Papillon

Hello Dear Readers,

It's twilight. nearing dark. Just finished watching Papillon, a classic prison movie from 1973 starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. Mcqueen plays Henri Charriere, the french thief know as Papillon for his tattoo of a butterfly on his chest. Back in the 30s Papillon escaped from a French Penal colony called Devil's island. There are several classic prison-escape movies. Cool Hand Luke is the best because it is the least sparing in its handling of the audience's wish to see a victorious escape for the sake of simple wish-fulfillment.

Of course they are not about prison, these prison-escape movies. They are allegories of the human condition, brilliant tales of personal courage and longing for "freedom," and usually they feature an unlikely, but poignant friendship at the center of the plot. Often the prisoners are captured and returned to confinement. This is heartbreaking for the WOmbury. Absolutely heartbreaking.

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We finally staged the 6th grade play last night. Was it a "roaring success"? In the sense of a beautifully performed work of art, the answer is a resounding "no." In terms of a brilliant theatrical event, then "yes." There were fishes and loaves of parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts squished up together, excitement rippling throughout the crowd.

And before you know it, it was over. The Wombury doesn't have the energy to relate the last-second pangs of panic-stricken terror caused by several latecomers. Nor does he have the energy to describe the acute mental pain of beholding Joan, his principal, as she surveyed the pre-show chaos in the auditorium. With sheer bewilderment she simply and quietly said, "They're so loud." Yes, yes, Joan, they are. As I ticked off the names of students with critical roles who had yet to arrive, she asked me, point blank, "Don't you have a back-up plan?" Charades anyone?

To the kids' credit, they convinced the Wombury to stall, to buy time, knowing their comrades would arrive. And arrive they did, in the nick of time. The show went on, with several hitches, and then it was over, and people were happy.

Joan asked me today what I plan to do for the next month. No idea.

My thoughts are elsewhere. Tomorrow the Wombury is taking the Harlem Line of the Metro North to a town called Pawling, east of the Hudson, 60 minutes north of the city, where he is interviewing for a position teaching in the upper school of an boarding school. There will be dinner, a conversation with a headmaster, a spring concert, an overnight stay, and Saturday morning interview held at 8 a.m.

And tonight the Wombury has to make a phone call. One of those phone calls that hatch a colony of butterflies in the stomach, the kind of phone calls where you attempt to rehearse the conversation, attempting to anticipate responses in order to have a witty comment or anecdote at hand.

And the mood is subdued. Things are moving fast. Decisions will be made. The path will change once again. The ground beneath the feet grows soft and your steps are unsure, and the difference between this way and that is unclear. And every decision you ask, what movie is this, what film is "right" about the human condition? Are we in the Bridge on the River Kwai, building a life and career as Colonel Nicholson builds his bridge, manufacturing meaning and purpose out of thin air, only to see it blown to bits? Are we all papillons, finding meaning in escape? And do we ever escape? And when we take this position or make that phone call we cannot but ask, "is this a step towards freedom or more confinement?"


Until then,

The Wombury