JOSHUA SIE

There truly is nothing new under the sun. This is especially so with the American horror film. So much so in fact that the audience expects that certain elements of the genre be respected and represented. Many of the tropes of horror in the American cinematic tradition were firmly established by the 1980s and by the end of the 20th century, pioneers of these clichés were already being idolized, honored and built upon (sometimes by themselves).

Wes Craven's Scream used self-awareness to reinvigorate the "rules" of the slasher/horror genre. Michael Haneke's Funny Games similarly plays with the audience's expectations and cruelty to create a subversive and unsettling experience that is both deeply unsatisfying (by design) and yet so creative and original it remains one of my personal favorite horror films.

The themes of the genre are steeped in Old Testament values. Punishment for lost virginal purity, debauchery and emasculation. The genre has been criticized for and yet still perpetuates an attitude of violence against women. The knife is by no mistake a phallic and penetrative symbol. The bed that the victim runs to hide underneath serves as both an intimate safe place betrayed and an oppressive, suffocating sexual icon. Scare Me builds on the genre and shines as both an homage to its roots and somehow satisfyingly fulfills fan's expectations while completely subverting them without leaving the viewer feeling betrayed.

American horror has been an exponentially escalating arms race to shock the viewer. Hitchcock's Psycho was criticized for showing a toilet in 1960. By the 1980s filmmakers like John Carpenter and David Cronenberg (Canadian, but Canada is America's hat) were pushing the limits creating a need for a new sub-genre altogether in "body horror." The aughts continue to raise our expectations for violence and gore with the Saw films, this escalation was coined "torture porn." Scare Me successfully deescalates this trend without coming across as pandering, compromising or self-righteous.

The picture has a small cast. It's shot almost entirely in one location and relies on good storytelling, creative cinematography and evolving characterizations to tell more with less. The film trusts its audience to recognize the tropes and clichés of the genre and expects the audience to be fluent enough in the visual language of horror films to get away with showing even less in a refreshingly creative way.

For as much as Scare Me honors the genre, it is also deeply critical and asks horror enthusiasts to question what should be preserved and where progress is needed. The film is progressive socially and artistically. It is charmingly spartan in its delivery and has an adventurous spirit that questions the necessity of special effects, celebrities, teasing sexuality and escalating gore in American horror.

This movie is all the way bad. All the reasons I wasn't allowed to watch R-rated movies as a child are glorified in excess in this gem. Unexplained and unnecessary nudity - check. Cocaine - check. Gun violence - obviously. Police abusing their power, totally unchecked and worshipped for it - check. Toxic masculinity - check (20 % of the script is dedicated to Russell and Stalone making jokes about the size of the other's penis).

Now that you know what the movie has in spades, let's address what it lacks, a cogent story. Two hotshot cops, the titular Ray Tango and Gabe Cash, repeatedly thwart the illicit entrepreneurial endeavors of a drug/weapons dealer and his top lieutenants. In the opening scene, Tango stops a shipment of cocaine hidden inside a gasoline tanker. For reasons beyond all understanding, drug kingpin, Yves Perret (Jack Palance) and his two lieutenants immediately drive by the crime scene. Not worried that they'd get pulled over, or questioned or recognized by the cop who was savvy enough to find the hidden drugs but without the presence of mind to notice them following directly behind the drug truck (?!?!).

After a solid 3 minutes of verbal sparring about whose dick is bigger than whom's, T&C are framed, spend half the movie in prison where more time is dedicated to small penis euphemisms and getting into fights with vindictive incarcerated people and eventually and elaborately tortured by Perret who is IN THE PRISON...  AS A FREE MAN! The disgraced officers turned inmates are saved, then double-crossed several more times throughout their detention which finally culminates in a dark and stormy night fight with a grappling hook (!) on the roof of the prison. Electricity happens, the right people die and a thrilling, literal high-wire escape is made

Act 3 consists largely of more penis envy ribbing (sorry, I couldn't resist), the RV from Hell (a mini-van with a Gatling gun, armor and nitrous booster that would have been "iconic" if this movie wasn't a slobbering ass mess of a movie) and scene after scene of violence and action wherein the set pieces change every three minutes but very little effort was taken to explain how we got from a garage, to a landfill, to a warehouse, to a palatial (or should I say, Palance-ial) estate.

The picture's 80's-ness is in full force with absurd scopes and lasers on pistols and several scenes of exchanged bro-debt where either Russell or Stallone dramatically and in the slowest of motion execute a dramatic dive to save the life of the other, taking a bullet for them but promptly forgetting about the wound by the next scene.

The typical rogues’ gallery of villains find their way into this picture. Palance as the old white greedy fart, a pony-tailed Euro-trash guy, and an Asian quasi-Triad. What I'm trying to say is, between dick jokes, tasteless nudity, nonsensical violence, racial insensitivities and the RV from Hell, Tango & Cash really has it all.

I will open this 3/4 review by disclosing that I am a 3/4 fan of Dune. I like Frank Herbert's book, the David Lynch adaptation (unashamedly) and the Sci-Fi channel's three-part mini-series (inexplicably, but with some shame). I do not, however, like any of the rest of the books. I know much more committed fans to the series, but I'm also not that far off from the guy pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and entering (uninvited) into a conversation at the bar with, "Well actually, The Spacing Guild doesn't serve the Imperium so much as...

"Liking Dune in the way I do, I've spent a lot of time wondering both how to make a satisfying visual retelling and if this can be accomplished in less time than it takes me to finish the book. The answer is a ten-episode limited series with a whole lot of budget. As this thing doesn't exist, Denis Villeneuve's Dune is probably the best version of Dune we'll get for some time.

On one hand, Herbert's fiction is layered and complex with many pages detailing the histories and philosophies of different powerful feuding political houses. Outside of the surface level power struggle and political chess between the story's main players are secondary and tertiary groups each with their own rich dimensionality. These details are handled with clumsy exposition dumps on-screen between characters in Villeneuve's film. But there is so much, how can a film handle this exposition gracefully? David Lynch's version chose an equally (if not more clumsy) and popularly reviled format to present this information through the means of lengthy voice-over and (shudder) internal monologue (it's truly the worst, and I forgive it).

Although I want to, I can't judge the film for trying to shoehorn page after page of detail into a relatively short period of time, because I don't know how to do it better. That being said, I want to return to the idea of why I think this film "has" to be a film. Visually, this film is totally stunning. The costuming, the architectural design, the world-building (which, although fantastic and deep, I have gripes about) feels thoughtful. Each house is depicted in the way that I think Herbert would have intended, and although would never be accused of being nuanced is still effective, evocative and visceral.

Herbert's vision of the antagonist party, House Harkonnen is striking and hateful, especially in the modern climate. The Barron bathes in thick, viscous oil. He is the symbol of exploitative, destructive, merciless avarice. House Atreides, contrarily is depicted through the waters of their homeworld, Caladan. Clean and lifegiving. This visual is dichotomized by turbulent Arrakis. The titular desert dunes of the planet although seemingly the opposite of the Atreides' Caladan, is in its own way, life giving, clean and even visually not dissimilar.

Villeneuve's visual representation of all the houses and groups creates a distinct and easy-to-understand language of the world, there is no mistaking Atreides, Harkonnen, Fremen, Sardukar or Bene Gesserit. The considered visual style of the film truly achieves more than Herbert did in his book and thus, Villeneuve justifies why Dune "has" to be a film.

This film is undoubtedly too long. It takes the concepts of vision and premonition too far. One can only see the same scene of a knife, or a mysterious girl, or a hand covered in blood so many times before it becomes meaningless and numb. The concept of clairvoyance is certainly a prevalent topic of Herbert's book, but I grew utterly bored with seeing these scenes repeated seemingly ad infinitum.

There are also artistic choices that are made within the universe that I find utterly impossible to excuse. By way of example, in the world of Dune, the technology exists for everyone to have their own personal forcefields, they fly intricate ships and have mastered faster-than-light travel. Yet everyone still fights with knives made of bones and no one wears sunglasses? On a desert planet?! Get out of here.

Denis Villeneuve's adaptation of Dune is ambitious. I give it credit for reimagining characters to be modern and progressive. I give it credit for largely remaining true to the source material while also building upon it and making it fresh for an audience who is both fiercely traditional and thirsty for something fresh. Ultimately, this is some very challenging material to adapt well and it's the best representation of Herbert's novel we have on the screen. It's not without its flaws but I'm still ravenously looking forward to Dune: Part Two.

3/4

Among the things that I think matter in a Batman story, here's what I find most compelling:

1. Detecting
2. Gotham City
3. Futility

These aren't in order; they all matter.

It shocks me to say this in the year 2022, but I'm genuinely a little surprised by The Batman. Surprised, but conflicted. To begin with, live-action Batman has never really been my thing. A grown man in a rubber outfit is impossibly stupid to me. For decades, we've been plagued with "action" Batman. We're supposed to both enjoy and believe that a man in a fifty-pound rubber costume is still in some way nimble enough to combat multiple henchmen consecutively whilst also keeping eyes on an escaping antagonist and a timer on a bomb. Frankly, it's just too much for me. Literally, every live-action Batman (excluding Adam West for, I think, obvious reasons) looks to me as if you asked the Tin Man to bust-a-move. Sure he looks like a robot, doesn't make him a convincing dancer. Burton was the most self-aware and was actually making a bit of a joke of Keaton in the suit, whereas, Schumacher tried to trick us into thinking it was natural by adding nipples to the suit. Nolan's are so self-serious I can find no humor, nor amusement in those pictures. This Batman is svelte and almost believably agile. I give this movie the Best-in-Class when it comes to costuming Batman, but when he goes "hands-on" he still looks utterly stupid to me and it ruins these scenes.

What The Batman does right though, is detecting. Batman as a character gets a lot of static as a superhero because he doesn't have a superpower, per se. This doesn't bother me, but what does make him an interesting character is his intelligence and commitment to research. He's colloquially referred to as "The World's Greatest Detective." This is the best part of Batman to me. His gadgets are gimmicks, his double persona leaves me feeling neutral. It's his detective side that makes him interesting and that's what the first half of this film actually emphasizes. None of the live-action films have tried to do this. The restrained use of Batman's gadgets both for combat and detecting was refreshing. Reeves spends a remarkable amount of the film letting Batman figure it out, rather than fight it out. Detecting. And I applaud the filmmaker for embracing brain over brawn. Additionally, Reeves' restrained attitude around Batman's gadgets and tech was a nice surprise. Batman's smart contacts are a great example of Batman using his technology to help him in his investigations, not solving the crime for him. It was not only refreshing to see the story take this direction, but it was also beneficial. The Batman found a way to keep the story compelling while not emphasizing how a man in a heavy rubber suit is a metaphorical constipated bowel movement. "Just keep pushing, we'll make it through the scene."

The design of this film is the shining star. Batman lives and works in Gotham City where it is perpetually dark, even in the day. It's always overcast, if not raining. Gotham is a place that even in the dead of winter still has that sewer smell emanating from every manhole cover. The streets are always wet, if not from rain, from leaking, undermainted plumbing. Reeves' Gotham looks perfect. Greig Fraser's cinematography paints the Gotham I expect and want. The lighting and colors of the film became a perfect visual indication of Batman's sense of control over a situation or his desperate helplessness. When Batman is in control, the world is dark, lit only by amber, burnt orange light. Those elements he cannot control are lit by harsh, fluorescent white. This color palate struggle is present in every scene. As Batman chases The Penguin throughout Gotham, The Batmobile's headlights are orange, Penguin's headlights are white. When it seems like Penguin might make an escape, the streetlights are white, but as Batman closes in on Penguin, there is not a single white light to be seen. When Batman goes to visit Paul Dano's Riddler in Arkham Asylum, Dano's blocking in front of a backlit window is a great example of this motif. As Batman believes he's in control, the light is strongly burnt orange, but as he is made aware of his vulnerability, of his weakness and failure, Dano is lit overhead by harsh white light, exposing Batman and denying his ability to use the darkness as his ally. Fraser finds a wonderful balance of both the orange and white light when he shoots Bruce Wayne. These are the only scenes that feel they are lit almost "naturally." Bruce Wayne is the in between space for Batman. Bruce Wayne is Batman, but not his more comfortable persona. Similarly, when Batman and Catwoman interact towards the closing of the film, Fraser gives us a mixed color palette of both white and orange. Batman is both with an ally, and thus, feels comfortable, but is also experiencing feelings of longing and interpersonal need, which make him feel uncomfortable and out of control.

The biggest failing of this film lies in its compromises. The first half of this film operates on the exact scale I think Batman excels in as a character. He is personal. He gets his hands dirty. He does the work himself and he's most interesting as a character because he spends his nightlife saving individuals or catching individuals (and detecting). The first half of this movie operates at the scale I look for. Some of Batman's charisma comes from how he's both so smart and so dogmatically dense. He's smart enough and rich enough (although I'd be really interested to see a less independently wealthy and social elite, Bruce Wayne) to make some real change in Gotham, which is what he purportedly claims to seek, yet, he spends his nights stopping purse-snatchers and stick-up men. (Does his unquenchable thirst for violence and ground 'n' pound make him a psychopath? Maybe, but I digress).The front half of this movie is about a detective, learning hard truths. Going after the big fish in a little pond. He's ambivalently teamed up with Selina Kyle, seeking vengeance in his own way, to balance the scales for the murder of his parents. Exposing corruption, stalking criminals the law can't touch. (I get that my childhood hero would be a super right-wing nightmare-idol if he actually existed, but let's just move past that). Unfortunately, the latter half of this movie is exactly what I get disinterested in. Batman, saving the day. Batman, saving the masses. For some reason, helping Selina Kyle find who killed her friend or uncovering which crime boss is corrupting the police department just isn't enough and we have to have the unforgivably boring, Gotham Square Garden flood sequence. The second half of this film stinks like a studio takeover. I can't help but wonder if there was a nice and tight 90-minute version of this movie that got screened before some hand-wringing WB executives who were worried there was just not enough skull cracking, and "high-octane"-ness to sell tickets. "But in Nolan's movies (literally, every one of them, I think) Gothamites are all threatened by city-wide disaster. Add more of that." The flood sequence is bad. It feels like a wet fart. No one wanted this and we all just have to sit and wait for the stink cloud to disperse.

Lastly, I'll say I find the casting of this picture to be largely inconsequential. Again, we're feeling the influence of studio executives when you look at this cast. It's stacked but to an unimpressive effect. Pattinson is fine-to-good. His face is covered basically the whole movie, but as a huge fan of Dredd, I have no problem with this. Zöe Kravitz is good. I think her character is betrayed in her standoff with Falcone though. (As an aside, I find how everyone pronounces the character's name as Fal-Cone and Fal-Cone-Knee interchangably to be unforgivable and stupid). The whole movie she's swift, precise and an absolute bad bitch, but she shows up to smoke this guy with a Glock?! Paul Dano is fine, doing what you'd expect but that's why you cast him. John Turturro is the most John Turturro he's ever been and I found that very distracting, and I think a bad choice. Colin Farrel's Penguin was genuinely hilarious to me. I knew he was Colin Farrel, but to his credit, I could never "see" Colin Farrel. To his demerit, I only saw not-Robert DeNiro in a fat suit, which was also very distracting. Jeffrey Wright can do no wrong in my book, brilliant casting, fantastic performance. Why even cast Peter Saarsgard in this movie, he's barely in it and has nothing great to show off. The most surprising appearance to me was Andy Serkis, I didn't recognize him without the ping pong balls. I resent the stinger appearance with Barry Keoghan, I like Keoghan, but I hate stingers.

Overall, this is a pretty mixed movie for me. It largely felt like a movie having an identity crisis and definitely too in love with Fincher's Se7ven for about 8 minutes. If I were scoring it as a regular movie, I'd give it a solid 2/4. Given that it's a live-action Batman movie, I'll give it 3/4. It's the truest Batman interpretation I've seen in a live-action movie and I appreciate it.

“If people are mad, I’m doing my job well.” The exact words I spoke to my boss earlier today. From time to time, I’m asked about my job. What I do, what’s involved, why do I always have headphones on? Am I just listening to music all day?  Time to put all the speculation and conjecture to rest. I’ve been asked for 500 words, so in the remaining 431, I’ll attempt to pull back the curtain, giving you, dear reader, a glimpse into the seductive and mysterious world that is, audio book production.

The first thing to understand about audio books, is that they are big, by all metrics, real big. They take big time to make. A full book project takes roughly a year on average to plan, record, edit, proof, rerecord, reproof, master and finally make ready for distribution. They cost big money to make. Part of my job is trimming those costs in creative ways, but speaking generally (specific figures would be so gauche), these projects are never what I’d call “inexpensive.” Tertiary to time and cost, these books are big, there’s just so much.  Why is it good when people are mad at me? Why do I wear headphones all day long? Am I trying and failing at Princess Leia cosplay? No inquisitive reader, I’m filling a role that perhaps was made specifically for pedants like myself.

Hisses and pops. Clicks, creaks, cracks, and smacks, these are the sounds that plague an audio recording, and it’s my job to find them. When a studio in Brazil records in the sweltering, sweaty dog days of summer and cracks that window open for a breeze to keep from dying of oppressive heatstroke, I’ll be the one calling them, telling them they must rerecord because I could hear a helicopter in the distance. And they will be mad at me. When the reader in Tokyo forgets that they’re wearing that one shirt that rustles loudly in the microphone, I’ll be the one telling them to get back in there and do the recording again. And they will be mad at me. I’m listening to make sure the recording maintains consistency from cover-to-cover. I make sure every file is complete, normalized and accounted for. That every chapter is proofed, saved, backed-up, and proofed again. Most projects will have one file for every chapter, that’s one chance per chapter to make people mad at me.

Of course, I jest. The truth is, most of the people I work with are just as detailed and over scrupulous as myself. This work suits us because we take pride in perfection or the pursuit of getting nearly there. Though finding an error does mean more work. It means more work for everyone and we all share in the pride of making the project better than it was yesterday.

I have eighteen words left! So, I hope you’ve found this essay enlightening and may I add, tangentially that…

The sign on the side of the road flies by, in the split second as it passes through my vision, it reads, “máxima velocidad 60KPH." Glancing at the van's speedometer, it is easily pushing double that. The driver, Freddy, with one eye concentrating on texting and the other looking at me, leaving none for the road, asks me why I’m in El Salvador.

"Trabajo.” I say.  He asks me another question, in Spanish, and I sheepishly apologize for not understanding.
_

In the few hours I've been in San Salvador I've learned that when you ask someone, "Habla usted inglés?" and they reply in Spanish, "un poquito”, what they really mean is "no". Likewise, when they ask me if I speak Spanish, and I say “un poquito”, what I really mean is also “no”.
_

Fredi tries again, his attempts at conversation are appreciated, no doubt. Through awkward exaggerations with our hands and toddler sized words, together we repeat ourselves ad infinitum, fighting the urge to get progressively louder and slower. I deduce that Freddy is asking how many days I will be working in El Salvador. I reply again in irreparably fractured Spanish. "Solamente tres horas." It's a statement, but the embarrassed, self-aware way I deliver it sounds like a question, as if I’m asking Fredi, the driver, if three hours of work sounds right. He looks at me confused. Maybe he thinks I meant to say “días” instead of “horas”. I hold three fingers up, then point to where my wristwatch is not, because I left it at home accidentally. There is only a tan line as evidence of the timepiece’s absence.

Fredi, looks a little shocked. I think he agrees with me that this business trip is a little crazy, sending a person from Colorado to Houston to San Salvador for three hours of work. He’s not alone, when I told a buddy of mine about the trip he replied in jest via text, “How does a trip to El Salvador for three hours of work happen with your job? Like, are you actually a hit man? Have you been a hit man all this time, Josh?”

Fredi and I blast on in silence, our van cutting racing lines, swiftly weaving across the lanes of Autopista Comalapa, adeptly dodging what sparse traffic there is at this time of night. For the next 30 minutes, the needle on the speedometer never dropping below one hundred KPH on this sixty KPH speed limit highway.
_

The phrase, “long day” hasn’t felt this accurate in a long time. There is a despair one experiences when one arrives at the airport before even the coffee shops are open. The barista looks at me, we both resemble zombies, slowly rocking left to right on our heels in lieu of walking like normal humans.

“We’re not open yet,” She reports in quiet monotone.  I look at her, sigh, nod comprehension and turn to head for my gate.  I glance to my wrist to see what time it is, to predict how long I’ll have to wait before requisitioning the aforementioned coffee. Right, forgot my watch. I zombie sigh again.
_

The next fifteen hours pass me by in spurts of frenzied sprinting and sedentary sitting. Traveling gives me a sense of urgency even when my layover situation demands nothing from me over the speed of a sloth’s, and I have to remind myself that I can relax I’ve got a “long day” ahead of me.

Without a watch I track time based on bad airport meals and the CNN news updates blaring throughout IAH’s concourse E. As the time to boarding draws nearer, the gate area fills up, there isn’t a seat free which is fine, after all the sitting I’ve done, I’d prefer to stand and I knowingly surrender my seat to no one in particular and the vacancy is filled immediately.

The gentleman next to me on the plane attempts conversation, I apologize, in my trademark broken Spanish, cutting out all those words I’m unsure of and probably using only twenty-five percent (I’m being generous to myself here) of the words needed to make a comprehendible statement. Clumsily, we agree to practice the other’s native language back and forth. We talk about family, about the states, he asks about Trump. He asks me if this is my first time in El Salvador.

“Sí” I reply “primero tiempo”. He welcomes me to his home country. Salvadorans, I’ll learn, are kind and very hospitable. He tells me in English, “El Salvador is very beautiful,” then he switches naturally to Spanish, “pero, muy peligroso.”  In ninth grade, my Spanish 1 class ingrained in me, peligroso means dangerous.  “El Salvador is very beautiful but very dangerous.” Why is this my only takeaway from ninth grade Spanish class?

The plane lands, but we’re instructed to remain seated. Five minutes pass, no progress. Collectively we all wait patiently for the plane to taxi to the jetway. Twenty minutes, thirty minutes pass and finally we hear from the captain.  We’re informed that San Salvador International Airport only has two jetways for this size plane, and one of them is broken.  Again, as a collective, the passengers of this stiflingly hot plane groan aloud. It’s nearly an hour before we finally get moving, and deplane. In the back of my mind, I’m a little nervous that the driver I’ve been assured will be there has long since given up and gone home. It is about ten o’clock at night, after all.

I breeze through customs and begin searching for the driver holding a sign with my name on it, but see no such sign. Eager taxi drivers pull at my sleeve and offer their services, “Sir! Taxi? Taxi?” I politely decline, still holding out hope that I’ll find the driver. They give me a look that I feel says, “Good luck, pal.” Maybe I’m just projecting my own anxiety on the situation. Wait! There he is! Holding a sign, a sign with my name! I point to the sign, I point to me, and Fredi and I begin our sixty kilometer journey into San Salvador, and the drive only takes thirty minutes.
_

“El Salvador is not like Mexico or Costa Rica,” my interpreter, Carlos, tells me. “We do not get many tourists, people are scared to visit, they see the news and assume the worst. Many Salvadorans do not get the opportunity to learn English.” Carlos  is right. No one I’ve encountered speaks any English, and I’m learning just how lonely not knowing the local language can make you feel. It’s something I took for granted. Sometimes I’ll go to a coffee shop back home, to read or just enjoy some time alone, but I’m not really alone. Accidentally, or sometimes otherwise, I’ll admit to eavesdropping and the first lesson I learned from this trip was that language is a cleaver. The word cleave is a confusing word, depending on how it’s used its meanings can not only be different, but actually antithetical. To cleave can mean to stick to, and it can also mean to separate. It’s 11:30 at night I’m alone and eating a desperately needed meal. I’m in a room full of people, talking and laughing, but I can’t understand them at all, and I can’t recall ever feeling quite so alone, I have been cleaved.
_

“Josh, relax,” My boss tells me.

“I’m just trying to figure out exactly what you expect to happen when I’m there, Koos. I mean, if there is something seriously wrong with the studio there is nothing I’m going to be able to do about it. I mean, I can make some suggestions but really it’s not like we’ll be able to go to the Home Depot and fix the studio in three hours. Koos, I just want to…”

Let me pause here, because it might not be clear, I’m word vomiting at Koos. The trip is coming up and I have no idea what I can possibly do to help kick this project off right in three hours of work and if he’s sending me to personally, he’s going to want results, right? Anxiously, frantically, I talk at (the distinction of “at”, not “to” is an important one) Koos to find out what he expects from me, what are the goals? How will I know if I succeeded?

“Josh, relax.” Koos implores me once again. “The most important thing to getting big projects like this done well, is having a good relationship. I want you to get to know them, and let them get to know you. If you do that, I’ll be happy. We’re building more than a business partnership, it’s a relationship.”

“You want me to,” I pause, befuddled, “Talk to them?”

“Yes.”

“Um, okay.” I hang up on our Skype call. This is crazy.
_

Three hours turns into eight or maybe nine. I think it’s a universal law, good things happen over good food. Finally, I meet with our people. Through my interpreter, Carlos, I’m told the best way to experience Salvadoran food is if we do the buffet, so we do the buffet. Ceviche, pupusas, all manner of sides and salads are just the preamble for dessert. Josué, the voice talent for the audio recording disappears after his meal and I get to know his wife and the studio’s office manager, Jazmin, a little. Jazmin likes to practice her English on me.  When Josué returns, he’s scolded for a decadent plate of dessert in his hands.

“He’s supposed to be on a diet,” Jazmin tells me.

“But it’s the weekend. He can take a break from the diet for the weekend,” I jokingly defend Josué. Josué will say he doesn’t speak English, but he obviously understands “weekend” because we laugh together. I get a smack from Jazmin on the shoulder and Josué gets a smack too. I explain to Jazmin that, “Joshuas have to stick together.”

“No! His belly doesn’t take a break on the weekend.” Apparently, laughter and body shaming need no common language.
_

During my extremely brief time in San Salvador, I experienced a new world. One where the only local craft brewery was guarded by two humorless men both armed to the teeth, shotgun and assault rifle at the ready. A world where pedestrians having the “right of way” was a concept at first confusing to my interpreter, and then simply laughable. A world where working women start their day at four A.M., to sell meals to everyone else going to work at five A.M.

I also experienced a world that needed no common language, where friendship, camaraderie and kindness come easy. Where commonalities are found in simply being real with people and working for a common goal.

We still have months and months of work to do on this project, and I know for a fact that it won’t be easy. I am sure there will be confusion, disagreement and groans shared by everyone. I also know that Koos was right, we have more than just a business partnership, we have a friendship, and that means everyone will be working that much harder to meet our common goal, and that makes two “long days” in three airports and waking up at four in the morning, well worth it.

Epilogue:

As I was writing this, I received an email. It was from Josué, the voice talent who is not allowed breaks from his diet on the weekend. The subject line read simply: Hello. It was only a few sentences long, and nothing to do with the project. He simply wrote to wish me well and to say “our communication is not only work, but friendship.”