Communing with Zorba

Angela visited me in Bloomington in the summer of 1994. One night we rented two quintessential Greek movies: The Last Temptation of Christ, and Zorba the Greek. Both were originally books by Nikos Kazantzakis, the definitive modern Greek author. We wanted to...well, you know...get in touch with our Greekness. Or something like that.

In one scene, on her deathbed is the rich old lady of the poverty-stricken island that the earthy Zorba calls home. Zorba, and the Englishman he is guiding on the latter's visit to Greece, are standing around the lady's room, helpless to do anything. The entire island is surrounding the house outside, waiting for news. Finally the old lady breathes her last. Word
goes out to the crowd. The next thing you hear is a high-pitched keening sound, like the Furies are about to attack. Instead, in pour dozens of <>, little old ladies in headscarves, probably widows. They are screaming at the top of their lungs. Desperately poor, they seize everything that isn't bolted down, until the place is picked clean. It is hard to tell whether you are supposed to be sympathetic to the old ladies or appalled by them.

Angela and I looked at each other, as helplessly as Anthony Quinn looked at Alan Bates. Holy cow, I said. Kazantzakis doesn't forgive *anybody.* We're all guilty, at least in his world. Wow. We were really impressed with the power of his narrative style, and we could see from both movies why Kazantzakis was so renowned.

I don't know whether that made us any more Greek, though. I think I'm going to go rent it again.