This video essay is a co-production of Press Play and RogerEbert.com.
What is it about the desert?
Put more simply, what is it about the desert that simplifies human conflicts, desires, and fears as represented in film and literature?
Think of Kobo Abe’s Woman
in the Dunes, Paul Bowles’ The
Sheltering Sky, Sam Shepard’s True
West. Terrence Malick's Badlands. Sergio Leone's Once Upon a TIme in the West.
Or, more relevantly to this discussion, Breaking Bad.
Put more specifically, what is it about the desert that, in early episodes of this show, threatens to topple the narrative with the sparseness of its scenery, with shots so dry you can practically taste the sand?
It’s the emptiness.
The sense that there is nothing but the air between a character and his problems, and that air is so thin it might as well not be there.
The sense that a man, when faced with a problem, be it the legality of his enterprise, death, the ineptitude of other humans, or all three, might flail in the desert air, and find nothing giving resistance, moving him forward.
The tedium of all of it. The difficulty.
But, at the same time, the profound importance of it.
There is also the way conversation sounds in the desert: the way each sentence falls into silence, like a coin falling into a dry well.
We don’t hear the clink of the coin at the bottom of the well, because it doesn’t have a bottom. Not on this show.
Another thing about the desert, particularly the New Mexico
desert, is that it dehydrates you. It sucks everything out of you. You come to
it with a set of complications, a set of morals, a set of daily worries, and
you find, in almost no time, that they’re all gone, lost in the cold night wind.
All that’s left is you, and the matter that brought you here.
Another thing about the desert is that it’s where we all started. (Depending on who you ask.)
Not in the desert, literally—but in the semblance of desert. With nothing.
Nothing except, of course, that 800-pound elephant, shimmering in the heat in front of you.
You can either stay where you are, and hope, until the sun goes down, that the elephant goes away.
Or you can do something. And walk towards it.
And that moment, right there, that first step, is where your troubles begin.
You think, If I can just kill that elephant, all my problems will go away. I can leave. I can step over its corpse, and head back to what I was doing before this.
you think you’re walking out, but in reality, you’re just
walking farther in.--Max Winter