But in the meantime, while we wait, let me tell you that once upon a time, circa 1977-79, the whole nation was "that way" about the Bermuda Triangle. We loved thinking about that triangle and what might be hoovering up half the ships and planes that dared traverse it. Its name alone had a sexy sea spray currency, like some strange expensive boutique water that promotes male potency. And turns out it's quite a film, THE BERMUDA DEPTHS, especially, as I discovered this past Labor Day, when regularly contrasted with flips back to the Weather Channel. Moving from a TV movie from 1978 back to a cable weather cannel in 2019? Turns out now, this moment, is the best time for the Triangular vortex of 1978 to open up and lift us all clear of Waterworld 2024. Don't doubt it's coming, landlubber! Argh!
While in 1978 the corals still throb with life, up in 2019, meteorologists stand before giant maps, caressing the predicted motion lines of swirling energy, pressure, precipitation, like zephyrs in the sparkler air. Electric with apocalyptic anticipation, repeating themselves and their predictions like a coven of witches, chanting national scientific barometric readings like druidic incantations; the meteorologists attempt to guide and shape a thousand Moby Dicks worth of water and air towards their Atlanta headquarters, all so they might stand out in the wind and rain and be lashed while trying to talk to the camera, so we--at home--might feel extra dry and cozy. This is why they do this. Because it's there.
When I saw The Bermuda Depths over Labor Day, Dorian was circling around the Bahamas, twirling and twirling as if to bring the island chain to some monstrous extinction level vaginal vortex orgasm, a Cenobite maenad rending apocalyptic event. The linked necklace of basic comforts that chokes us in the trap of civilized leisure is snapped, pearls flying in all directions, by such a swirling orgasm! It drowns and destroys and leaves drowning souls clamoring at Noah's moss-slick sides, pairs of serpents coupled in the portholes to nip the toes and fingers of the damned as they try and climb - until they drown, growing Satanic tails themselves, squiggling towards a giant moon/egg/eye in the center of the center of the rift. The weather people cut over to B-roll of Floridians buying bottled water by the Price Club forklift.
I cut hit play on the DVD player at the commercial, back ... to The Bermuda Depths and to.... her.
Have I only imagined her?
I still the feel the warmth from kissing her
I'll spend my whole life missing her
the music is gorgeous, there are no clumsy voiceovers or scrawls, and no words spoken or read at all for the first 12 minutes of the film- only Vivaldi, and that achingly lyrical folksy theme song (a signature of production team Rankin/Bass)... already burrowing into our souls and leaving us with a plaintive spiritual ache for our own lost ocean loves... Jenny....
So now he's grown and back in Bermuda (he left when his father died) -- they're both adults now (and so is the turtle). They meet again, along the day-for-night shores; we're as obsessed with her as he is, suddenly. But he's there to do a stint on a marine research vessel helmed by Burl Ives, with Carl Weathers--his beautiful black muscles glistening in the blazing blue sun--his shipmate. A marine biologist friend of his late father's, Ives is researching gigantism in ancient triangle species, i.e. a turtle the size of a football field, the animal familiar of Jenny, or maybe the devil, her master, dictating her relentless lure of smitten sailors to the briny depths... of the Bermuda Triangle.
Note similarity in outline of the rock to his hatted head as he sleeps,
Jenny emerging from his pineal gland, or where land meets ocean;
(female/dream/ocean vs. conscious/man/sky.
ABC Friday Night TV movies like Depths made deep and lasting impressions on children like myself (I was 12), who had nothing else to see and only one screen for the entire family, and having no voice in the prime time choices. We all loved In Search Of... (which was immensely popular and helped the Bermuda Triangle become a household name in an episode from the year before), so a movie this weird and wondrous couldn't be missed.
After its initial premiere, this weird intensely haunting film lay dormant for decades, unseen and gradually considered to be a folk myth. But today, at last, decades later, through the giant claw machine of the Warner Archive, it is exhumed, dredged from the white sand depths, and it is a treasure. Though only a TV movie, it's filmed on location and Bermuda has never seemed so beautiful. Jerry Sopanen's brilliant cinematography plus a color restoration (?) results in a blue sky, clear water, white sand, tanned limb clarity that leaves a hole in the heart, evoking among other things, Dali's magical paintings of Costa Brava.
And this is--alas--the relationship at its purest. The anima appears to us only that her absence may be all the more keenly felt. She does read our letters, even if she doesn't answer. In a way, she even helps us write them - for we're a projection of her unconscious as well.
It doesn't matter anymore. I am glad I bought this on DVD, and that the image is so gorgeously clear I can count the water rivulets down Connie Sellecca's luxuriant gamin limbs. I applaud the way the giant turtle is used so sparingly - appearing mainly at the climax, and fading away with an unforgettable dive into the depths and all the ensuing Tarot-card ready references that connect The Bermuda Depths with the arcane language of the collective unconscious.Though this dream girl aspect ("have I only imagined her?") often irritates me in other films, it works here as there's plenty of evidence she's more than just a male fantasy or a psychotic hallucination. The men who don't believe she's real are--after all--trying to catch a turtle the size of a Victorian mansion on a boat barely the size of one of its flippers. And besides, she's real to Magnus, and to us, watching. We never see him talking to the air, for example. Though she's never seen by anyone but Magnes (except Eric--at the very end--and then we don't see the version of Jennie he sees, the image that produces such a wave of all-consuming horror, but it's clearly not Connie Sellecca), we know it's ridiculous for Eric (Carl Weathers) and Poulis (Burl Ives) to have no doubt about the existence of the gigantic turtle, and yet to refuse to believe Jennie is real.
|My early childhood anima - the mermaid girl from the old Marine Boy |
anime, that used to be on when I was around 3-4. I was so
enthralled I think I cried when the show stopped airing. I still
remember her vividly, though not her name.
And if the Jennie the Mermaid element of the film was all done as some kind of Harvey-Walter Mitty style fantasy we wouldn't even be having this conversation because, ugh, I would have turned it off. Here instead; a film that gets the true nature of anima projection. It knows that if there was some big reveal where a mad scientist is behind it all and/or it's a scam and the scammer would have got away with it if not for those rascally kids, or if the film relied on any rational or even metaphysical 'explanation' for the mysteries, it would undo the spell, and be cheap, I'd be out. But the way it's all filmed, the way the story goes down, it never loses its Jungian "on-the-one" beat, where the film itself is a dream within a dream, only there is no waking, only a renouncement of one layer of the dream, which may or may not be a transition to adulthood, for another.
The problem is--as besets all young boys once they reach the end of Elementary school--Magnes can't get a moment to woo his lady love because of his girlfriend-less rowdy buddies, his shipmates, ie. the Apollonian 'group' of men that lie in dialectic opposition to the male conscious/female unconscious Dionysian pair-bond. In other words, he's trying to score but his buddies won't leave Magnus alone; they find him wherever Jennie brings him, even to a secret, gorgeous grotto (his late dad--whom he learns was 'eaten' by marine life--was washed out to sea; his mom--we learn--was lost at sea earlier).
Why did he not hide, not heed Weathers' manly call. That friendly but nonetheless cockblocking Captain Bligh, rousting Fletcher Christian from his languid island hammock with comely Mauatua for another endless slog across the seas? Without a second thought, presuming she'll be waiting when and where he deigns to look, Magnus leaves his ghostly love to go fishing with Eric and Dr. Poulis, as they set about trying to catch a creature so massive that there is no boat big enough to do anything on but drown should the be unlucky enough to catch such an island-size behemoth.
The idea that Jennie is all in Magnus' mind though never quite washes since there clearly is a giant turtle, and when Magnus mentions carving the initials on its back it's enough to wipe the smiles from both Eric's and Poulis' faces (they've seen the markings). For all their talk of biology, this pair are clearly monster hunters, their boat a mythic equivalent to a psychoanalyst's couch. As Poulis tells Magnus over dinner: "Even in this space age we have yet to explore the real depths!" Those depths are both the ocean and the unconscious. They carry monsters, sure, but also Jenny... So alluring that wherever she comes, "the other god" follows, the monstrous all-devouring creature from the Id.
Choose the boys and you will all drown.
Is my anima the dreamed or the dreamer? Does she dream herself across the membrane into concrete space-time reality through dreaming up a dreamer like me to dream her?
James Villers in Blood would probably purr that we already know the answer to that one, don't we? (CinemArchetype #2)
It doesn't make any sense--that Poulis and Eric would dismiss Jennie but think they can catch a deep sea leviathan with a tug boat and a little net--but that's part of the film's dreamy unease. Even in the safe normal reality championed by Eric and Poulis, things don't add up. They don't have a chance in hell of single-handedly capturing the beast, not really. Their quest exists as a kind of perennial cockblock. Any young man in the throes of a sexual (but ultimately "dry") dream knows that torturous frustration. Our anima will always be ours, only ours, forever.... but first --before she surrenders herself -- you have to just go do one little thing. The boys are calling you back from the siren's rocky ledge, just as she called you away from their slippery gangplank. Their calling back and forth ensures you are never really with either. "Wait here and I'll be back," you tell her. But of course she's never there if you do return. Either that or you never make it back. Not for years.
Magnus, though, too, is an archetype. He's not just some dweeb as so many lesser movies of this sort are saddled with (the sort played by Matthew Broderick or Tom Hanks). He is the Parsifal (and McCloskey does a great job with this vague role); Burl Ives is once again the Fisher King (see #12 of CinemArchetype 24) and there's also Weather as the hanged man (literally, in a tarot sense, as man is dragged to the depths by his foot - those are pearls that were his eyes, etc.) - all on the one side; and the alluring anima, her monstrous familiar (in a Gamera-logical sense) and even a wild/wise woman (Attaway's amazing one scene as the black housekeeper / conjure woman / folksy exposition provider) on the other.
Magnus's choice, to run off and go fishing rather than roll with Jennie in the ripped ruined mansion's depths, is one typical of a certain stage of adolescence, at least it was for me, in fact, I made a similar choice the same year this premiered on ABC. Having to choose between your girlfriend/s and the boys, trying to drag you off to do guys things while she waits and gets pissed-off and/or vows that you will never see her again.
BUT it's because Magnus does go that this becomes myth. If he didn't, he'd be snared in the faerie bower of amor, of eros (1), Aphrodite's scallop shell closing down on the he and Jennie like a submersible honeymoon coffin (ala that round thing Bond and Barbara Bach end up in at the end of The Spy Who Loved Me). In the dream the dreaming ego always goes off with the guys. Otherwise there is no myth, only an enchanted knight slowly dying of hunger under the poppy trees, ministered to by a dozen doting fairies til he withers and dies.
|Some call him Kurma|
As with all great anima-scapes, when there are so many great elements it's almost better that they don't add up. After all, dreams never do. Too often these affairs get hung up on small details of logic, which your anima, the artist designer of your dreams, realizes rightly are the soul-killing logistics that make daytime so much less wild and thingee than the night. The best TV movies of the era took advantage of the fact that there were no VCRS, no chance to rewind and go "did that even happen?" These movies could do as the dreams did, and leave out whole chunks of logic, presuming we could fill in the blanks while we refilled our glasses and ran to the bathroom during commercials, much as the dreams themselves try to fill in what's missing in our day-to-day thinking.
By the next morning at school, our own telephone game embellishments might already be added, and no way to prove them wrong - so any holes in its mythic sail were already patched. Decades later and once grim myths / rites of passage like Suspiria and Carrie are known by heart, no embroidering possible. But once upon a time things like Bad Ronald, The House that Would Not Die and Bermuda Depths became the "I'll have to take your word for it" living myths, more scary and strange with every re-telling... gradually peeling away from the land where any normal film made of celluloid and blood could ever do it full justice.
BACK TO THE STORM
Enter 3 meteorologists, tracing their batons back and forth around the barometric reading map like junkies combing the carpet after the last grain is licked off the table, or conjure wives summoning demons from the depths of their cooking pots, roiling like coiling clouds over the Bahamas. Gesturing at the mimetic map as if to move the vortex through their swirling mimetic hand magic.
So as the swirling moves across time, space, and the spinning planet surface, is Bermuda's cosmic bill paid or will the hammer come down? No amount of blowing or fanning will change that spiral's mind.
The world ends. The giant turtle comes up for air.
This is in Revelations.
This is coming.
Up at Niagara, the Native American art museum is shaped like a turtle... It's been vacant for 22 years. I was there in 1989 with my girlfriend when it was open and full of Iroquois turtle imagery. The turtle carrying the world on its back, the incessant Falls, the force from which it gains its mighty roar...... my girl, her raven hair and crystal blue eyes... the turtle with the world on its...
Am I still there? Am I ghost wandering that stricken empty shell? My ex had crystal Bermuda water blue eyes and raven black hair, pale skin and a lovely lips. But though she was everything I dreamt of, the roar of my band, of whiskey, and of inertia, all came first- no amount of hating myself could prevent it.
Wait right here, I'd say.... I have a turtle to catch. It took me 20 years to get over her loss, yet I was so glad to be free of her (more of that in My Long Day's Journey into NIGHT OF THE IGUANA)
Life was always going to be fleeting. We signed the waiver before we sailed. We're bound to remember we are all just waves that crash on the shore and leave only children, maybe, and photos of ourselves and mentions on the web that are only really 'there' if someone reads them.
|see: Godasiyo, the Woman Chief|
We were more used to that in the 70s because TV shows came and went, irretrievably. The only way to record was to put your cassette tape recorder by the speaker and hope for the best. You'd at least have the audio. My first mix tape was made this way, holding my tape player up against the radio as favorite songs came on: Fleetwood Mac and Abba mostly, missing the first few seconds of each. Never did I tape the Eagles --they were, frankly, terrifying. "Hotel California" chilled me deeper than my spine could reach. So did the words "Bermuda Triangle" - it was if the words themselves could suck you under.
The Bermuda Depths' theme song knows that horror, yet is sweet as any Rankin/Bass folksy theme. It might be friendly but it knows the power music had in the age of holding tape recorders up to TV speakers. It knows how we were once so anxious to capture any fleeting images of our beloved we would take photos of the TV, to somehow 'own' a reflection, knowing how futile that is. The sadness in the song "only imagined her" knows the almost religious importance we placed on things like 8x10 glossies, trading cards of our favorite movies, bands, and shows, of decals and buttons, of pictures cut out of magazines, traded like furs and guns.
Now, in this internet age, the anima is harder to find for being so available. We are flooded with potential anima screens now, like the parade of hurricanes rolling out from Africa and around the and up the Florida coast before peeling out east towards Bermuda or Nova Scotia. The Weather Channel crew traces their path on the empty blue screen, commenting and gesturing, but there is no making the 'sea wife' come, only letting her go... when she's ready... Until then, she just sits there off the coast, in the deep, twirling in place, grinding the Bahamas down to a nub.
It's only in her absence that she stays forever. That's the anima. 22 years later and the Niagara Great Turtle museum still stands, empty in shell but present in corner real estate. If you see her, say hello, but do not linger, lest your consciousness dissolve in the brine, its husk bobbing up and down in the waves. And she makes way for the next drowning man.
But isn't that you, too?
I still the feel the warmth from kissing her
I'll spend my whole life missing her
Relevant Archetypes:2. The Anima
4. The Hanged Man
5. The Human Sacrifice
6. The Intimidating Nymph
10. The Wild Man
11. The Wild-Wise Woman
15. The Animal Familiar
25. The Fisher King
(Note: the key to this power is the image - Keep the old tactile 'real' photos of her on the beach or in front of the Falls from when you were young. Never look up her virtual pixel image on Facebook decades later, she will not look the same. No empty turtle shell still immortal just absent this time -your anima will shriek as if you caught it in the morning bathroom before it put its 'face' on. The true Jennie Hanniver at last.. Now your old photos just seem 'dead' - the anima has gone from this screen forever. That's Hollywood, and it's your problem. You looked back. And now your gaze itself is salt.