The Long & Winding 'Road'

I’ve been meaning to write something down for the last several months about a book I read for a very prestigious book club (i.e. Wendi and me). The reasoning behind this has to do with the fact that elements of the book got stuck in my head—kind of like when you get water in your ears after swimming. So I’m using my blog as an outlet to jolt my head back and forth in hopes that some of the elements leak from my head and onto the page, thereby escaping my mind. I must foreworn you that by violently shaking my head in such a manner I fear that I’ve left a somewhat confusing splat of brain leakage in the form of text onto the page. You’ve all been warned.

Let me start off by saying that Cormac McCarthy is on a role of late. The Road that was recently published won him the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction, but more importantly (from a financial perspective) McCarthy’s work was endorsed by Oprah herself. It’s a well known fact within the literary realm that getting on Oprah’s booklist, coupled with a TV interview, increases sales of an author’s book by one gajillion copies. (McCarthy is now looking for a small island to buy and retire on.) By the way, another one of his books has recently been turned into a movie, No Country for Old Men, directed by the Coen brothers. Back to the point: why all the fuss surrounding The Road? In a sentence, I would have to say that McCarthy was masterfully able to tap into two of humankind’s most basic motivations: fear and love. Fear permeates from every pore of this book by hijacking the commonly used sci-fi theme of human extinction, which would lead one to assume that it would be the major premise of the book. But I would argue that love is the principal subject matter here and what ultimately separates this sci-fi exercise from that of its counterparts—that is to say, the love found in trust. A trust that is formed and tested by a nameless father and his son, subtlety setting up a very nuanced coming-of-age story as well as an examination of our own morality.

Again, McCarthy succeeds so well in this effort because he takes this worn-out theme of the whole end-of-the-world mythos, but ingeniously stretches it to the outer reaches of human sensibility to a place where the rational behavior of man fades into animalism, thereby turning this tale into one of unfathomable terror. This is a place where time doesn’t even exist anymore because no one’s there to keep it on an almost alien-like planet; a place where survival instinct becomes a mixed blessing as the protagonist travelers slowly grow envious of those who have died and escaped the ethereal nightmare; a place where the characters stand as witnesses for all the prophets’ foretelling of an impending doom; and a place where humans are rounded up and treated as cattle, not because of social injustice, (a staple of sci-fi storytelling) but because some catastrophic conflict or event has left the world without the ability to produce and the only food left for humans is that of their own kind.

Thus, The Road then is a fascinating post-apocalyptic look at a dying world through the eyes of a father and son that shakes you to the very core while imbuing an aura of hellish fear. I felt like I had fallen into someone else’s poetic nightmare of a not-to-distant future that goaded me along with hypnotic ease—I couldn’t put it down. I found the mood extremely dire, the imagery desperate, and the story guiltily addicting (kind of like continuously scratching at an itch when you know you shouldn’t). But what left a lasting impression wasn’t the bleak outlook of a species on the verge of extinction; it was that slow, yet calculated dissection of a bond forged between the father and his only offspring.

The man and his son travel a barren waste-land strewn with rotting reminders of a time when the sun wasn’t blotted out by an omnipresent ash. In an effort to ignite some kind of feeble hope within him, the father continually reminds his son that they are “the good guys”. You see, good guys keep trying and they don’t give up. This hope is steeped in blind faith that humanity still exists somewhere and they’re carrying part of the fire of humanity with them in order to preserve it. Thus, they’re not just surviving for themselves, but they’re surviving for the sake of humankind. Furthermore, they also pride themselves in the fact that they’re moral creatures who haven’t devolved, like the band of marauders who hunt them, to a selfish, cannibalistic way of life.

Still these idealistic notions of survival for the sake of mankind will only take them so far. When sufficiently exhausted of carrying the last vestiges of the human species on their backs, they might choose to end their terrestrial perdition with their own hands. The father keeps a pistol with him that contains exactly two shots. The big question is whether or not he’ll be able to snuff out the life of the only one he has ever brought into the world when the time is necessary. McCarthy writes: “They were their world entire.” The very bond that stills his hand from taking the fatal shot is the same one that keeps them going and has made this requiem of a journey even possible. They have survived not only because of one another, but for one another; consequently developing a bond based upon a foundation of trust.

What’s interesting about trust is that it’s sometimes buoyed up with euphemisms or even white lies. To be completely direct and honest with our fellow human beings all the time is almost impossible, especially—ironically enough—with the people we care about the most. We daily see red flags go up of potential relationship-ending starter questions: What do you think of this, that, or the other? Immediately a response forms in our head of how we actually and truthfully feel, but sometimes these sentiments might offend, belittle, or hurt the questioner. Thus, we “soften the blow” and avoid these crucial questions with vague or indirect comments, thereby avoiding discomfort or even the end of a relationship. Why do we do that? Sure, sometimes we avoid conversations that might lead to further argument, but a lot times we fill that we need to protect others from a painful truth, and most people aren’t sadists. Hence, we lie because we love.

When I think of relationships that I have with family or friends it all comes down to this form of truth: complete honestly blunted with kindness. In other words, I feel like they’ll let me know when I’m screwing up my life, but they’ll do it in a way that salvages some dignity. If trust is the cornerstone of relationships, any relationships—which I think it is—then having a relationship with solely one person would be the absolute test of honesty. What I mean to say is that when there’s only one person that can listen to your indiscretions, your attempts at white lies and half-truths, it would be like telling them to yourself—you know when you lie. This other person would pick up on all your idiosyncratic attempts of “softening the blow” that it would almost become useless to use these tactics, which, over time, might result in a pure unadulterated honesty.

The father and the son’s relationship then becomes the ultimate test study on the issue of trust—they’re the control group. That’s why this book, believe it or not, is a true coming-of-age story, as the boy discovers that his dad isn’t superman and actually lies to him. I think this happens to everyone at some critical point in their life; a hinging moment when you realize that your parents might not know everything. There’s one point in the story when the dad—while trying to calm his son down about a certain ethical dilemma of whether or not they should help someone out—tells him that it’s not easy being the dad because he has to worry about everything. But the son, who’s already seen lapses of trust with his father, says that he’s actually the one who has to worry about everything, not his father. The conversation becomes a revelatory moment as the son, for the first time, begins to openly defy his dad’s logic that had already lost its luster due to the heartfelt “white-lies” that the son was slowly able to see through.

The father was only trying to protect him from his perceived cold reality that if they help other people by sharing their food, they were going to die. Where is the line between moral obligation and survival instinct drawn? Sometimes children are able to bring to light basic truths; the son was able to deconstruct the father’s red herring and the so-called complexity of the situation by reminding his dad that they were the good guys. By trying to extend your life while others die around you flies in the face of the “good guy” logic and the son knew this. Think about it though: At what point do you say to yourself that in order for me to survive I have to let others die? The crack in his father’s own doctrine becomes evident and the son then begins to question whether or not his father really is one of the good guys. To say any more on this part of the book I feel like I’d be cheating anyone who wants to read it. (Hopefully, I didn’t do that already.)

I once read this book about understanding Hopi Native Americans—I really don’t remember much about the book except for this concept of understanding other cultures. This can only be achieved by leaving your own cultural room or sanctuary and entering into another one by hanging your judgments, preconceived notions, and personal beliefs at the door. I think that’s why this book succeeds because it took me out of my own personal concept of morality, life, death, survival, and hope; and placed those tested beliefs in another paradigm. Thus if you read this book try and put yourself into the shoes of the father, son, or both and ask yourself whether you’d be one of the good guys.

B R E T T R A T N E R ' S N O T E S
F O R H I S F I L M V E R S I O N
O F T H E R O A D B Y
C O R M A C M c C A R T H Y .

BY WENDY MOLYNEUX

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Possibilities to play the father/son duo:

• Brad Pitt and Maddox Jolie-Pitt. If so, have them ride around on ATVs instead of walking. Walking is boring.
• Will Smith and Jaden Smith. Loved them together in Pursuit of Happyness. Maybe talk to Will about doing a hot soundtrack. Would Will's wife play movie wife? Remember to ask. Also, in book, wife is dead. Rewrite this. Have her be alive.
• Father needs "buddy." See if Jackie Chan is available. If not, maybe Andy Dick?
• If we switch the father/son to mother/daughter, get Angelina and Shiloh. Keep ATVs.

In book, we don't find out how the world ended. Must show in movie version. Possible scenarios:

• Aliens
• Robots
• Alien robots
• Girls in bikinis accidentally blow up nuclear power station by hitting self-destruct button with their big, round butts

If we go with robots as destroyers of Earth, robots should still be chasing the people. Also, maybe change name from The Road to The Robots.

If we decide to rewrite as comedy, see if Sandler is available for May production start.

Can this movie make $100 million? No. It can make $200 million.

Switch shopping cart to Hummer or Bentley. (Which is more apocalyptic? Look on Internet.)

When the father and son discover the boat, boat should be loaded with machine guns and hand grenades. Also, smart sharks.

In book, they say "carrying the fire" and it's some kind of abstract thing about carrying the spirit of humanity around in a time of hopelessness. Afraid people will not get. What if "fire" is a secret weapon that will restore atmosphere and kill the robots? Or it turns out at the end that boy can shoot fire out of eyes and mouth? He's like a messiah guy, but a fire-shooting-eyes messiah guy.

Will need good sound bites for trailer. Maybe at one point son is sad about something stupid and father says, "It's not the end of the world!" Then son gives him ironic look. Love it.

Maybe they are not father and son, but one is a cop and the other is a martial-arts expert?

Everything takes place in Miami?