A Matter of Life and Death

A Matter of Life and Death, from 1946, follows a unique story; Peter Carter, a World War II fighter pilot, crashes his plane and is by all accounts destined to perish in the crash, but due to a mishap on the part of a guide meant to escort him to the afterlife, he miraculously survives. This mishap does not go unnoticed however, and Carter, who has fallen in love with a radio operator, is taken to a court of law, where he must prove that he has the right to continue living on account of his love for life itself and all it entails.

The afterlife (here referred to as the Other World as opposed to Heaven, a deliberate choice to depict this realm as less restrictive) is presented rather strikingly in this film, in that it exists to be juxtaposed as a neutral force against the overwhelming positive depiction of the world of the living. The Other World is notably cast in black in white, whilst the world of the living is in colour (“One is starved for technicolor up there” – an actual quote from the film!)

Carter’s devotion to his lover, June, the radio operator whom he first met whilst radioing a distress call during his crash, is symbolic of his devotion to life itself. June was the last taste of love Carter experienced prior to his aborted death, her voice signalling to Carter a last hope.

Simply put, A Matter of Life and Death exists to show us the beauty inherent in the world of the living.

We feel the devotion Carter has to his life, and his genuine desire to live it. There is, interestingly, little belief from him that the Other World would be better than what he already has, something that runs counter to religious beliefs about the afterlife and all the pleasures it apparently brings.

The world of living is full of change, progression, and love… it’s colourful! The Other World is stilted, locked in time (its inhabitants are forever wearing the clothes they died in) …it’s in black and white! The afterlife in this sense is a necessary force to uphold the law of the universe, but the gift of love is one worth experiencing.

“You claim you love her.” “I do love her! “Can you prove it? “Well give me time, sir. Fifty years will do.” ”But can you prove it?” “Well, can a starving man prove he’s hungry except by eating?”

“Would you die for her?” ”I would, but, er, I’d rather live.”

Dear Diary, There’s piegeons in hell...

AGAIN AND AGAIN ... AND HE GOES AGAIN AND AGAIN... AND

AND HE GOES AGAIN

Anonymous

Rumbling, Crashing. A Rock

To be thrown

Into the lake. Rumbling, Tumbling, Down. To be sunk

To the bottom. Unweary of what’s above; Unweary of what’s onshore.

But the waves, She’s Raging, rushing, roaring At him, So he would leave.

Lost and unready, Ever the same as he goes, Out of the water; Rolls in the sand

He reaches from below,

Again and Again: Ramming Crushing

Growing up I didn’t think my life was any different. Sure all my friends had two parents, and so did I.

I remember walking out of primary school when I was nine years old. I wore a yellow bucket hat with the strings that I use to chew, but don’t anymore.

Dad was standing at the gate in a blue 3/4 zip which has a burn mark on the left arm. His hair has been greying recently but I remember thinking he still looks handsome. He’s still my dad.

He’s not usually the one to pick me up. Mum usually drives her silver Volvo to the pick up with a snack. Dad doesn’t bring a snack but it’s nice to see him.

He gives me a hug and asks about my day and says he’s parked in the streets further away from school, so we start to walk.

I show him my favourite tree on this walk. I tell him it smells like Christmas even though it’s not Christmas any time soon but the flowers are pretty and I like to walk past it. I smell the air. He stares at his brown workers boots.

Now I look back and understand that dad wasn’t there to pick me up to see me. Well, he was, but he didn’t have work anymore. He wasn’t fired, my dad doesn’t get fired, his contract just ended.

Now I understand that dad was sad. But not sad in the way that comes and goes but in the lingering way. Mum says he’s always been the type to stare out of windows and into his dinner. And watch movies late into the night.

Dad still looks like dad, and he still smells like dad. He’s just home more often now. And I like to spend time with him when he’s not sad. Sometimes we go camping and that makes him happy.

He speaks about his mum and the time he wishes he had with her before she died. It was breast cancer I think. And dad was small. I think he was mean to her or something when he was my age and he regrets it. He tells me whenever we fight. But he’s been thinking about her more recently.

On our holiday at the beach we were fishing. He wasn’t speaking as much as he usually does so I thought I should ask about her. He tells me that she was a nice woman but he had a complicated relationship with her.

I had never really seen dad cry before then. But I kept looking at my fishing rod so he wouldn’t feel watched. If I’m quiet for long enough, I was sure he would tell me more. And he did.

When I was eleven dad gave me a blue stone. It was round and made of heavy glass. He tells me to run it between my fingers whenever I feel worried or sad and remember how smooth it feels under my fingers. Look at it and see how beautiful it is and press it against my face to feel how warm it is.

I lost it. But I think about it often now.

I sat spreading my toes in the sand with my dad in silence when I was fifteen. He explains that he feels one with the ocean, and that his soul was born of it. And when he passes, he wishes to return to it. I understood why he felt that way, but not why he was telling me.

Mum said work has gotten harder for him. But I was sure he could get through it. He always does. I just wish I saw him more.

When I was eighteen, I couldn’t get out of bed. I wondered what was on the other side of this feeling. Dad was home more often again, and so was I.

I hid away in my room and made artwork that screamed. I was angry and sad at the hand I had been dealt, and I was upset at him and we fought more. He was distant and far from the man I had known as a child. He no longer smiled, or went fishing or spoke of his mum. He didn’t speak much anymore really. Unless it was about money and how much we have left.

For an art contest I painted a portrait of him. He was holding our dog, smiling. The didactic that hung beside the work spoke about how much he means to me. How much I miss fishing and camping.

He cried again. I knew something hurt within him and for the first time, I understood then that I felt the same thing.

At twenty I speak to Jo. She tells me that dad lashes out because of his troubles, and that it’s a good thing that I sort out my own health because he isn’t doing so with his. She tells me that I can’t tell him what to do or how to get better. He has to want to do it himself, but he doesn’t.

I leave her office and the sun hits my face. My mind is quiet in these moments and I walk to my car jangling my red and gold keys. The tears dry on my cheek bones.

When I’m driving I think of who I am because of him, everything he has taught me and everything I have learned from watching him my whole life. I think about our relationship and how it has gradually soured. Despite us sharing a house, we rarely see each other.

And as he plans to sell the house, and move away, I am reminded of how much I miss camping and fishing with my dad, and how I would do anything to be with him like this again.

I hope he becomes happy again soon. I miss dad. And I hope to see him at the ocean.