The Good The Bad and The Pretty

I saw a foreign film last night with James. It was called Cosmos. It was one of those strange, artsy films, lacking any obvious narrative. Instead it relied on emotive feel and the juxtaposition of oddly chosen subtitled words with equally disconcerted onscreen queues; the visual poetry of a maddened mind. The story revolved around a man taking up brief holiday in a family-owned bed and breakfast in France. It's still unclear to me whether he was a law student or an author, or both. Many references were made to great thinkers and writers, like Tolstoy, Sartre and Shakespeare. At around the 4:00 mark, there was a line spoken that stuck with me throughout the film: Tolstoy wrote that our biggest mistake is to confuse the pretty with the good. It was a type of distinction so important, and so obvious, that I felt a fool for never having made it myself. We too often conflate beauty and goodness in our culture. And yes, of course anyone can (and should) recognize that what's beautiful is not also good...but to phrase it so eloquently. What a beautifully pocketable reminder.

But it raised the question: Why do we equate the pretty with the good? Why is it so difficult to discern the difference? In nature we see that what is pretty can often be deadly; predators utilize camouflage techniques to mask fatal intent. Prey use it, too. But is hiding the same as prettiness? It can be said that the sophistication of evolution has in it a certain beauty, but that too seems different than the charm of a camouflaged deceit. Or is it? There's something beguiling about beauty. It has a disarming effect. It's mere apprehension renders the viewer more vulnerable, susceptible to attack or exploitation either through ignorance or express manipulation. Perhaps beauty's power is its ability to be mistaken for the good. A trick for self-preservation. Then, is beauty just a mask? The thin and powdery wings of a moth made to look like the eyes of an owl?

The film seemed to herald the beauty of a woman as the most dangerous kind; the way it can drive a person to self-torture, mutilation, even murder. There is truth in that.

After all, it was Helen of Troy whose face launched a thousand ships to war, not Henry.