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Lawrence of Arabia, Directed by David Lean
Columbia Pictures, December 10, 1962 (UK)
Screenplay: Robert Bolt and Michael Wilson, based on the writings of T.E. Lawrence
Starring: Peter O’Toole, Omar Sharif, Alec Guinness, Anthony Quinn, Jack Hawkins, José Ferrer, Anthony Quayle, and Claude Rains
Time passes in a mad swirl of sand tornadoes that destroy the sweetest dreams of youth. Blood-thirsty armies invade and conquer, leaving behind scorching paths of surrender and total destruction. Here, in the land of leeches, the dirty, dusty rot of resignation is born. It is a submissive acceptance in fate as divine ruler, a decrepit belief that we were never the gatekeepers of our own actions but mere extras in our own epic theater. At the train station, street corner, and outside the bank, it is fate that hands out free sticks of gum or Power Bar samplers to help us make it through the endless march of defeat upon which we tread.
But for what it may lack in human drama, this belief in foregone conclusions offers a welcome oasis for the tired and weary. It is here where calloused feet soak in pools of cool nirvana. It offers a place where we can sleep, even now, in the afternoon.
Or, not so fast.
An echo sounds (or so it seems), off in the distance, far away from the whispering palm tree breeze. What is this distant voice of dissent that stirs? Perhaps it is only a feeling, lost deep inside in a ravaged gut. Maybe it is only the vacant wind. And yet, despite its cloak of invisibility, all is locked in anticipation.
It is the heartbeat of a warrior, unwilling to surrender.
T. E. Lawrence (Peter O’Toole): Nothing is written.
And then, it happens.
At first, it is merely a dot on the unreliable horizon. Or is it the sleight of hand of false hope, eyes just playing their torturous tricks?
But then it grows. A shape. Larger still. A definite shape! Your legs, which had been open wide in an embrace of inextinguishable pain, are now weightless, time standing perfectly still in surreal bliss. It is the moment of birth. When all the pain dissolves and hope is born. The resurrection of belief rises up.
Mr. Dryden (Claude Rains): Big things have small beginnings, sir.
A mind in the desert is a powerful thing. It can inseminate, however foolishly, a belief in miracles like the belief that one man can make a difference. Attempts to dismiss it as the conviction of youth cannot halt its momentum. It builds, this belief that we can achieve the unachievable, reach the unreachable, that we will even enter the gates triumphantly, joining together in a mythical Land of One.
But danger is never far. Make no mistake; it is hidden inside the Achilles heel that accompanies greatness. The danger of insufferable vanity is a most lethal weapon, a most lethal venom. In order to believe in one’s ability to move mountains, one must also possess an inherent inability to recognize the line between fortitude and foolishness. The engraver of epitaphs is summoned.
Lawrence: Do you think I’m just anyone? Do you?
It can be said that the only true failure is failing to try at all. But is that really so? Such a belief suggests that there is a brand of defeat that does not crush the spirit.
Perhaps some answers will remain as elusive as truth itself and we mere mortals will forever be left to gaze into the vast emptiness of poker-eyed stares emanating from those who dare to dream at all.
Lawrence: Certainly it hurts.
William Potter (Harry Fowler): What’s the trick then?
Lawrence: The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.
-G
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