“Is there anybody there?”

The first time I saw Cast Away, I found it odd that a man trapped on an island alone for four years would not once try to talk to God. After Chuck washes ashore, he wonders about the island for what seems like forever, calling to anyone who might be there to help. He’s met with only silence however, which persists. As long as he is on the island, we hear only the sound of wind and surf and an occasional falling coconut. The director, Robert Zemeckis, even denies us a musical score. And still Chuck doesn’t speak to whatever invisible spirits might be listening. Instead, the screenwriter has him talking to a volleyball.

Now contrast that with a survival film like the Gray. When Ottway (played by Liam Niesen) finds himself alone after his companions having been eaten by wolves and he himself being hunted by these same wolves, he turns to God for help.

Ottway: Do something. Do something. You phony prick fraudulent motherfucker. Do something! Come on! Prove it! Fuck faith! Earn it! Show me something real! I need it now. Not later. Now! Show me and I’ll believe in you until the day I die. I swear. I’m calling on you. I’m calling on you!

[receives no response]

Ottway: Fuck it. I’ll do it myself.

But in the silence of Castaway, it would seem EVEN the thought of God doesn’t exist. And that seems to be Cast Away’s point.

In two earlier videos, I’ve tried to show how Castaway is a far more subtle and interesting film than most people realize. In my first video, I showed how Castaway makes an overarching allusion to Robert Zemeckis’, most famous film – Back to the Future. Like the earlier film, Cast Away is about a character marooned out of time. The theme and images of time play at the heart of both films. While Chuck doesn’t literally go back in time, the Island represents a more primitive way of life as he reverts back to the existence of a Stone-Age man. And just as Marty Mcfly is only able to get back to the future by connecting his mast to a precisely timed bolt of lighting so Chuck is able to get back to his modern way of life by connecting his mast to a precisely timed turn in the wind.

I explored the meaning of this allusion in my second video. Through these comparisons, Cast Away underscores an important difference. Back to the Future is an optimistic comedy, told from the perspective of youth. Though it hints in the plutonium powered time-machine of the dangers of America’s then nuclear arms race with Russia, it’s ultimately about the power we have over our own destiny. Marty, through his actions, easily gets back everything he’s lost and more in the end. A new black Toyota pick-up truck parked in his garage comes to mind. By contrast, Cast Away is a serious drama about a middle-aged man’s inability to control his world by modern technology and his devotion to time. Though Chuck extolls the power of the clock (like the power of a nuclear bomb) in retraining the now defeated Russians, it’s this materialistic view which is his ultimate undoing. Chuck’s time on the island is the aftermath of a symbolic divorce. Technology gave him a sense of power and control but it ultimately drove him away from his girlfriend Kelley. The island represents a place of isolation and loneliness where Chuck is dying and learning to live again without his former sense of control. Wilson is the symbol of a split between the old and new Chuck. Wilson is the old Chuck from whom the new Chuck must separate if he ever wants to live a life off the island. But when Chuck returns home, he find himself being given the keys to his former black Jeep parked in his now married x-fiancé garage. Though Chuck gets back some things, he still has to go on letting go of the things that truly mattered to him.

The comparison and contrast between the two films is perhaps most interesting in their final scenes. In Cast Away, Chuck stands at a cross roads looking down every road. In Back to the Future Marty tells Doc as they are about to race off in the time machine, “we don’t have enough road to get up to 88 miles per hour.” To which Doc responds, “roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.” At which point the time-machine begins to fly, unbounded from the limits of the road before them. It’s an optimistic message of the limitless possibilities of our future. Cast Away likewise ends with a sense of hope as Chuck appears to have found a new love interest, someone who’s had a similar journey through divorce on an island (in the Texas plains). But as Chuck looks down every road, he doesn’t seem to have the same unbounded sense of freedom. Chuck has been made to arrive at this place despite most of his choices.

While Chuck does a great deal to free himself from the island, his power and choice alone were not themselves the key to his release. The wind and the surf held him in his prison for four years until a sail washes ashore. When Chuck looks down the roads that point to where he now stands, I think he’s realizing what we’re likewise meant to realize: that Chuck was never truly alone on the island.

Cast Away is in some ways like the movie Signs. In Signs, we’re told the story of a former pastor and father who’s lost his faith after the tragic death of his wife. Graham, played by Mel Gibson, struggles with his feeling of abandonment which ultimately is revealed as hatred for God. But in the end the odd quirks of the family become the means by which we see a benevolent God working all things together for their good.

Castaway too shows us God through such signs but it never puts the pieces together so overtly. The silent subtly and very real possibility of being missed is precisely the point Cast Away is making. One of the main messages of the film is how technology and our modem way of life is leading us towards a loss of what is seen when times are less hurried. The film wants us to stop and put away our cellphones and watches (the thought of what’s going to happen next) and become acquainted with silence and peaceful contemplation and see the world again, as if for the first time. It forces us to see what we do not, in our modern way of life, take the time to see. And if it hit us over the head with its message like Signs, it would have undermined its very message. Cast Away is challenging our modern way of life which by and large cannot see God due to distractions.

These idea are more clearly expressed in an early draft of the script. Chuck is so busy that he fails to take note of the glory of the northern lights, only cursing them when they interfere with his use of technology. In this draft too, we also see Chuck being troubled by prayer, showing us that prayer (speaking to God) was on the mind of the author and that it’s absence from the final film may also be intended to communicate the same idea.

Though God isn’t directly mentioned in the film, it’s hard not to seem him being alluded to from the start. Cast Away begins with Chuck telling us who he thinks God is. He preaches a sermon about time. And paints a picture of time as a God. We must all devote ourselves to it or become sinners for our failure to obey. But it’s his devotion to the idol of the clock which fails Chuck. Chuck finds the clock broken as he washes ashore. Here, he must live in the world without the distractions of modern life, becoming accustomed to the more natural rhythms of the heavens as the earlier draft shows.

But It’s in this scene of Chuck calling out to a ship on the horizon that I think we missed something truly important. Chuck calls out to it for help with the use of his little flash light. And when that seems to fail and the dawn fully breaks, he jumps in his raft to race out to meet it. But he’s blocked and broken by the tide. A storm comes in and Chuck finds shelter in a cave. He passes out exhausted on the cavern floor. The film suggests this as a metaphorical death as the little light of his flash light likewise dies while he sleeps. Chuck’s eyes are then opened by the light of the sun (about the size of his flashlight lens) shining through a tiny hole in the cave wall.

The sequence only truly begins to make sense in hindsight. The hermeneutic circle is the key to interpretation as I’ve referred to in my video on Arrival. The meaning of the parts are defined by their relationship to the whole. The sequence begins with Chuck calling to ship. But is it a ship? Given how the sequence revolves around Chucks electric light and the more natural light of the heavens opening his eyes. I think it’s more likely that Chuck has mistaken the light of heavens (the morning Star) for a ship. Chuck calls to it but is prevented from reaching it. Instead the heavens come to him. The full brightness of the sun shines in his eyes as if to say “here I am.”

It’s this heavenly presence which remains with Chuck while he’s on the island. He marks the course of this light over the four years on his cavern wall – it’s the sign of infinity, eternity. And it’s the light which seems to be what releases Chuck from the island. The most obvious sign that this is Divinely appointed is so subtly displayed. The calendar shows that the sail arrives four years to the day that he first washed ashore.

Chuck returns to a world that is insensitive in its speed, a world that’s moved on without him. Chuck seems both cast Away and left behind. He has a new perspective. He’s quite and reserved. He walks with a leisurely pace, taking everything in.

Now at the Crossroads, Chuck seems not to be asking which direction should I go. Instead, he seems to be realizing that he’s at the nexus of where he was met to be, that every road he might have taken, would have lead him to this.

There’s a poem called “footprints” which conveys something of the idea.

Last night I had a dream. I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from my life. For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonged to me, the other to the Lord.
After the last scene of my life flashed before me, I looked back at the footprints in the sand. I noticed that at many times along the path of my life, especially at the very lowest and saddest times, there was only one set of footprints.
This really troubled me, so I asked the Lord about it. “Lord, you said once I decided to follow you, You’d walk with me all the way. But I noticed that during the saddest and most troublesome times of my life, there was only one set of footprints. I don’t understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me.”
The Lord replied, “My son, my precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of suffering, when you could see only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.”

Chuck: “Is there anybody there?”

I had this thought about America while writing on Back to the Future. Why does time-travel happen at 88 miles per hour? Why not a 100 or 99? Could it mean something, like a lot of the other seemingly meaningless details in the film?

For instance at the beginning, when Marty goes to turns on the amplifier, below the ignition key is a red label: CRM 114. It’s a reference to Stanley Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. In Dr. Strangelove, the C.R.M. 114 is an important piece of equipment which upon being destroyed, causes a B-52 crew to drop a nuclear bomb. In Back to the Future, Marty’s turning on of the CRM 114 results in a similar explosion.

The opening shot of the film, just prior to the CRM 114 label, reveals the same meaning. The camera slowly pans across Doc Brown’s collection of ticking clocks to then reveal Marty dropping his skateboard and backpack (in the shape of the Delorean) which then rolls across the floor, hitting a yellow box that bares the ‘trefoil’ sign for radioactivity along with the words “handle with care.” The ‘trefoil’ symbol becomes important in the film as its also the shape of the flux-capacitor, the piece of equipment which, according to Doc Brown, makes time-travel possible. But it’s not the only thing needed for time-travel. The flux-capacitor (the sign for radioactivity) runs on plutonium. Just like a nuclear bomb. And we’ll find out that Doc Brown gets this plutonium by promising to build his Libyan benefactors a bomb. The bomb he makes is the Delorean.

For all these reasons and more, it’s clear Back to the Future, released in 1985, is saying a lot about America’s then nuclear arms race with Russia. The film, for instance, pokes fun at then President Ronald Regan. In the future, Marty tells Doc in 1955, Ronald Regan is president. “The actor!?!” Doc incredulously exclaims. One might even venture to say that Doc Brown with all his crazed eccentricities is a sorta Ronald Regan. But I think it’s more likely that Doc is meant to represent America in general, in our historic spirit of innovation. Above the hearth of Doc Brown’s 1955 home are the images of American inventors: Benjamin Franklin and Thomas Edison. Even Albert Einstein, whom Brown names his dog after, became an American inventor.

So might 88 miles per hour refer to America’s 1988?

I had this thought while thinking about the end of the movie. Marty tells Doc “we don’t have enough road to get up to 88 miles per hour.” They’re talking about traveling into the future from 1985. Doc’s just arrived back from the future. He’s found a way to stop using Plutonium. The time-machine is now fueled by recycling. Doc tells Marty, “roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.” And they lift off and fly into the future. Essentially they’ve gotten around the limits imposed upon them by the length of the road. 88 miles per hour isn’t just the point at which the time-machine travels through time. It’s the point at which it explodes. It’s a deadline of sorts.

88 was the next presidential election. Most films don’t end with the phrase, “to be continued.” Even those with planned sequels. But it also makes sense if the film had this further meaning.

I’m often challenged by people claiming I’ve found a meaning in a film that “isn’t really there”. Like my video on the Shawshank Redemption, for instance, people assure me that the writer (King/Darabont) had no intention of casting Andy Dufrene in the role of Jesus. They claim I’m reading too much into the film. And sometimes they’ll use the fancy word “pareidolia”, denoting our tendency to perceive patterns of meaning (such as faces) in random and naturally occurring phenomenon (like clouds). Thus for them, my perceiving that Andy represents Jesus isn’t any indication that the author intended or understood Andy as Jesus. It’s just a randomly occurring pattern from which I’ve mistakenly perceived the author’s intention. It’s funny though how those assuring me that I’ve missed the author’s intention never seem to have an answer for me when I ask them how they actually know what the author intended.

On the opposite extreme, I find many others adopting the popular impression from modern art, claiming that the filmmaker had no intentions or that their intentions really don’t matter when interpreting a film. The meaning is really whatever we want it to be. It’s held that all the artist seeks is engagement. So seeking the authors intended meaning is a fruitless endeavor. We’re the artists and we’re meant to create the meaning we see. The film is meaningful in any way people perceive it to be meaningful.

So what is meaning and where is it found?

Meaning is the product and goal of mind. It doesn’t exist apart from a mind. And it’s expressed in and through movement, a reduction in possibilities. It’s the actual whittled down from the potential. Information is the more basic product of this reduction but meaning, unlike information, is the product of a choice. Choice distinguishes meaning from random and naturally occurring phenomenon.

We can think of the difference between an arrowhead and a river stone. Both have been shaped by forces external to themselves but there’s a fundamental diffence in the forces which have shaped them. The stone has been shaped by a deterministic force. Gravity has caused the original rock to tumble into a river where it likewise has acted on water in the same way. While the material it acts upon react differently, Gravity only does one thing. This singularity of action blinds us to any intention. Since Gravity could not have caused the stone to be anything other than what it is, we cannot see a meaning or purpose in shaping a particular stone. The arrowhead, on the hand, reveals the alternative forces of a single actor. Whereas gravity does not choose the material upon which it acts and or it’s final form, the force which has formed the arrowhead has clearly done just that. And it’s this evidence of choice which reveals the meaning and purpose behind it.

So I had this realization today while talking with my kids about the Bible. We started at the beginning in Genesis, where I’ve been showing them that the serpents promise, “you shall be like God” was not the temptation that resulted in the Fall. Instead it was Adam and Eve’s doubting the goodness of God and not standing in their position of already being like God. Just a few short paragraphs before, Genesis tells us that God made mankind in his in own image, to have dominion over the beasts. And here in the temptation, we have a representative of the beasts telling Eve that she really isn’t like God. There’s a lot to unpack here.

Mankind being the image of God is a key concept in scripture. We often overlook how it’a linked to the theme of idolatry. I mean why is God so against idols/images of God (the 2nd of the 10 commandments), especially when God himself shows himself to be an image maker in the very first chapter of Genesis? Mankind is the “idol” at the center of God’s creation. It seems to be that idolatry, making an image of God is wrong because it takes away from the respect owed to the image which God has made. The proper homage to God is not to images made of wood and stone but to the people around us who are made of blood and bone. One cannot worship God apart from honoring the image which he has made.

Our discussion lead us to Mark 12 where Jesus is confronted by a series of questions. The first is about paying taxes to Cesar. To which Jesus famously responds, “render to Cesar the things that are Cesar’s and to God the things that are God’s.” The thing that belongs to Cesar is a coin which bares his image. And by contrasting implication the thing which belongs to God is the whole person who bares the image of God.

But then we moved a little further down in the same chapter. Jesus is asked what is the greatest commandment. And Jesus responds by saying “Hear o Israel the Lord our God is ONE Lord and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and will all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.” But then Jesus adds, “the second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment (singular) greater than than these (plural).”

Jesus is doing something rather remarkable here and his next topic highlights what he’s doing. Jesus raises the issue of Psalms 110 where King David writes, “the Lord said to my Lord…” Now stop right here. What did we just hear? There is only ONE Lord! And yet here we have a conversation between TWO Lords (who are over David the King). Jesus has just affirmed that there is only One Lord even as he points out two. That’s what he’s doing in his answer to the question of the Greatest commandment.

It’s not two separate commandments. It’s ONE commandment. We are to love God with is our whole selves and that the love of our whole selves is meant to be directed towards God’s image.

Mark 12 ends by returning to the issue of coins. Jesus watches and praises a poor widow who gives all she has to live on in the offering box. The rich give too but clearly not all of what they have. The implication is they let this poor woman go away empty handed when she by contrast has given her last dime to the Love of God and others.

When Arrival came out in 2016, audiences were lead to believe essentially one thing about it – that its about alien first contact, somewhere between 1997’s Independence Day and 1977’s Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

But Arrival turned out to be so much more than this. A fact revealed in the film’s beginning as it depicts with great emotion Dr. Louis Banks’ memory of her daughter’s birth… life… and tragic young death. Causing us to wonder what relationship might there be between Louise’ memory and the film’s advertised arrival.

If you’ve seen the film, you’ll know the answer, and yet it appears director Denise Villeneuve has left something even more significant for us to find in repeat viewings, something which explains, for instance, why he wanted the film’s spaceship to stand oddly balanced in this way, contrary to the way spaceships have typically been depicted in film.

It’s in this ship that, of course, the heart of Arrival takes place, as Louise comes to perform her central role as a linguist, deciphering the language of the Heptapods in order to ask and then answer for the world why they are here. And it’s here in the ship that she discovers the visual key to decoding their language. Whereas we, humans, communicate in a line, one word at a time, moving from beginning to end, the Heptapod’s communicate in a circle, expressing their thoughts all at once, in a form with neither beginning nor end.

Which means the Heptapods also differ from humans in their relationship to time. Our human written line matches the way we see time. We experience each moment, one after another, the past known, the present becoming known and the future not yet being known, a one-way experience known as the arrow of time. But the complete wholeness of the Heptapod’s circle indicates that for them past, present and future are all equally known and or remembered.

And this is what Louise comes to experience as she learns their language. At first, Louise struggles with the memories of her daughter’s life and death…

but as Louise comes to more fully understand this language, the film reveals that the past (the things we’re shown at the beginning of the film) is, in fact, the future, as Louise realizes she now remembers her future like her part. By coming to think as the Heptapods, Louise has transcended the arrow of time, remembering the whole of her life even as she continues to live out the present. The film’s plot is circular, coming full circle in the end, where Louise chooses to embrace all the joys and sorrows of the life she now knows she will live.

But Louise’s ability to mentally travel to the future by learning a new language isn’t meant to be taken literally. The title’s appearance here at the end, for the first time on screen, invites us to watch the film again. Though the film connects the title Arrival to the Arrival of the Heptapod’s, in the end, we find it’s only appearing in this place traditionally reserved for the words “The end.” Thus, ending the film with this punch of a more profound meaning.

Arrival is more than about the coming of the Heptapods its about OUR Arrival in seeing the film through to its conclusion, the complete whole, by which, in hindsight, we see the film’s true meaning.

For instance, watching Arrival the first time, we couldn’t see any meaning in THIS shot of Louise walking in a circle after the death of her daughter and it being juxtaposed with this shot of her walking a straight line in the very next scene. But watching the film a second time, we recognize the theme later developed in the film as it foreshadows Louise’s transition from linear to circular thinking, a meaning which we can now see as we’ve undergone Louise’s same transition, remembering the end from the very beginning. In watching the film a second time, we’ve come to see Arrival as Louise has learned to see her life, experiencing the true significance of each moment in light of our knowledge and connection to the whole.

The Heptapod’s language and logogram represents this whole, the key to meaning and interpretation which philosophers refer to as the Hermeneutic circle. The whole defines the meaning of its parts even as the parts define the meaning of the whole. For instance, If I say the word “hand”, its natural, given past experience, to assume I’m referring to the most common meaning of that word in our language. But “hand”, depending on the words which follow it, may, in the end, reveal that I meant something else, like help or applause. That’s because there’s no automatic relationship between a sound or written symbol and the meaning it’s intended to convey. The same symbol, like hand, may have any number of meanings which only the connections of a complete context reveal. We also see this at work in film. In my last video on Momento I discussed the the Kuleshov Effect, how we instinctively understand the meaning of an image by the image which comes after, even as we understand the last image by the one that came before. Whole and part of a text work simultaneously together to form a texts true meaning. Which means to truly understand the meaning of any part we have to first come to know the whole.

One of the ways Arrival shows our need for the whole is found in international crisis created by the Heptapod’s Arrival. Though the film focus’ on Louise’s experience in one ship, we’re told the Heptapod’s have actually landed in a total of 12 ships, leading the 12 nations in which the Heptapods have landed to come together to share and learn from one another which the film represents through the unity of these 12 video feeds.

But then world learns just enough of the Heptapods language to ask them their purpose.
The answer is translated as as “offer weapon” which world sees as see a threat. The nations disconnect from each other out of fear that one of them will use the Heptapod’s weapon to conquer the rest.

Agent Halpern: we have to consider the idea that our visitors are prodding us to fight each other until only one faction remains.

Louise: There’s no evidence of that

Agent Halpern: Sure there is. Just open a history book.

In terms of the hermeneutic circle, the world has interpreted the Heptapod’s purpose through the limited lens of past human experience. But Louise believes more needs to be known about the Heptapod’s and their language to know exactly what they mean. She returns to the ship and asks to receive what they’re offering. And in this highly symbolic moment, she’e invited to write along with them their language on the screen, experiencing even more flashes of future memory, before finally being shown this cloud of Heptapod signs.

It’s important to note here just how often clouds appear in Arrival. And it’s here in this cloud of signs, that we learn why.

The cloud’s empty or incomplete space represents a numerical ratio which reveals to Louise and Ian that the Heptapods have portioned out the whole of their language to each of the 12 ships, Requiring the nations to bring their respective parts together, to fill in the clouds empty space of potential meanings in order to know precisely what the Heptapods are saying.

And yet the meaning of these 12 parts isn’t only about unifying the nations. The 12 parts symbolize the parts of a clock, in other words the parts and whole of time. Just as the nations must come together in order to piece together the Heptapod’s language, so Louise must piece together the whole of her life’s unfolding timeline, to accurately interpret its meaning. Time in Arrival is a metaphorical language. And it’s this metaphor which explains how Louise can come to know the future by learning the Heptapod’s language.

Louise: Yeah, Sapir-Worf… It’s the theory that the language you speak determines how you think.

According to the Sapir-Worf hypothesis, the language we speak is none other than the hermeneutic whole by which we interpret everything.

Ian: Yeah, it effects how you see everything.

The philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s put it this way: “the limits of my language are the limits of my world.” The Language we speak is in essence the whole of what we know, the boundaries by which we interpret the world around us. But if we think about it, the limits of our present language are really the limits of our memory, our present experience of time as we know our language and its meaning only by the accumulation of experiences which hold together in our minds. All that we know is from this moment past. Thus to grow in our experience of time, adding new moments to our memory, is to be in a real and figurative sense learning a new language, a new way of seeing and interpreting the world.

Learning a new language, even an alien language, could never literally cause Louise to remember a future she hasn’t yet lived. But she can metaphorically know the future in the same way we sometimes know the future or what will happen next, and that’s in remembering or re-experiencing something we’ve already lived. We do this when we transport ourselves through memory to a past moment or watch a film again. In watching Arrival a second time, we remember the film’s future end in the same way Louise comes to remember her future.

It’s, thus, no accident that the Heptapod’s circular language echoes Arrival’s circular “beginning-echoed-in-the-end” plot. Just as it’s no accident the screen upon which the Heptapods write their circular language looks like the theater screen upon which Arrival was first shown. The language of the Heptapod’s is the language of Arrival itself. Just as the Heptapod’s give their language as the means to interpret their language and purpose so Denise Villeneuve, the director of the film, has given us his film to interpret both his film and his purpose. He metaphorically uses the time-consuming and often confusing process of learning a new language for the temporal confusion we experience in arriving at the true meaning of Arrival, which is significantly same confusing process whereby which we are moving towards the meaning of life.

And it’s this meaning which Arrival points us to in the ship. Here, in introducing us to the ship, Denise Villanuve draws a connection to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, and more specifically the mysterious black monolith which appears suddenly and without explanation throughout that film. In these allusions Villanueva identifies the ship with the monolith. In 2001, the monolith appears before great leaps in human evolution: the dawning of man, man’s movement into space and finally to Dave just before his death and rebirth. Kubrick would go on to explain in interviews that the monolith in 2001 is the technology of an advanced alien race, guiding humanity through its evolution. And in that, he said, it also symbolized his view of God. God, for Kubrick, wasn’t so much the anthropomorphic personal deity of western religion but an abstract mystery, a doorway, concealing and yet also revealing the answers to life.

Inside the Heptapod’s ship, we’re shown Louise symbolically arriving at her life’s end. The light at the end of the tunnel echoes an image commonly associated with crossing over into death. Just as the life Louise sees through the circle on the screen mirrors the lifelong memories which are often said to flash before the eyes of the one dying. And in the same way, Louise’s fear and trembling before the arrival of the alien Heptapod’s symbolizes the final life-ending encounter with God, whom the Bible calls the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end, the source and definition of life, the complete whole by which the true meaning of life is revealed.