Journal (Mayday)

I just finished watching a film that made a huge impression on me. It’s Mayday, written and directed by Karen Cinorre in her feature directorial debut. If this is not a one-time lucky shot, I predict a bright future for her in the world of film. I came across this film by accident and was actually inclined to skip it because it had very poor reviews; for example, IMDb only gave it a 4.4 out of 10 with about 1,800 voters, which suggests a solid rating. Luckily, I listened to my gut and watched it anyway.

It’s a film about the emotional healing of a young woman who is a victim of sexual assault. This whole process is shown as a fantasy story taking place in an alternative reality of a world resembling the world of World War II, but in which women fight against men. Every one of the women has been a victim in the real world, and each deals with the pain in a different way, one of which is killing men in any way possible. They use the radio to send a distress call, and when the male soldiers respond, the women send them the coordinates of the place where the rescue ship is sunk upon arrival (the film takes place over the sea), like sirens leading sailors to the rocks. When the protagonist is attacked again by a male soldier on land, they capture him and then let him run just to hunt him down—the predator becomes the prey.

It is a complex story, with twists that surprise and an ending that brings a glimmer of hope. To give a taste, here are three dialogues that have a lot of importance to the film’s narrative, but without context so as not to give too much away.

Ana (protagonist): I’m an easy target.

Marsha (leader of a group of women): Never say that. You need to stop hurting yourself and start hurting others.

Marsha: Can’t sleep?

Ana: I had a bad dream.

Marsha: Don’t worry. All your dreams will die soon enough.

Marsha: I’ve made you into a hero.

Ana: You’ve made me into a psychopath.

Marsha: It’s the same thing!

oil painting with two women hugging in sadness
Created using AI Bing Image Creator

Sparrows

Where I live now, there is only one place where I can find a small flock of house sparrows.
It actually surprises me because, in the town I come from, they were basically everywhere.
I have always liked them with their chirping and constant bustle, and also, I guess, because
one was the hero of my favourite childhood cartoon. And therein lies the rub—at one point
or another, we all commit the sin of pathetic fallacy.

The background figures

In moments of distress, I find myself asking trivial questions, answers to which I can simply
disregard without any harm, so stop holding me accountable for every forgotten conversation
on some twopenny-halfpenny matters you deem important by the mere fact of your presence,
because if life happens to be the last sentiment I like to pursue, I would rather be the swimmer
from the Portrait of an Artist, an incidental faceless body still more alive than the pink jacket
at the edge of the pool—that quite handsome foreground hero, yet known only by association.
And although a lost cause, you could at least appreciate that there is an irresistible charm
to bystanders—the background figures of the elevated posture.