The Demands of Masculinity

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even
explain it to myself." – Franz Kafka (1883 – 1924)

 
He was a cigar that lived without a humidor; harsh, bitter and a bit old fashioned. The walls of his
mind were the same thick grey stone as the dwellings of the town, but instead of a pretty painting
and a nice flower pot- there was a cruel barred opening with thick metal bars and no glass. The bees
no longer buzzed in the urban meadows, the children no longer danced out in the rain. The winter
was smoky, burnt out and the clouds overcast the caliginous sky - the weary sun, smothered.

And there Kafka sat on his plank of wood for a bed, his eyes fixated on the naked bulb above. With a
slow but steady thrust he pulled his head upwards, put the death stick between his teeth and
exhaled his relief. Its sweet toxins filled his lungs, a cloud of purple grey smoke – but not quite
enough to fill his void. That man was no virgin to cigars… The vellum journal on his bedside was his
comfort, a place that allowed him to release his pain. Day after day it felt the touch of his gentle
quill, the touch of his inner turmoil:

"One morning, upon awakening from anxious dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself, in his bed,
transformed into a monstrous vermin. ‘What’s happened to me,’ he thought."

 
Kafka had never really been the type of man to dwell on flowers, the shape of a tree, or passing
clouds - poetry hadn't been his thing. However, the war turned him into a new man. He felt trapped
within a tumultuous and terrifying world of strange currents. A place of lost hope - for he never
learnt to swim. In his cage the ebb and flow of time was marked by the boom of the church bell -
first a warning, musical; then the hour, dismissed. Dora said that one day his time would come. That
one day he would be re-proportioned, free from his madness. But Kafka knew her words were
cotton candy. He knew his freedom, his voice, was forever limited to the cold touch of his quill:

 
“Directly across on the opposite wall hung a photograph of Gregor from the time of his military
service; it was a picture of him as a lieutenant, as he, smiling and worry free, with his hand on his
sword, demanded respect for his bearing and uniform. Gregor’s glance then turned to the window.
The dreary weather (the rain drops were falling audibly down on the metal window ledge) made him
quite melancholy.

The man was in ruins and had been for a while. It was because he had taken the battlefield with him.
There were nights where he had dreamed in so much colour that when he woke he was confused -
forgetting for a fraction of a second that he could only see in monochrome. For the seconds, minutes
and hours that followed, the songs, voices and faces flooded his thoughts; he drowned in the grief all
over. But once the sadness dimmed to a blue-warm hue, he'd reach for his cherry-wood cane and
slowly tap away to the living room - to the fireplace that had been a cocoon for the years he had
needed its sanctuary. His memory allowed him to make out the faint terracotta walls - the colour of
summer baked earth, the oak-wooden floorboards - cinnamon where the varnish held but pale in
the regions that were worn. The steady breeze brushed across his neck as he felt his non-existent
hair. Forever twenty in his mind's eye - but his fingers would tell him of the wrinkles that had crept
up over the years. He'd look in the mirror hoping to see something - but as usual, darkness. And
that’s when Dora knew something was wrong, wondered whether if his dreams would change, if one
day his monochrome shadows would revert back to the colours of his days.
 
But they never did. The demands of masculinity had been too tough. Soldiers were meant to fight,
protect and stand up for themselves. If they were to appear weak – perhaps maybe even express
their feelings, that would be violating the code of man. And this soldier surely wanted to keep his
code. He was selfish, unthoughtful, anger was his only emotion. His dad had taught him how to be a
real man, and that’s what made loving him impossible. Every time she held his hand, kissed his soft
tender cheeks or asked him if he was okay an aggressive grunt followed. His comfort was in the
coldness of a stoic void, a place where the petals and trees no longer swayed with joy - but with a
creeping sorrow. And when he had just about had enough, the love between them died. The love of
power arose in Kafka. No longer did he hang on her words or surrender himself to her caress. No
longer did he cherish her company or speak her name with softness. The thought of opening up
meant that there was only room left for a rage he could not suppress, and there was no other target
but her.

At first there was guilt, an attempt to stop, but soon the soldier gave way, realizing how much he
enjoyed beating his fists into her skin. With every hit the excuse for a man felt a cold zing of delight,
a buzz he could get no other way. From the outside it was a perfect marriage, but Dora hid the
purple flowers that blossomed over her chest. On skin as brown as hers it was harder to spot, but it
was there, and she ached with every breath. Their home was a cage for her body and in her
depression her body came to feel like a cage for her soul. But on that very cold winter night when
the muffled screams told of the terror within - she lay there on the bed, blood seeping beneath her
skin, ribs fractured. There was no doctor, no evidence, just the boom of the church bell; and Kafka
was her grovelling lover – only until he lost his temper again…

 
Reflection
An individual's relationship between their inner and outer world solely relies on the attitudes and
values of their contextual milieus, effectively shaping their decisions, beliefs but most importantly -
their own sense of themselves. Charles Kaufman - a modern screenwriter inherently develops a
greater sense of himself through his didactic short-film; "What I have to offer" as he depicts his
personal interactions with a world that continually suppresses individuality. The opening features a
bleak close-up shot of a man, trapped within the darkness of his car as he exemplifies humanity; "So
you are here, and I am here". The coupling between non-diegetic wind sounds and melancholic facial
expressions depicts modern man's total isolation, consumed by the darkness of his internal anxieties
- his "wounds". The non-diegetic wind which then transforms into a palpitating heartbeat mirrors
the responder's being, positioning them at the heart of several other personal interactions as
exhibited through the flickering images - allowing for a more personal connection. By acknowledging
his recurring anxieties with security; "I do know that it is old, I do know that it is a whole in my being,
I do know that it is tender" Kaufman's perception of himself inherently evolves as he begins to
embrace his identity; "It is the thing that wants to live". This "thing" - being the fragments of his
suppressed identity is further described as "common to everyone" and through his motivating tone
connects to the responder, helping them too overcome their personal barriers. As such, it is by
implication that Kaufman's short-film can then be viewed as a motivational plea - guiding the
responder to overcome their own internal anxieties through Kaufman's own journey. Henceforth,
Kaufman inherently develops a greater sense of himself by embracing both his individuality and the
individuality of others - all through his art, "his screenplay".