octopus,
With venom or tongue chitinous,*******
We’ll make you wish you’d minded us and leave you feeling bilious!
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*With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan, those alphabetical augurers in matters ‘most poetical.

**This particular word should be pronounced “kal-kuh-rhee-us,” but never in polite company.

***“Octopodal” here means “of the octopus.” It may mean something entirely different somewhere else, like in Finland, for instance. The professor notes that many people think octopi (more than one octopus, not eight different kinds of pie, though pie is delicious) have legs, but this is ridiculous: the Professor has never seen an octopus in pants or leggings, never mind shoes or socks.

****According to Random House, a nephrostome (neff-row-stohm) in zoology is “the ciliated opening of a nephridium into the ceolum.” In embryology, it is “a similar opening into a tubule of the embryonic kidney.” The professor trusts that you now understand perfectly.

*****The scientific term is “invertebrate,” which hardly seems applicable to a mollusk that is right side up, but may well describe one that is up side down.

******Of course, it’s silly to ascribe (that is, ‘assign to,’ usually in hushed, gossipy tones when the mollusk isn’t looking or has just left the room) human characteristics like “mania” to animals. Except to sharks. Well, sharks and tigers. Well, sharks and tigers and snakes. And housecats.

*******This word, “kitten-us,” does not have anything to do with kittens. Really. Unless, of course, you’re talking about the ill-tempered, scratchy kind of kitten. Then it is appropriate to call the kitten chitinous.

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NOTE: In the accompanying image of a common nudibranch–pronounced “noo-duh-branck” (the ‘c’ is silent)–found in that great German study of the subject of nudibranchia by the famed nubranchist Rudolph Berg (1824-1909), entitled, naturally, Neue Nacktschnecken der Südsee : malacologische Untersuchungen (1873), we see clearly the sinister and duplicitous nature of all mollusks on clear display. This sea slug, rather coquettishly presenting itself as a fuzzy little puppy with short legs waiting for its belly to be scratched, is, in fact, poised to swallow the unsuspecting urchin–the sea or land variety (for mollusks are indifferent eaters)–whole.

For Professor Percival P. Pennywhistle’s bio and more of his work published on WIZ, go here, here, and here.

(Post edited to add illustration and Note on August 18 at 6:01 p.m.)

This mudstick, midway, turnabout Wednesday
(Stalled out, curbstruck, high-centered, roughluck,
Dimeandnickel, halfdone, deadbeat, nofun),
Punch a ticket, skip a class, take a hike, and make it last.

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To peruse more of the esteemed Professor’s erudite work published on WIZ and view his bio, go here and here.

You will need the following to complete the assigned tasks: a zoo (or zoo-like environment, like a college dormitory), a camera (for taking photographs of relatively decent quality, but not likely to be published in National Geographic or Zoology Tomorrow), and a friend or twelve (this is optional if you prefer your own company to that of others, or if they prefer someone else’s company to yours, and therefore no one else is willing to come along).

1.    Collect photos of the following, preferably in action, and preferably not picking their noses (though we will accept nose-picking photos, but not gang signs, and certainly not pictures of you taunting or being taunted by your subjects):
a.    a Pan troglodyte
b.    a Crocodylus niloticus
c.    a Cebus apella
d.    a Pongo pygmaeus
e.    a Canis lupus (but don’t make fun of it: it has a very serious disease);
and of the following:
f.    a gangurru (commonly referred to as a herbivorous marsupial)
g.    a Panthera leo, Caucasian edition
h.    an antelope, dollhouse edition
i.    a follically-challenged member of the family Accipitridae, known for their schlumpy physical presence and a taste for carrion
j.    something long from Burma

If the specimens in question are not visible because you’ve come at the wrong time of day (again), or because they have taken holiday somewhere warm, photos of their identifying placards will be accepted en lieu, which means “instead,” but sounds way cooler. Don’t cheat.

2.    Approach a local and learn the pronunciation for the names of any three (3) animals not included in number 1 above. This is the most fun if you live in an exotic place like Arabia, the south of France, or Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Write the English name backwards and the transcribed name forwards below for each, then say both out loud. Really loud. Louder. Sheesh.

a.    ________________________  _____________________________
b.    ________________________  _____________________________
c.    ________________________  _____________________________

3.    Where are you most likely to be pooped on? Or better, in what area of the zoo? (Hint: its denizens stick together.) Count them. Record your result. Count them again, quicker this time. _____________ (Wrong. Sorry.)

4.    Find something nocturnal. Ask it why it’s awake. Take a picture. Giggle.

5.    Imitate the sounds of five animals you see, as a group if you’ve brought companions, by yourself if you haven’t. Do this as you see them, ignore the people laughing at you, then list them by name, and be prepared to demonstrate. (Okay, the lion. What else?)

Bonus: write a ten-line ode (a poem of praise) to the ugliest creature you encounter.

Rules: i) the “Creature” cannot be a member of your group, or any other group, but must be a resident of the zoo (this also excludes employees); ii) the poem must have regular meter and rhyme; iii) references to snot and other scatologies are disallowed, as these are neither classy nor appropriate for such well-bred individuals as you. The professor would certainly never stoop to them.

20 points possible. Bonus worth whatever I decide it is. Bonne chasse*!

*That’s French for ‘Happy Hunting!’, is pronounced “bun shass,” and is the etymological origin of our word “chase,” which is, after all, the funnest part of the hunt.

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For more of the Professor’s work published on WIZ, go here.

On May 14 of 2008, Dirk Kempthorne, the Secretary of Interior, followed the urgings of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Director Dale Hall and placed the polar bear species (Ursus maritimus) on the endangered species list. Hunting bans were implemented to prevent the importing of hunted polar bear hides.

Before this, a powerful controversy had been developing in the scientific world and continues even now. Environmentalists and many scientists believe that, due to global warming, the ice habitat of the polar bears is receding and endangering them and that in a matter of several decades they could possibly become extinct.

Other scientists believe this to be incorrect. Prominent Canadian biologist Mitchell Taylor views the receding ice not as a danger to the bears but as a possible advantage as it frees up more territory for bears to find prey and possibly render polar bears’ environment less harsh. He points out that polar bear populations have increased from 5,000 in the 1960s to between 20,000 to 25,000 individuals in the 2000s. They’ve survived even more extreme climate changes in the past, he says.[i]

Andrew Derocher, a professor of biological sciences at the University of Alberta in Edmonton and a member of the World Conservation Union, has an opposing view. He believes that the retreating ice will impact the bears harshly through important habitat loss. The regulations governing trophy hunting the bears and their prey have contributed to the polar bear’s population rise, he claims, not the retreating ice.

The Inuits, the native Eskimo people in Canada, Alaska and Greenland, side against the hunting ban. An Inuit spokesman, Duane Smith, says, “I don’t see how listing it as threatened will compliment the sustainability of the population. It’s the climate change that’s the problem, not the sustainable hunting of the polar bears.”[ii]

The Inuits believe that the polar bears are hunted at levels that do not put the population at danger. The Inuits have lived in Alaska, Canada and Greenland for more than a thousand years, coexisting with the polar bear.

In papers and articles discussing the pros and cons of the hunting ban, the most noted interest of the Inuits in this conflict is the annual one and a half million dollars that is brought into small Inuit communities by the polar bear hunts. Some people argue that the reason the Inuits oppose the ban is because they’ll lose the trophy hunt profits. But a 2010 study released by the Humane Society International and the International Fund for Animal Welfare, “The Economics of Polar Bear Trophy Hunting in Canada”[iii],  shows that perhaps this is not such an important thing, because

o       As much as two-thirds of all Inuits communities do not host and lead polar bear hunts, in spite of the urging of the government.

o       The sum of polar bear hunts only supply one tenth of one percent of economic earnings of Nanavut.

o       For 98% of polar bear trophy hunting communities in Nanavut and the Northwest territories, the trophy hunts provide only 2% or less of average income for residents.

o       Only in 3 of 31 polar bear trophy hunting communities in Canada earn more than 2%, and even then it does not exceed 10-13% of average income for the communities.

o       The polar bear trophy hunting makes an economical income difference for only several dozen individuals, at the most.

However, the polar bear’s importance to the Inuit is more than economic. The polar bear—or “Nanuq,” as the bear is know to the Inuit—is the Inuit’s most sacred animal. In traditional Inuit legends, the bear is a wise and powerful beast and is even almost human. There are some legends of polar bear men: beings that walked upright, talked, and lived in igloos, shedding their fur skins in the privacy of their homes.

The polar bears are also one of the most important resource animals to the Inuits. The meat is a substantial food source and the hide is used as material for clothing, especially women’s boots. Only the liver is thrown away, a part of the bear that will make even sled dogs that eat it violently sick.

The Inuits, who have lived with Nanuq for over a thousand years, insist that the polar bears are not in danger and are in fact increasing in number. Perhaps they’re right. Scientists squabble and political forces argue, each of them clinging to their own island of ice. Some people see gain in the rise or fall of the polar bear, and others are determined to honestly help the magnificent beasts. Only further studies and the passing of time will yield answers to help settle this controversy.

[ii] Article: “Polar Bears Are The Wrong Target Say Inuit”.  Clive Tesar.

[iii] Article: “Study Finds Little Local Economic Value in Trophy Hunting: Polar Bear Hunts are of Economic Importance Only to a Handful of Individuals”. March 5, 2010.

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Val K. is a 14-year-old writer who lives in a corner of Utah with her parents, two siblings, and assorted pets. She has written three novels, two of which are part of a fantasy series. Besides writing, she participates in such activities as reading, drawing, weaving, biking, hiking, catching snakes, and chores.

To read Val’s other work published on WIZ, go here and here.

She brought it to her
father who pointed out
how she should have
painted the sunbeams with
more yellow—
pointing to a maudlin
mountain scene,
hung ceremoniously on
a well-manicured wall—
an oil anyone could have techniqued
with hackneyed accuracy. That’s
how it should be done he said, then
turned away.

He missed the remarkable
enchantment of his
little girl capturing light mixed with
quintessence and vital
spirits
spilling onto canvass.

Unable to penetrate
his cataracts,
she spread Platinum White
over the surface
and put down her brushes.

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To read Steven’s bio and more of his poems published on WIZ go here, here, here, here, and here.

*contest entry*

Yep, this review probably contains spoilers.  Also, because its themes address directly environmental issues, I’ve given it a more thorough critical treatment than I gave The Charge at Feather River. Thanks in advance for taking the time to read it.  Finally, this movie contains intense battle scenes and a frightening pirate villain, either of which might be unsuitable fare for sensitive minds, be they adult minds or juvenile.

The beauty, intensity, and flair of this 1940 action-adventure flick caught me by surprise.  After watching the Dorothy Lamour vehicle, The Jungle Princess, I expected a tropical paradise movie of similar ilk. Geographically displaced animals.  Childlike but sexually forward leading men or women.  Backward natives who are slaves to superstition. Lots and lots of giant ferns.  I anticipated cartoon villains and expected that the water beneath their pearl-scooping pirate ship would have more depth than the ship’s crew.

Boy was I wrong.  Although its plot does indeed turn on cogs of stereotypes, South of Pago Pago grabbed me, from its gorgeous Hawaiian setting to its underwater diving scenes to its tragic and at times brutal (albeit manipulative) storyline.  Topping off the visually beguiling display of exotica: exquisite, lava-lava clad men and women in the bloom of youth. Even though it’s a black-and-white film, South of Pago Pago displays the beauty of the human form with some power—especially the male body, and to a purpose that reaches beyond merely stocking shelves in an eye-candy store.  Leading the stunning parade of sculpted brown torsos and yep-uh-huh thighs is the handsome (and, in reality, part-Polynesian) Jon Hall, who plays good-hearted Kehane, son of the island chief.

The movie opens with a sentence that steers us into the shadowy back-alleys of 1880s Singapore: “This is the story of days not so long ago, when Singapore spawned a race of steel-fisted, iron-jawed adventurers, who lived hard, fought hard and died hard—as they ravaged unknown seas, lured by the priceless luster of virgin pearls.”  The camera ushers us into a Singapore bar where we find beautiful but hard-bitten Ruby Taylor (Francis Farmer) sitting companionably among cutthroats and gnarly privateers.  Weary of it all, she wants to find her way out of Singapore.  Smelling an opportunity, fortune hunter Bucko Larson (Victor McLaglen), an ugly brute of a man, prods her to ply her charms on another bar patron, a Portuguese sailor named Ferro (Abner Biberman).

Ferro, Bucko has learned, is key player in a pearl-plundering enterprise that Bucko’s rival Black Mike Rafferty is about to launch.  With Ruby’s help and a promise of one-third of the haul, Bucko lures Ferro away from Black Mike.  His crew then sets sail for what Ferro tells them is the fabulously pearl-rich oyster beds off the South Pacific island of Manoa.  When the ship nears the oyster beds, Bucko has no more use for Ferro.  The steel-fisted captain knocks Ferro out cold with one punch then dumps him into the sea, saying, “I’ve been wanting to throw him to the sharks ever since Singapore.”  “Wouldn’t surprise me none if the sharks threw him back,” quips one of Bucko’s sailors.  Har-har-har, pirate humor.  Ruby is disgusted but sees Bucko’s pearl harvest as her ticket out of squalor.

As the sails of doom appear on their horizon, the innocent natives frolic on the beaches of the thoroughly romanticized island of Manoa. Whenever Bucko Larson speaks of the natives, his favorite refrain is “They’re just like kids.” Indeed, the opening scene between Kehane, his childhood sweetheart Malia (Olympe Bradna), and his best friend Luna (Rudy Robles) could pass as a charming portrait of happy childhood—except everyone involved is well—very well—into their adult years.  Island life, we are shown, is untroubled, happy, pure. The natives live in harmony with each other and with their gods and nature, unimpressed by the wealth of pearls lying in oyster beds just off their beaches. Kehane, Malia, and Luna’s pearly physical fitness and luminous beauty anchor the sentiment.  And indeed, not only are the oyster beds about to be ravaged but also the islanders’ virginal nature is likewise on the verge of suffering through-and-through strip-mining.

When the natives spot the ship, they paddle out to meet it in the traditional exuberant welcome party.  Apparently a repeat offender, Bucko has been through all this before and plays the “child-like” natives well.  That night, Kehane’s village throws a luau to honor the visitors.  We’re treated to a gorgeous spectacle of hula dancing, men and women together.  Kehane dances with his sweetheart Malia but can’t take his eyes off Ruby—the first white woman he’s ever seen. The chief’s son’s fascination with Ruby is not lost on Bucko.  He encourages the jaded bar girl to make the most of Kehane’s open interest.

Lindsay (Gene Lockhart), a white recluse who has lived among the natives for years, comes to the luau to find Bucko’s crew in rowdy attendance.  He recognizes the pirates for what they are, and as Bucko and his buccaneers hand out gifts of dresses and cuckoo clocks to the excited islanders, he pegs Bucko: “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”  Bucko exploits the islanders’ practice of returning favors and urges them to dive for pearls for him in exchange for the presents he’s bestowed.  They’re happy to oblige, saying diving isn’t work, it’s play.  The following day, the island’s best free divers, all young men, all beautiful and powerful swimmers, take the plunge for Bucko and raise a number of oysters. The camera follows them beneath the waves to show us what graceful water creatures the islanders are, how much they belong in the sea.  Greedily, Bucko and his men pry apart the mollusks the islanders bring up only to find they contain few gems.  Disappointed, the pirates decide they must move the dive to deeper water.

Meanwhile, Kehane charms open Ruby’s rough shell and we begin to see the shine rise on her character.  As she softens under Kehane’s attentions, she is herself seduced by the idea that the natives are all one big family.  She has shed her barroom frippery to slip into a lava-lava.  Many of her scenes from here on show her supine, relaxing into vulnerability, luxuriating in the peace and beauty surrounding her even as she participates in Bucko’s scheme to take every advantage of the villagers’ good natures.

The next day the divers refuse to dive, protesting that the water is too deep.  Larson jeers them, and a young man named Hono (Robert Stone) decides he must attempt the challenge.  Despite Luna’s attempts to dissuade him, Hono slips beneath the waves, swims to the depths, and begins gathering oysters.  But the dive proves too much and he suffers an attack of decompression sickness.  Kehane arrives to learn that down in the oyster bed Hono is in trouble.  He swims down and rescues him.  He orders a stop to the diving and sends the islanders back to the village, but Bucko discovers from the few oysters that Hono managed to raise before succumbing to the bends that the dangerously deep bed is pearl-rich.  He’s set on prodding the natives into returning to the job but meets an unmoving obstacle in Kehane, who places a taboo on diving in the deep waters to protect his people from Bucko, whom the island prince has at last realized is a dangerous man.  Bucko is unimpressed with Kehane’s decision. “No taboo every stopped Bucko from getting anything he went after,” he says with a scowl.  He goes looking for Kehane’s soft spot—Ruby—and finds her packing, preparing to leave.  She’s satisfied with the few pearls they’ve managed to prize from the harbor.  Hers is a more modest philosophy of exploitation of a resource: “I believe in take a little, leave a little,” she tells Bucko.  “These islanders are pretty nice folks.”  She wants to ship out “before the trouble starts.”  But Bucko convinces her that if she can get Kehane out of the way for a week, by the time he returns, “we’ll have the bottom ripped out of his habour.”

The plan works; love-struck Kehane proposes to Ruby.  Their marriage is arranged, and the pirates yuk it up over the bar girl’s impending union with island royalty.  Ruby is ashamed and declares she feels like she’s taking “candy from a baby,” but she can’t help herself and presses forward with the plan.  The recluse Lindsay mocks her, telling her “You can’t get away with it.”  “Mind your own business!” she snaps, and Lindsay prophetically pronounces, “It’s your funeral.”  The chief (Pedro de Cordoba) marries his son to Ruby, and the couple paddles off to nearby Tua Tua for their honeymoon.

In Kehane’s absence, Bucko liquors up the young men and sends them on a drunk diving spree.  The underwater scenes are harrowing: eardrums burst from the pressure and the divers suffer internal injuries.  They twist in the depths like gored fish.  Their beautiful, straight bodies become crippled; some lose their hearing, others, their lives.  In Kehane’s absence, Luna paddles to the schooner to confront Bucko for violating the taboo, but Bucko tells him that before Kehane left he lifted the taboo.  When Luna expresses his doubts, Bucko knocks him unconscious with one of his powerhouse punches and throws him overboard.  This brutal treatment is enough to sober up the other divers, who now realize they’re in terrible peril from Bucko and his rapacious picaroons.  But lacking their leader Kehane, they’re lost for what to do.  Luna is forced to dive at gunpoint and nearly loses his life.

Too late, Lindsay goes to the old chief, who has fallen ill—perhaps from a white man’s disease?—and urges him to take control of the situation or his people will be destroyed.  The chief is carried out to meet Bucko, who has come ashore.  “You’ve taken my people away from their laws, away from me,” the tribal father tells the pirate.  Bucko’s flings at the chief a classic abuser’s retort: “Well, if they’d rather be with me, there must be some reason.”  The chief orders Bucko off the island, but Bucko now think of himself as the island’s master.  He rips the chief’s necklace from his chest and shoots him and then Lindsay when he tries to intervene.  The natives revolt, but they’re no match for Bucko’s guns and lack of conscience.

Meanwhile, on Tua Tua, Ruby realizes that with Kehane she has a chance for true happiness.  It turns out she does have a conscience after all and it finally kicks in. Without telling Kehane why, she demands they end their honeymoon early and “go home” to Manoa.  They arrive to find paradise in chaos and a funeral for Kehane’s father underway.  Crippled-for-life Luna hobbles up to fill in Kehane on what has transpired in his absence.  First things first: Kehane takes charge of his father’s funeral.  At its end, the island shaman (or priest—the role is non-specific) pronounces Kehane chief and commands him to lead his people.  Kehane tells the islanders, “We have honored our dead.  Now we have another duty.  Arm yourselves.”

Ruby is drawn to the dying Lindsay, who Bucko mortally wounded.  This is Lindsay’s big moment in the movie; he lives just long enough to give The Speech.  In response to Ruby’s expressed anxiety over the islanders’ pounding war drums, he says, “Those drums are beating on Manoa just like they beat out the death of a lot of islands in the South Seas—islands that were like Manoa—paradise—until white men came along and made them hell.”

As mentioned, Bucko is a repeat offender.  He completely expects Kehane and his islanders to do just what they do and prepares for their attack.  Some of the movie’s nighttime battle scenes are enacted with models—plastic or clay figures in toy boats—but you’ll get the idea.  The final fight scenes where Kehane sneaks on board Bucko’s ship with a handful of his warriors is realistic and gripping.  The “child-like” islanders fight hard to overcome a ruthless crew armed with superior weapons.  Ruby, of course, flings herself into the line of fire to save Kehane’s life.  Kehane pursues Bucko up onto the mainmast, where the two leaders slug it out in a spectacular, to-the-death struggle.  In the end, what the natives do with the bodies of Bucko and his crew will get your attention.  Child-like, indeed.

South of Pago Pago is a very attractive and engaging movie.  It had the right visual and dramatic elements to sweep me up as well as made an interesting run at themes of environmental and social justice.  But while I appreciated the movie’s storyline and art, I knew it to be a competent piece of audience manipulation. The device of casting victims of vicious exploitation in the roles of defenseless, innocent children (the movie really leans on that horn) in order to bring into the sharpest possible relief the irredeemable evil of their abusers bothers me for a number of reasons.

First, it participates in the objectification of the exploited parties by romanticizing the South Seas islanders for purposes of driving home a message.  Although it’s Bucko me hearty that obviously relegates the islanders to the role of children and thus easy pickings, I wonder if the movie’s overall treatment of the islanders might partake in another, perhaps more subtle way of the dehumanization (adults-reduced-to-children) of a group in order to make thematic use of them.  Perhaps part of the intent is to provoke the protective instinct that many audience members will feel toward the islanders in response to what amounts to classic kid-jeopardy (a manipulative device that hits many viewers hard).  But I think that the practice of handpicking and inflating some cultural and physical qualities of a people or place to heighten dramatic effect or fill out an otherwise incomplete picture leads us into foggy, deceptive waters.

Second, by virtue of their highly romanticized portrayal in the movie, intentionally or not, the stunningly attractive, child-like islanders appear to be presented as living the ideal life, not only as far as their harmonious society goes but also as far as their complete integration into their natural environment is displayed.  I think this kind of idealization oversimplifies the possibilities, again limiting them.  As an act of stereotyping, it suffers the usual failures of imagination.  I’m aware that scripture and folk wisdom associate children with key qualities of spirituality and valuable native insight.  Yes, the child-like islanders are about as straightforward and charming as can be.  They occupy the John Denver order of wisdom: “But it’s you who must begin / to seek the wisdom of the children / and the graceful way of flowers in the wind … With their innocence and trusting / they will teach us to be free” etc., etc.   If those lyrics happen to play when my kids are around, in my best Yoda voice, I say, “Being a child not make one wise.”  Innocence is not sufficient to act a part in creation’s unfolding potential.  If it were, we’d still inhabit the Romper Room in the Garden of Eden Petting Zoo. God, I think, has higher hopes for us and for the containing world that stretch far beyond the wonder and comforts of eternally magical childhood.

Ah, well.  I could go on, but my critical approach might make it sound like I don’t like this movie.  Actually, I do like it, quite a bit—I’m just not falling for its tactics.  I deeply appreciated the film’s showcasing the human body as it does.  I’d just been through a round of peek-a-boo Clara Bow movies where the main purpose for showing skin is to exploit both poor Clara and her fans’ Victorian strain of repression.  Pago Pago isn’t like that.  This story is about exploitation.  Its task is to show the resource suffering exploitation in all its heart-wrenching beauty.  To do so, it truly and tastefully celebrates the human being, body if not soul.   Also, though he’s a monster, and we all know that monsters must be killed so that we can get back to life how we like it, Victor McLaglen plays Bucko Larson as a believable, cold-blooded, no-frills freebooter.  A serviceable portrait of common, enterprising evil, he’s worth the watch.

Bottom line: I recommend South of Pago Pago to environmental writers and other champions of the mortal sphere.  It’s an excellent example of traditional dipolar environmental thematics (and theatrics), where the evil, ugly, soulless exploiters and the good, beautiful, vulnerable exploitees are so highly toned and separated that even a child will grasp the difference.  I’m not sure how effectively such tactics present an audience with meaningful choices–they might actually restrict them.  But see the movie, if you can.  You’ll find much about it to respect and admire.

Rules for the giveaway: Same as for The Charge at Feather River. If you’d like a free copy of South of Pago Pago, post a comment in the comment section.  I’ll contact you to request your address for shipping purposes.   Overseas shipments are fine–we’re equipped to handle them.  If you win a movie on one post, please allow others a chance on the other post.

Okay?  Okay.

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Image at the head of the post and the artwork it shows are by Saul Karamesines, used here with his permission.  Thank you, Saul!

Keep your craggy, up-thrust mountain peaks!
Your chasms and your cliffsides roughly made
From clattering and shattering of plates
In the devil’s galley by some shade!

I’ll have my soft-edged tinder coulee view,
Tan and green, and gently, supply formed
Like mother earth was always thought to be:
Green-crowned, or seascape prairie grass adorned,

Our traces nestled, sheltered, on her knee.
There’s hope in views like this:
Earth murmurs lullabies into our ears,
And gives its babes a matriarchal kiss.

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For Jonathon’s bio and other poems published on WIZ, go here, here, and here.