Movie Review: Lawrence of Arabia

Ok, so I admit: maybe watching a patriotic Arab movie in the wake of global terrorist attacks wasn’t the best way to enjoy and do justice to the film Lawrence of Arabia. Still, aside from Peter O’Toole sporting a bleached ‘do similar to Brad Pitt’s latest catastrophe (minus the gag-inducing spikes) and running around like a madman just escaped from the psyche ward, the movie was at best…befuddling. In fact, my reaction of What the stinking heck? was probably one of the greatest tributes ever paid to that multi-Academy-Award-winning film.

So there I was, alone as if in a desert, watching the eight thousandth shot of a God-forsaken desert pass before my eyes, helplessly struggling to find meaning in the most plot-lacking plot I had ever encountered, and wondering when in the world I could see some green grass again—because we all know that in the desert the sand is always sandier on the other dune. I examined the characters. There was Lawrence, the British soldier fighting to…do what?, prancing around the desert like a self-worshipping god, blowing up trains, trying to be an Arab, then trying not to be an Arab, and overall feeling like a lowly pawn attempting to straddle the composite grandeur of all the mountains in the world—in short, a simple, average English boy. Ok, moving on. Then there was Prince Feizel (spelling up for grabs), played by the greatest actor in history, Sir Alec Guinness, who looked like his skin had been browned with wood stainer, and whose painfully fake Arabic accent sounded way too British for comfort. (However, his black goatee was, to use Paris Hilton lingo, hot!)

Aside from those two, Omar Sharif was…who the heck was he supposed to be? Some tribal Arab leader, I gathered, just thrown in the mix for his (successful) sex appeal, though I was convinced that even his screen presence would fail to entice women to view the flick. Claude Rains was established as a random evil genius-behind-the-scenes of some squeaky political deal (though what that deal was, only the flying pigs could say). An American reporter graced several scenes, and his true-to-life accent was a breath of fresh air; his main mission in life was to paint Lawrence as a hero so that America would go to war, and which war was dubious. Exactly. You fill in the missing puzzle.

I watched Lawrence off and on throughout the week while I folded laundry and did situps; it was the most sleepless week I’ve ever had. The fact that I did not understand the movie AT ALL kept me awake at night as I struggled to make some sense of everything. I was sincerely thrown into an existential crisis as I pondered whether or not I really exist, whether I was really a rational being, and whether my acute feelings of dehydration were at all related to the film, and if so, did that mean I existed?

The most pervasive mystery of all was the question of why this movie had garnered so many awards. The scenery was ok, if you like desert, or desert spotted with brown little Arabs, or desert flecked with awesome horses, or desert with a few palm trees, or—you get the point—but it wasn’t breathtaking. The acting was ok—a bit haywire, but with all those big names, someone was bound to deliver. But I couldn’t for the life of me understand the politics. All I knew was that Lawrence was an Englishman leading the Arabs to victory over the Turks. Why? When? Eventually, everything revolved around taking the city of Damascus, and when he accomplished this, Lawrence got to go home. The End.

The End. Those two words restored my faith in my own sanity. I had hit the end of the tape, and it hit me: I had watched the movie bass ackwards. Yes, I, the ultimate critic of other people’s intelligence, had put in the second tape first (it was in the first tape’s slot). I wept for joy.

So, I popped in the first tape second, and gradually the film started to make sense. Except for now, in the middle of the story, Lawrence was dead. That will do weird things to your brain. But it won’t do anything as weird as watching the movie backwards and not knowing it. I recommend this sort of sport for anyone who loves to play mind games. Just keep pointy objects at a safe distance.