blue

In Louie Psihoyos’s “science and nature” documentary, The Cove [The Rising], perhaps one of the more moving—and therefore disturbing—images is an aerial shot of the enigmatic “cove” post-massacre. The water, blood red, gives way to its aquatic colors far before it would be visible from shore—or perhaps would not be visible from shore; given perspective and angle, would it even be possible to see the discoloration of water from the shore? Along with the documentarian and his crew, we have finally been granted vision of the dolphin killing that takes place inside the cove, following two successful middle night rock-camera planting missions. From outside of the cove, it is possible to see the dolphin boats go out to sea in a chain, to see them returning to the shore keeping formation, and as they get closer, to see hundreds of dolphins, crowded at the shore where dolphin trailers wait to choose, net, and buy. We see this footage, and a looped image of a boat disappearing behind a rock, as the documentary narrative moves in its degrees towards exposure: first, of the practice of underwater clanging by which the dolphins are herded to shore; second, of theme parks and life in captivity; third, of the sale of dolphin meat, both as dolphin meat and as whale meat; and finally, of the high levels of mercury found in this meat, including in its use as part of mandatory school lunch programs. And it’s all horrible, every one of these degrees, including the static accounts of representatives to the International Whaling Commission, but also the way that dolphin hunting is just like any other mass production of animal meat for human consumption, which is more a matter of the classification “social issues” than it is “science and nature.” For where does “science” fit in to the picture, and where “nature”? Skimming Netflix’s other films in this category, I note the impressive array of National Geographic filmic output, one for every animal, for every landscape type, and then the more recent spate of films which spell out the end of these wonders with their final screens in boldface type: YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE. It’s a disjunct that’s as yet hard to reconcile for me, the utter and complex contradiction of it all. It’s like asking: where does the red blood in the water go? Does it eventually dissipate with the waves crashing to shore, or sink to the ocean depths? Is it possible that killing this “unnaturally”—that is, so commercially (?)—can turn water into blood? Killing always leaves a trace; it’s more remarkable how fleeting it is, how remarkable the experience of watching the water turn back to blue would be...