The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill

Winner of the Genesis Award for Outstanding Documentary in 2005

In May 2007, the documentary aired on the PBS series Independent Lens.

Review by Christine Young

Produced, directed, filmed and edited by Judy Irving, this documentary is a tender story of love between a man and a flock of wild parrots who have made San Francisco’s north waterfront their home. 

Homeless and searching for some kind of meaning in his life, Mark Bittner finds a no-rent situation as caretaker of a small cottage in the Telegraph Hill section of San Francisco where, outside in the gardens, he notices four parrots.

In the beginning, Mark’s attention is on the parrots intermittently as he goes through his daily routine. His curiosity about the parrots soon becomes admiration. Admiration soon becomes love, and each new day brings another delight and another lesson about their ways. Mark’s gentle and unassuming nature is appealing, and you can see why the parrots would accept him and trust him as they do, and how natural it is for Mark to embrace them.

This is a wonderful film that reveals the beauty of San Francisco in a personal way. The stealers of the show are definitely the parrots, and Mark’s devotion to them is inspirational. Judy Irving does well in presenting the compassionate side of human nature and the spiritual connection we have to the world and the wildlife around us. I can’t imagine anyone not liking this film.

“It’s a Heavenly thing to be allowed to touch a bird.” — Mark Bittner (photo by Daniela Cossali).

As a matter of fact I didn’t want it to be over, and on the strength of my enthusiasm for Mark and these delightful creatures, I couldn’t wait to read Mark’s book of the same title, The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill (Harmony Books, 2004), which Flickhead presented to me for my birthday.

The book is great! I particularly enjoyed the story concerning Mark’s early days in San Francisco. It’s a place I’ve never been to, and he brought it to life for me. Through his description of his youthful and aspiring days during the 70’s, he brought to my mind this period of my own youth that had somehow escaped my notice. The psychedelic quality of that time and space, along with the music of the flower children, was in my peripheral vision — occasionally admired, but not experienced in the flesh. My small hometown wasn’t really a happening place. San Francisco would have been an exceptional place for me to visit at the time. I would have fallen under its spell. Perhaps I would have stayed there.

Mark’s story is genuine. He describes himself as a regular guy who has had some good times and some bad times. When he was a kid he wanted to be a writer. When he grew he changed his mind and put his efforts into being a musician — which is why he wound up in San Francisco, where musicians sprouted like wild flowers through cracks in the pavement.

Later, when music didn’t pan out for him, he had no vocation, no direction in life, and no place to live. He depended on the generosity of others who would occasionally help him out. He read a lot of books and studied the Eastern philosophies that might somehow help him find what he was looking for. He lived in his friend’s beat-up van. He was evicted from the van. He slept in an alley. Police chased him from the alley. He slept on a roof. He gleaned what coins he could find on the ground and bought day old bread from an Italian bakery. He worked odd jobs for food, and was at a very low point in his life when he discovered the path that lead him to his future.

Mingus (above) liked to stay inside with Mark, occasionally hiding and then popping out to play and poke at his feet.

A flock of wild parrots was Mark’s saving grace; their existence in the gardens outside his door and his pleasure in observing them was a distraction from the worries about his future. He intended to bird watch, but the parrots were a pleasant surprise. Their flight and their antics — their mere existence in a part of the world they are known not to come from is a marvel. From this point on Mark cultivates a relationship that blossoms, and in doing so finds a respite from the cares that have plagued him all along.

The film and the book compliment one another. It really doesn’t matter whether you read the book first or see the documentary, as one will lead you to the next. But my suggestion would be to read the book first. I think that knowing the story and having it all in your mind first will make watching the film even more enjoyable. The stories in the book, of course, go into more detail about Mark’s life and his feelings and about the individual parrots and their personalities. I was considerably touched by the stories of the sick or injured parrots he had brought into the house to care for, especially little Tupelo. These are the birds he really got close to.

We are not all cut out to be seekers of fortune, but I think we are all seekers of truth — our own truth. In either quest there is the primary notion that what we are seeking will ensure our happiness. Like Mark, I grew up as a child of the 50’s, a teen of the 60’s and a young adult of the 70’s. I sought happiness and never put a dollar value on it. I thought happiness was the husband and the children I longed for, and I focused on that to the exclusion of everything else. Ironically, I didn’t marry until I was thirty-three and I have no children; so all those years I spent seeking what I thought would make me happy right then and there, could have been spent learning all the things I crave to learn now in my fifty-sixth year.

But that is a spilt milk situation that cannot be relived and shouldn’t be cried over —besides, I have found happiness in many things that were not on my original to-do list. When you’re older you come to realize that happiness in this world — so says Nathaniel Hawthorne — “…comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it.”

Accordingly, Mark’s path through life brought him to where he is today. As a result of his curiosity and kindness toward the parrots he was given the privilege to hang out with them and to get to know them more intimately than he could have imagined, and that brought him unexpected happiness. He’s written a book about his experience and it’s the subject of a great documentary — can it get any better than that? I suppose it can.

Thank you Mark for sharing your story with us. Thank you Judy Irving for showing it to us. But most of all, thanks to the wild flock of parrots for gracing our world with your presence.

A note about the soundtrack music

The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill is dedicated in memory of Chris Michie, who began working with Judy Irving with the intention of writing background music for the ending credits. He soon wound up composing a delicate and emotive score for the whole film. It was Mr. Michie’s final project before he passed away on March 27, 2003. 

Metropolis

Illustration by Michael W. Kaluta

The Art of Michael Kaluta

Review by Christine Young

Illustrations and book cover art by Michael William Kaluta

Copyright © 1988/2000 M.W. Kaluta 

There is certain godliness about the silent film. It brings to us an understanding of our lives; where we came from and where we may be going. It breathes life into our past. It conjures up a spirit that will not deny its birthright; this spirit tugs on the shirt-tails of our modern cinematic society and refuses to be dismissed. With each step into the future it screams, ‘I am your beginning; lose sight of me and you lose it all.

When German filmmaker, Fritz Lang, came to America in 1924, he discovered the New York skyline. To the Austrian born director, the tall, sleek modern architecture was something of a marvel, and far removed from what he was accustomed to growing up in Vienna. He may have envisioned thousands of people working inside these tall structures; people bathing in their dreams and striving to bring forth a new and better world; but would their new world benefit all mankind or only themselves. 

This first impression of a modern city left an indelible mark on Lang. In the years that followed, he collaborated with his wife, science-fiction novelist Thea von Harbou, to create a fascinating image of man’s inhumanity to man. Thea von Harbou wrote her novel Metropolis  (1925) and later collaborated with her husband on the screenplay for the film Metropolis. 

Metropolis (1927), expensive in the making, controversial in the outcome, is not so far off the mark. In Lang’s Metropolis one can see what we might become — perhaps what we are already on the way to becoming. In this film, it appears there is no middle-class, only the rich and the poor. The poor are oppressed and enslaved, and the rich are for the most part idle. The poor are not free to use their minds; their strength is for the benefit of the master. And, although one cannot see where they, the oppressed, came from, it is conceivable that at one point in time they worked hard for what little they could call their own.

I was captivated by the film. The images brought forth an imaginary world that most would say is exaggerated, but which I feel likens itself to our very real societies. It depicts man as he is evil and as he is good; as he is powerful and as he is meek. It depicts power and oppression as it is so obviously a part of our human existence on this planet.

Technically and visually, Metropolis holds a valuable place in the history of science-fiction cinema. Aesthetically and philosophically it produced opinions that varied widely. There were reviews that acclaimed in one breath, but ridiculed with the next. On March 7, 1927, Mordaunt Hall’s review in the New York Times read, “It is a technical marvel with feet of clay, a picture as soulless as the manufactured woman of its story. Its scenes bristle with cinematic imagination, with hordes of men and women and astounding stage settings. It is hardly a film to be judged by its narrative, for despite the fantastic nature of the story, it is, on the whole, unconvincing, lacking in suspense and at times extravagantly theatric.” He goes on to say that, “Occasionally it strikes one that he wanted to include too much and then that all one anticipates does not appear.” 

Author Thea von Harbou

Visually, Metropolis did convey a strong message, but characteristically it left a lot to be desired. Characters came forth on the screen who demanded our attention, only to be dropped from the story entirely. But Fritz Lang can hardly be blamed for the mistakes made by the film’s editors. In this case, there was quite a bit of relevancy tossed into the trash can. A very unfortunate cut involved Hel, the deceased mother of Freder Fredersen, son of the master of Metropolis. In the German release, the existence of Freder’s mother is represented in the form of a beautiful statue, the base of which shows the name Hel. This and all other references to Freder’s mother were cut before the film’s American release, mainly because the editors felt the name Hel would be interpreted differently by an English-speaking audience. The editors responsible had little regard for the director’s vision. Because of their decisions, they cut scenes that were necessary to keeping the story-line intact. By hacking away at Metropolis like this, they severed the meaning behind some of the scenes involving John Fredersen, master of Metropolis, and the evil scientist Rotwang, who was once very much in love with Hel (and not as evil as the film depicts).

I kept thinking about the film; specific parts of it were floating around in my head, and I knew there were parts missing, so I went looking for the original novel. Unfortunately, I could not find it. Then finally, after a few months of searching, I found what I was looking for: Metropolis by Thea von Harbou, English translation, beautifully illustrated by Michael W. Kaluta and published by The Donning Company. The introduction reads in part as follows: 

“...Lang investigated the city further, gaining the impression that ‘it was the crossroads of multiple and confused human forces,' driven 'to exploit each other and thus living in perpetual anxiety .' "

In an interview conducted shortly before his death, Lang said: 

"I didn’t like Metropolis after I had finished it because I didn’t think in those days a social question could be solved with something as simple as the line, ‘The mediator between the brain (capital) and hands (working class) must be the heart.’ Yet today, when you speak with young people about what they miss in the computer-guided establishment, the answer is always: ‘The heart!’ So probably the scenarist Mrs. Thea von Harbou had foresight and therefore was right and I was wrong.”

The following compendium is my interpretation of the story told by Thea von Harbou:

I have always felt strongly about the nature of my fellow man; part of me despises who we are and what we may become: how we are so capable of blindly leading our race toward destruction, rarely thinking about the consequences of our own actions. But with all my heart I love the good-natured soul among us who cares deeply; the soul who reaches passed the sanction of his own, to embrace and comfort those who are alien to him. I hold dear the prospect that it is this loving soul who will preserve our life on this planet, and make peace among men.

This soul is in the body of Freder Fredersen, son of Joh Fredersen, the master of Metropolis (his name is John in the film). He is a young man who has known only comfort and pleasure. He has been loved and cared for since birth, and has before him the opportunity to succeed without toil and trouble. If he has all this, then why would he worry about the fate of others? And why would his father be quite the opposite? Joh is a cold, calculating man who possesses a will that vigorously diminishes the will of others. His only concern in life is for his son, whom he loves. 

Illustration by Michael W. Kaluta

But there is something different about Freder that separates him from his father; a trait he inherited from his deceased mother, Hel. It is likely that Joh sees this characteristic; a pattern of sensitivity he himself cannot realize, much less share. For this reason, he chose to shelter his son from the bitter realities of life; a way of life only the laborers of Metropolis are expected to endure.

These laborers live with their families in tenement dwellings, far beneath the surface of the city. They are transported to and from their positions in the work force by huge elevator shafts. They are men who never see the light of day; men robbed of life's enjoyment and endeavors — unable to care for their women and children in a manner befitting normal men. Each breath they take and each muscle they move is for no other purpose than to serve the master.

“And they all had the same faces. And they all seemed one thousand years old . . . they walked with hanging fists, they walked with hanging heads. The open gates of the new Tower of Babel, the machine center of Metropolis, threw up the masses as it gulped them down.”

Illustration by Michael W. Kaluta

And they were all to be an example to the son of Joh Fredersen; an example of life’s misfortune. To Joh, they were food for his magnificent machines; machines that could devour the muscle and bone of every laborer, then spit out the remains for recycling, when the Master would press his hand to the blue metal plate in his office, sounding the change of shifts (a process that would be repeated at ten hour intervals).

But the workers do have Maria. She is the daughter of one of their own. She comes to them in their darkest hour. She encourages them and implores them not to rebel. She speaks softly of patience and hope for the future; that if they wait, soon there will be a mediator between the hands that toil and the brain that suppresses, and it will be the heart that joins them together.

Scene from Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927)

Freder also has Maria, from the very moment he sees her enter the Eternal Gardens, in the Club of the Sons, surrounded by tattered, ragged children. “Look, these are your brothers!” she proclaims. These few words, spoken softly and without malice, filter through Freder’s mind and soul as though they possessed some magical, medicinal power. He is obsessed with Maria now. He carries a torch for her that leads him into the depths of a world he has never known, almost as if he carried her in his heart for all time. What Freder admires in this woman is what he has unconsciously longed for; the gentleness and beauty his mother had possessed, and that he had never known. This beauty was deep within his soul.

Freder was aware of the underground city, but had never ventured there before this day. Why bother with something that does not concern him. Freder also knew of the men who were born to maintain and run the sacred machines. Many times, he had watched his father press his hand on the blue metal plate, not fully comprehending the power his father held. He also knew that he was being groomed, and that someday he would take his father’s place as master of the great Metropolis. Now, because of his infatuation for Maria, he is prepared to work beside these laborers and to disavow the fortune his father would bestow upon him.

Illustration by Michael W. Kaluta

And Joh Fredersen; is he a man himself, or a machine? By his devotion to his machines we sometimes wonder. Only through his love for Freder do we see an inkling of a genuine human being. And, although alienated from his own mother who still lives, Joh’s respect for her reveals all. During their conversations, we finally get to know the man. The man who was determined to succeed; determined to have the woman he loved, even though she loved another (Rotwang); and determined to be the master over the great Metropolis. 

After reading Thea von Harbou’s novel, I can only imagine what Fritz Lang’s original film may or may not have embraced. But despite the missing links, the film has a strength to it that bears its own weight. It shows us the thumping heart of humanity against a background of indifference; the assertive and greedy brain that conceives and controls, the submissive hands that build and maintain, and the forsaken heart that cries out for recognition. The brain and the hands are separated by oppression, loathing and fear, and the heart sees this and works feverishly to bring them together. It is all so simple and straightforward, yet some of us will laugh off this manifestation as foolish and sentimental — others will take its significance to heart. 

It's 9:30 a.m.—do you know where your husband is? Oh, he just came in. "That library is great," he said as he dropped 2 books on the coffee table; Tortilla Flat and Of Mice and Men (two stories in one book) by Steinbeck and Go Down Moses, by William Faulkner. Now that he's not working he's reading quite a bit—all the authors he's always wanted to read but didn't have the time to read. I, on the other hand, am still working through my M.C. Beaton books. I started with her Agatha Rasin series on audio book when I was still working and driving 1 hour to work—couldn't stand the music anymore. Chronologically and during those tedious driving hours (there and back again) I listened to all my old favorite Agatha Christie books; then on to The Cat Who series by Lillian Jackson Braun; finally getting to M.C. Beaton's Agatha Rasin and Hamish McBeth series of books. When I was done with all of those I started on her Edwardian and Regency romance novels written during the 80's under her name Marion Chesney. There are so many of them I think I'll be reading into my grave! But they are great books. I'm going through my Edwardian and Regency romance faze, which actually started long ago when I read Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibilities.When I retired in May 2013 I didn't have to listen to my books anymore. I had a Kindle, but I preferred going to our library for real hard cover books. I only use my Kindle when I read in bed so as not to disturb other sleeping members of my family with a bright lamp on.

I did cut down on my reading for a while when I decided to start working on my novel, Commonwealth of Souls, which I have been writing for over 30 years. I joined the Writer's Workshop at our library and began enjoying the process more. It's a small workshop with only 3 of us—and we're all named Chris; Chris, Crissy and Christine (that's me) to distinguish ourselves from one another. I also joined the open art workshop on Friday's at the library. I'm learning to do water color—which I'm not so good at yet. My niece Kelsey gave me a great book for Mother's Day entitled 462 Things To Draw and I'm having so much fun with it. On each page is a THING to draw—a rolling pin; scissors; baskets; bricks; hills and valleys and I'm doing really well with it. I've come to the conclusion that it's better to learn how to draw first with pencil than to march into water color—paint brushes blazing—when you don't know what you're doing and you hesitate to ask the instructor for help.  I'm really having fun with that book. You should see my hills and valleys.

So, this is what retired life is like; reading, writing and painting—oh, and helping to take care of my mom. She is 95. I enjoy spending the days with her. When I'm not there my sister or my nieces are there so we make sure she's never alone. She enjoys our company and most of all she enjoys Kelsey's dog Carmen.

Today is a very hard day. We had to put our cat to sleep. That sounds horrible doesn't it? But it's really not. Pollyanna is in a better place—so much better than where my husband and I are right now. The house is so empty. It's funny how one little 18 year old cat can fill a house with warmth. I loved my Polly and had a good cry today, but my husband is taking it harder. Polly was daddy's little girl. She followed him around the house and always found a welcome lap to sit on. She sat on my lap too, but not as often as the daddy lap, where she was most comfortable.

When we moved from Long Island to Pennsylvania in 2004 we had four cats; Tomasina, Ali, Polly and Mushie. We adored them. They were the children we did not have. After our dog Benji died in 1996 they were the next pets on the roster. The absence of Benji in our lives prompted us to go out and get Tomasina and Ali (our first two). A year later came Polly and the following year came Mushie. They are all gone now, but their presence is still felt within the confines of our home. They were indoor cats and very pampered. Each had her own personality (all female) and there were a few head butts now and then. Polly stalked Ali and Ali hid under the bed and in the laundry basket. But all in all they lived very happy lives here with us. They brought us so much happiness over the years and we cherish each and every moment they were in our lives.

Kicked Out of the House

So today my husband finally broke and said I had to leave. No, not for good thank goodness, just for the morning while he cleans. It appears I'm under foot. I should count myself among the luckiest of women. My husband actually likes to clean. I told him that I could help now that I'm retired, but he will not hear of it. He finds cleaning the house very therapeutic. He's got a routine that he has adhered to for nigh on ten years, and I'm not going to argue with him. He even does the food shopping—yes, I am the luckiest of women.

So what do I do? I left my house early and went to the Flamingo diner for breakfast (they have the best food for the price). Now I'm at the library and I thought I'd do a little writing in my blog, which I find therapeutic. I've never tried this before—writing at the library I mean. It's a great atmosphere and is conducive to serious thought and creativity.

So what do I write about? Well, there is a lot going on in the world right now. I'm terribly worried about Yosemite and my heart is breaking for the firefighters and all the families and wildlife in that region. My heart is breaking over the Sequoias. Visiting Yosemite and standing under the trees is a dream of mine. As of this morning I read the Rim Fire is 60% contained, but could take until September 20th to be fully contained. 

So next on my worry list is the Syrian situation, which is totally blowing my mind. I wouldn't want to be in the President's shoes right now. He'll be damned if he does and damned if he doesn't, which is always the plight of any commander in chief. I don't know how I feel about us getting involved, but my heart breaks for all the people who died in the chemical attack—most especially the children. I am glad the President decided to wait on Congress for a vote. It is clear that whatever is to be done will have far reaching consequences one way or the other, but allowing Congress to vote is a good thing.

My Favorite Song

My Favorite Song

a reflection by Christine Young
Did I even hear the words then
Sitting in our circle,
Caught up in the heat of the beat;
Within that blissful gathering
Of pure pubescent equivalents?
Did I hear the words then as I do today,
Sitting on my kitchen chair playing solitaire
And sipping my favorite tea;
Hearing it termed “an oldie” —
“but goodie”;
Caught up in my eager journey
And wistful gathering of memories?
　

Nothing can bring you back in time as quickly as hearing your favorite oldie but goodie over the radio. Of course we have our CD’s and we can You-tube anything we want to hear whenever we want to hear it, but that’s not the same as driving in your car or sitting in your living room with the radio on and, unanticipated—out of the blue, having that favorite song pop out at you over the air waves, prompting an immediate trip down memory lane; hearing I Want To Hold Your Hand and, for me personally, remembering when I heard the Beatles for the first time, sitting Indian style on the living room carpet with my best friends, animated and hyperventilating over the album cover on which I saw John, George, Paul and Ringo for the first time; the happy and carefree days of our youth reminding us of where we’ve come from, what made us happy or sad, and who we really are deep within our souls. It’s a time in our lives when we are transitioning from puberty to maturity in a metamorphosis that is unique to each one of us. If we’re lucky we never abandon the kid inside, tapping in to him or her every so often to keep ourselves grounded.

Concerning the Slaughter of Baby Seals
An Open Letter to the Prime Minister of Canada

I cannot understand the brutal slaughter of these defenseless seals and how any human being can take a club to a baby seal while it's mother watches and can do nothing. How can they live with themselves after such an act? How would they feel if, God forbid, someone came into their homes and into their nursery and clubbed their baby to death in front of them? The human parent would not let it happen. The human parent would defend that child with his or her very own life. The mother seal cannot do this. She is without the power to do this. Instead she watches her baby suffer and, yes, she feels unbelievable sorrow. Do you think because she is not human she does not feel sorrow? How arrogant we humans can be in this respect—to assume that animals do not feel pain or sorrow.

Somewhere down the line the consequences of this act will come to fruition in a negative way for our planet and for mankind. The slaughter of baby seals is wrong. If we keep on destroying God’s most precious creatures, we’ll feel it in the end—somehow, someway we’ll learn the error of our ways. There are so many good people on this earth within every country and within every society, and it would be a shame for the goodhearted to suffer the consequences of the coldhearted.

I am not a obsessively religious person, but I am an innately caring person, and during my journey through life I have never forgotten the quotation “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth”. I believe there are many variations of this in religious texts of all faiths. As a child I heard the words and they became important to me. And whenever or wherever I witnessed a brutality toward an animal I repeated the words in my mind. Even then I understood the magnitude of such acts and I felt guilty for being human. As an adult I became acutely aware of the atrocities committed by mankind over the years. These atrocities cannot be undone, but I believe a counterbalance can be and will be achieved by kindly people around the world.

I am begging you, Prime Minister, please be a part of the solution and not an obstacle. Please call off the seal hunt now.