Jury DutyIt was time to make a visa run to Laos. Thailand prefers that you leave every so often, if only to remind you that reentry is discretionary. I had planned to stay one night. The Friday train arrived too late for me to get to the American embassy, and Monday was a holiday. By the time I counted it out, I had five days.
With too much time on my hands, I walked the streets of Vientiane, taking in whatever they considered tourist sites. Along the Mekong River, there was a long street market with stalls selling food, clothes, and souvenirs. Several shops displayed some “jewelry” which appeared to be made of rather non-precious metals—perhaps nickel or steel. There were some bracelets with floral designs and necklaces that had peace signs. I walked up to take a closer look and saw a placard which said that the items were made with metal from American bombs.
I bought what I could with what I had on me.
Nearby was the National Museum of the Lao PDR. On the second floor there was a history exhibit concerning the American presence during the Vietnam War and a highly critical view of American leaders.
At the exit, there was a guest book to sign with a rather serious-looking uniformed security guard standing near it—it did not appear to be optional. I wrote that it was “exceptionally informative and righteous” and listed my home country as “Ireland,” which was not entirely indefensible.
I walked into a bar and sat on a stool near another stranded traveler from the train I’d met before.
A woman was seated at a table near the bar speaking on her phone. She was quite striking and appeared overdressed for both the venue and the climate. She spoke French in the tightening cadence of someone discovering that a plan had dissolved. There was no panic in it, just irritation and recalculation.
Above the bar, a television was playing a film with the sound turned low. I was explaining to my neighbor that the movie seemed familiar. I thought perhaps I’d seen it before.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder.
It was the French woman.
“Excuse me,” she said. “You’re American?”
Five minutes later, I was on a stage.
The embassy was across the street. The security guard at the gate rose to do his normal duty, but she waved him off, “…Avec moi.”
An American juror for her film festival had failed to arrive on time. A chair was empty. I was American. I was available. That appeared to be sufficient.
The master of ceremonies introduced the jury one by one. They were all either movie folks or diplomats. Each introduction included film credits, awards, positions held, committees served. They stood in turn to acknowledge polite applause from the audience. I was seated at the end.
When my turn came, she said, “We would like to thank our American juror for kindly filling in at the last moment. He is a film critic, and from what I’ve gathered he questions whether cinema still has anything new to offer.”
The audience laughed. That got the loudest applause.
In front of each juror sat a small desk flag: France, Laos, Thailand, England, the United States. The American one stood neatly before me. It would have looked awkward without a body behind it.
We watched six films over the next two days. One was in black and white and ran over two hours. A man and a woman in different cities exchanged letters for the duration. We watched them write and seal envelopes. They never met.
Halfway through, I stopped reading the subtitles. That improved the film.
On the final afternoon, the jurors were given cards bearing the titles of the films. The votes were revealed one by one. When it came to me at the end, the tally was tied.
I hesitated just long enough to appear thoughtful and then turned over one card at random.
It was the black-and-white film.
The audience applauded with evident satisfaction, as if a just verdict had been delivered.
Prizes were awarded. Photographs were taken. The small flags remained upright.
At the reception afterward, the winning director approached me, grateful and animated. He thanked me for my support and asked what I had liked about the film.
“It was wonderful,” I said.
He smiled and pressed further. “What did you like most?”
“The second half,” I said. “It became more open to interpretation.”
He nodded slowly, as though this confirmed something he had long suspected.
Across the river, Thailand glowed in the distance. In a day or two I would return there, visa renewed, status clarified. For one weekend in Laos, the U.S. had been represented because of a barstool opinion.
It was not the first time.Back to River City Review