The march of the penguins

(Update: Greetings to visitors from Lance Mannion's blog. Lance is right, at least to a degree, about the whole film-is-about-marriage thing, but--as the story of the priest below reminds us--the thing about penguins is that they can lead us to see in them what we're most expecting to see, pliable, agreeable sports that they are.

Meanwhile, if you like this post--and let's be honest; what's not to like?--you might also find this one interesting. Don't be strangers.)

Last weekend I caught "March of the Penguins," the documentary about a year in the extraordinarily beautiful, difficult, and unforgiving life of that regal and slightly goofy creature, the emperor penguin.

I dunno; maybe I'm just a sucker for bird documentaries these days.

The story is simple but fascinating; the narration by Morgan Freeman is gentle and slightly wry; and the cinematography--especially given the conditions--is magnificent. There are many beautiful shots in which it takes an effort of will to remember you're looking at penguins, not people (albeit snappily-dressed people)--no doubt by the filmmakers' design.

It reminded me of one of my favorite bits of satire, Penguin Island, by Anatole France:

"Inhabitants of this island," said he, "although you be of small stature, you look less like a band of fishermen and mariners than like the senate of a judicious republic. By your gravity, your silence, your tranquil deportment, you form on this wild rock an assembly comparable to the Conscript Fathers at Rome deliberating in the temple of Victory, or rather, to the philosophers of Athens disputing on the benches of the Areopagus. Doubtless you possess neither their science nor their genius, but perhaps in the sight of God you are their superiors. I believe that you are simple and good. As I went round your island I saw no image of murder, no sign of carnage, no enemies' heads or scalps hung from a lofty pole or nailed to the doors of your villages. You appear to me to have no arts and not to work in metals. But your hearts are pure and your hands are innocent, and the truth will easily enter into your souls."

Now what he had taken for men of small stature but of grave bearing were penguins whom the spring had gathered together, and who were ranged in couples on the natural steps of the rock, erect in the majesty of their large white bellies. From moment to moment they moved their winglets like arms, and uttered peaceful cries. They did not fear men, for they did not know them, and had never received any harm from them; and there was in the monk a certain gentleness that reassured the most timid animals and that pleased these penguins extremely. With a friendly curiosity they turned towards him their little round eyes lengthened in front by a white oval spot that gave something odd and human to their appearance.

It's a wonderful satire, about an old, shipwrecked, dim-eyed priest who . . . well, you can probably figure it out. But be warned: The contemporary reader will quickly conclude the story doesn't get moving until the fifth chapter; apparently early 20th century French literature had no term (or need) for the concept of "the page-turner." But it's worth the price of admission.

And so's "The March of the Penguins."