Last night I felt like watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds again.
“Melanie, who is infatuated with Mitch, brings two lovebirds from San Francisco to visit Cathy, Mitch’s sister, and their mother, who live in a small seaside town. She takes a boat to that harbor town.
With her arrival, suddenly everything in Bodega Bay falls apart.
The birds, agitated by this disruption, attack the town’s residents and…”
Is the charming, beautiful Melanie a symbol of sin and seduction?
Is she the devil?
Or is she the embodiment of love?
In the end, Melanie, Mitch, his mother, and Cathy escape from that hell and survive. But really, if they come out unharmed, is it
– because of those two lovebirds?
– because of love itself?
For a while now, I’ve been following a psychiatrist’s channel. Recently he has been comparing psychiatric topics with Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. In one note he wrote:
“Literature is filth. I’m no longer interested in what writers have said. I see the world as too filthy to search among books for some hidden meaning. In the end, it’s filth. The deeper literature goes, the closer it gets to that filth…”
I want to tell this psychiatrist: art is a window for escape—even if people sometimes lose their way through it.
When you’re trapped in a narrow tunnel, surrounded by darkness, but look closely, at the end there is light.
Perhaps Melanie must come.
Not empty-handed; but with two lovebirds…
