This is the launch of Cinemaths. The simple explanation is that the title is a portmanteau of cinema and polymath. 

The long-winded one is that the original term for movies, coined by the Lumière brothers was cinématographe. It was derived from the Greek kinēma, meaning movement. These days, the prefix cine- just means relating to film. -math, on the other hand, is taken directly from the Greek root manthanein, meaning to learn. 

Put simply, Cinemaths are students of film. 

It may be crass to simply posit that there is something to be learned from film. An amalgamation of passé quotes about films can be consolidated to the notion that films lie to tell the truth. 

Whether that stance is true matters not. The point for me, here, is that cinema is a source of inspiration. I titled an earlier blog “The Jump Off” as each article wasn’t a film review per se, but rather the settling of ideas that were shaken up like a snowglobe by viewing each film. 

I have a new goal with the Cinemaths project, and that is to peel away self-consciousness and bare myself to the world in a way that I’ve never done before. 

This review is a good place to start, as you’ll soon see.

Let’s start with the easy reveals: 

I’m 30 years old. After putzing around in my teens and 20s, the arrival of that birthday signalled only one goal, and it encapsulates what it personally means to me to be an adult: if I say I’m going to do something, then I do it. 

I’m talking mostly about goals I make to myself. I find people let themselves down more than anyone else. 

Now, the hard:

Last year my brother murdered my mother. This is a complicated fucking thing, to use both emphasis and understatement at the same time. 

It happened. It was surreal—everything about it. No, I was not present for it, but was for the aftermath. Due to ongoing legal proceedings, I still do not know precisely what occurred. But I have my hunches, and knowing both the victim and perpetrator so well, I have little doubt my hunches are far off. 

Before that line was uttered at the climax, The Count of Monte Cristo was a moderately good time. I’d seen the 2002 English-language adaptation and had read the English translation about three years ago. What impressed me most was the rather deft way in which they condensed the 1,400 page tome (which remains the longest single-volume book I’ve read unless you count The Lord of the Rings). To someone who’s coming from the novel, this thing flies like a Concord. To someone who’s not, I gather it’s more like barge crossing of the Pacific considering all the snoozing I heard around me at the packed Cannes à Phnom Penh screening put together by the Institut français du Cambodge. 

It may seem stupid to compare a book to a film, as even a short book will take five times longer to complete than a film. Nonetheless, I was gobsmacked every time they sped through something that took me a week of reading in 45 seconds of screen time. 

Compared to the 2002 adaptation, which heavily favors the early parts of the book (my favorite!), this adapts it more squarely, which means that the bulk of it is spent depicting the Count’s soapy revenge plots. Though I speak little French, it was satisfying to see the winking line deliveries being done in native French after having read the translation. I feel I got a hint of something lyrical that was lost in translation. 

Then, the moment came. The pivotal moment in the entire film was simultaneously the one that sent my mind reeling straight back to last year’s tragedy. This sentiment was exactly my first reaction upon hearing the news. Why? Why? Why? That’s the worst possible thing you could have done to defeat her.

To anyone outside my immediate family, my mom went from being one of the premiere villains of the world: a robust narcissist, an unrepentant child abuser to an innocent victim. My brother went from being a pitiable asshole to death row scum. The shift was still as shocking as it was expected, even among aunts and grandparents who knew the situation well. A demon ascended heavenly; an angel fell hellward—okay, some exaggeration there.

But the truism in The Count of Monte Cristo is just that—true. Do not give your enemies the luxury of being made martyrs. 

For the audience at the Institut français du Cambodge, the movie is over. For all the satellite acquaintances who knew my mom, it’s over. For my extended family, it’s over. But for me, it’s a film I’m still living in.