American helicopter gunships come swarming over the little Vietnamese village, people in coolie hats—men, women and children—running for their lives, Wagner’s “The Flight of the Valkyries” blaring. It’s horrible and appalling, but thrilling too, with that music.
Afterwards, as Robert Duvall is striding around in a cavalry hat barking orders, my brother Mike hits the Pause button on the remote. “Right back,” he says, and hurries off, leaving Robert Duvall standing there with his hands on his hips.
This is the third time Mike has checked on Joey since the movie started. His wife Debbie is away, something with her job, so he’s a little nervous, Joey being only eight months old, and I understand, I don’t blame him, but I rented this to show him what I regard as one of the greatest war movies ever made, and all this stopping and starting is destroying the rhythm of it.
I reach over and grab the remote.
“You want anything?” he calls out from the kitchen.
“No, I’m good. Let’s go, amigo.”
He returns with a can of Coke. “You should see him now, he’s all curled up in the corner, his little fists like this.”
“Joe Palooka. Okay, ready?”
“Gimme that thing.”
“Here we go.” I hit Play.
Martin Sheen and his little crew are soon back in their patrol boat, resuming their journey down the river, deeper and deeper into the jungle, their mission to find and kill Colonel Kurtz, this decorated Green Beret who’s gone all the way down the river and around the bend, who, in fact, has gone quite completely insane.
Spooky, hypnotic music is playing.
I can feel Mike getting pulled in, feel his stillness at the other end of the couch, so I keep quiet, letting the movie speak for itself.
It’s night when the boat finally passes Do Lung Bridge, the last army outpost. Beyond it, Martin Sheen tells us, there was only Kurtz.
“Stop, okay?”
“Ah, Jesus.” I hit Pause.
“Sorry,” he says, hurrying off.
I take a drink from his Coke. On the screen there’s a view from the back of the boat, the brown churning wake, the lights of the bridge in the distance, the boat entering uncharted waters now, literally and of course metaphorically.
“He’s really sweating,” Mike says, returning. “The back of his hair’s all stuck to his neck. I took the blanket off him.”
“Babies tend to sweat quite a lot in their sleep,” I assure him.
“You making that up?”
“I think I read it somewhere. Ready?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“He’s fine, Mike.”
“Go ahead. I want to meet this Kurtz.”
“You will,” I tell him ominously, and hit Play.
“It’s Marlon Brando, right?”
“Shh.”
A heavy fog is on the river the following morning and as they move slowly through it, there’s suddenly an attack from the invisible shore—with spears and arrows, as if they’re not only passing deeper into the jungle but deeper into human history, towards some Primordial Origin. I consider hitting Pause to briefly explain this “heart-of-darkness” theme at work, from the Conrad novel, but I don’t want to break the spell.
They continue down the brown, meandering river.
He was close, says Martin Sheen. I couldn’t see him yet, but I could feel him. A slow, steady bass note begins thudding, like a beating heart, Mike and I sitting very quiet, very still …
Then Joey starts wailing.
Mike is up and gone without a word.
I hit Pause.
Apparently you can’t ever have it. You can’t ever have a perfect movie moment. It’s like a fucking law. You can’t have it. And why? Because there’s always something. Always.
Paused, Martin Sheen is standing at the front of the boat looking through binoculars. I know what he’s seeing. They’re approaching the Kurtz compound and he’s looking at dead naked bodies hanging from the trees, at piles of skulls along the shore, at huge stone idols. He’s soon going to meet squirrely Dennis Hopper, who will take him to Kurtz—massive, baldheaded Marlon Brando—and after Martin Sheen finally hacks him up with a machete, Brando will lie there staring straight up, whispering, The … horror. The … horror.
Mike returns holding Joey, who’s quiet now. “Joe, look who’s here.”
I tell him hi and ask Mike, “So now what?”
“Go ahead,” he says, standing there jiggling him a little. “Hit it.”
“You’re not gonna put him back?”
“He’ll just start crying again.”
“What if we close the door and turn up the volume?”
“That’s … not a good idea.”
“There’s only about forty minutes left.”
“He’ll be quiet. Won’t you, Joe.”
His head against his father’s chest, Joey is looking at me out of one suspicious eye.
I get up from the couch. “Tell you what. Leave the tape in the machine. We’ll watch the rest some other night.” I grab my jacket from the chair. “Or go ahead and watch it yourself, I don’t care.”
“What’s the problem? He’ll be quiet. Look at him.”
“I can’t watch a movie with a baby in the room, okay? I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I won’t.”
“Joe, tell him.”
“Tell me what.”
“You’re being goofy.”
“Yeah, well, what can I say.” I walk up and bring my face close to Joey’s. “Nice seeing you, Joe. Always a treat.”
He gives a whimper and buries his face in his father’s golf shirt.
I look at Mike. “What the hell is that?”
“I don’t know,” Mike says, looking down at him. “Maybe he thinks you don’t like him.” He goes walking him around, Joey peering over his father’s shoulder, keeping an eye on me.
So now I feel like a real asshole.
“What’re you talking about?” I say, following them, addressing Joey. “Did I say I didn’t like you? Did I say that, Joe? Did I?”
Joey ducks back down.
“Joe,” Mike tells him, turning to me. “It’s your uncle John. He wants to talk. He wants to apologize.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. Here, lemme have him for a minute.”
“What for?”
“I’m not gonna hurt him. Jesus.”
“All right but if he starts screaming …”
“You’ll get him back, believe me.”
“Joe, wanna see Uncle John? Here, go see Uncle John. You’re okay,” he tells him, carefully handing him over, “you’re okay,” Joey looking too scared to cry out. I hold him by the armpits, face to face. He doesn’t squirm or kick, just hangs there staring at me, bug-eyed.
The … horror.
“Listen to me, Joe. Listen carefully. You are not in danger. Do you understand? I have no intention of—”
“Hold him,” Mike tells me.
“Right.” I bring him carefully against my chest, left arm under his diapered butt, right hand on the back of his sweaty little T-shirt. He still hasn’t screamed but he’s ready to, all clenched up, breathing fast and shallow. “Relax, will ya? I’m your uncle, for Christ sake.”
“Walk him around.”
I do so, patting him on the back, telling him not to be afraid, that I’m not a monster, we’ve all got our faults, our dark places, mentioning Colonel Kurtz from the movie he ruined, explaining there’s a bit of Kurtz in all of us, some of that same heart of darkness, which by the way, I tell him, was the book they used, Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad, written long before Vietnam of course, around nineteen hundred, nineteen-oh-five, somewhere in there—then suddenly Joey does this wonderful thing, he gives a gigantic yawn.
I look over at Mike. “See that?”
“I did,” he says, nodding, as pleased as me.
I walk Joey around some more, telling him how wonderful he is, what a wonderful little boy, while he actually falls asleep in my arms.