Grizzly Man (2005)

Room 307. Frank is lying in bed when he hears a hand slap five times on the nightstand next to his head. He warily begins to turn to see what must clearly be the ghost of Dr. Conner, who reputedly haunts the third floor of the Sebring Hideaway in Sebring, Florida. As Frank begins to peek at the nightstand there are two more slaps. No one is there. The raps on the table were unnerving. But even half-asleep, they were more unnerving then the pacing footsteps outside of his door or the rattling of the handle in the middle of he night, both of which a peek through the spyglass suggested to have no human agent. This same doorknob twisted against Frank’s turn often when trying to enter the room at night. The small table with his laptop also jumped up (as if in fear) sometimes. But of all of it, the raps on the nightstand when Frank was uncharacteristically trying to get some sleep were most unnerving of all. If not to mention just plain downright rude! To be fair, Frank had never shared a room with any one else before. Just his cats. Never a soul else. Women came occasionally. They didn’t stay. Frank suspected he snored. There was no one to confirm this. Just a compassionless, companionless mattress and centuries of loneliness slathered over it all. Sadly, the spectral face of Dr. Connor, that well-to-do nineteenth century family physician was the only face which had ever greeted Frank in the morning. Now he swings out of bed. He’ll not even try sleep anymore. It is to be a another night driving aimlessly around Lake Okeechobee listening to Ryan Adams and George Norry and wishing there was something other to do in this otherwise sad, silent universe. To be sure, the only stranger bedfellows than Graveyard Frank and Dr. Connor were Timothy Treadwell and his grizzly bears. He was the sappy (yet savory) bear activist [nee bear shit] who is the subject of Werner Herzog’s (2005) Grizzly Man, a documentary based largely on the found recordings Treadwell took of himself before his death. It garnered several awards. It should have gotten the best documentary Oscar last year. Now some merriment has been made over how fay Treadwell appears, while proclaiming to be straight. He even has the foresight to be eaten along with his alleged gal pal. Frank won’t go there. Watch this documentary and see for yourself.

But Frank will point out the part that fascinated him: That Treadwell was filming himself at all. Treadwell’s true flaw, as is the flaw---the disease of America---was that he wanted to be famous. He started as an actor and was never a scientist. Not only did he live with the fox and bears but also filmed himself doing it, which can now see thanks to Herzog’s appropriation,. Treadwell expects to one day have an audience so he addresses a camera, often in several takes. Thanks to Herzog we the outtakes Treadwell didn’t intend for viewers. One would hope that in these bloopers we’d glimpse some of the real Tim Treadwell. However, Frank doesn’t feel you see the truth even then. Treadwell is always performing, even on the goofs and gaffs. If he has an inner dialog, we don’t see it in the tapes. We see the Tim Treadwell he wants us to see. And that’s the fascinating part. In this day of American Idol and the Apprentice, many, many suffer the life of Tim Treadwell. We posit that we are not living our real lives but are the center of our own reality series. If you think you are the next Idol or Super Nanny, that’s one thing. If you think you are the Steve Irwin of the bear world. You’re gonna get hurt. Be careful, kids. Kudos as always, Werner!

But in any case, at least Treadwell, died with his best girl at his side--- while the fate of most of us is to live and die alone. We all at least suspect this to fucking be true. Certainly Dr. Conner fucking knew it. He contracted what was probably tuberculosis from a patient in 1896. And died after a painful and prolonged sick bed stint in Room 307. And he’s still there. Looking for a friend.