I’m not sure what my reaction to or reading of this movie is supposed to be. Honestly, I feel vulnerable putting any of this in writing, because this movie and its three protagonists are so fucked up that I’m probably not supposed to feel anything for them. But I do, and here is what I believe to be the root of such tension, what is my main takeaway from the film: embrace the bad. Embrace the evil, the heinous, the dear-god-never-speak-those-thoughts-into-existence; the discarded, the damaged, the I’m-not-for-this-world; the sick, the twisted, the just-keep-it-buried-deep-within.
What I ultimately mean is: I must embrace balance in my life. I’ve spent so many years maneuvering around the ugliest parts of myself, tip-toeing past what is undeniably half of my being. Good and evil exists, in both the world and myself. It’s one of art’s favorite subjects, the eternal battle between what is right and what is wrong. But the most important art in my life doesn’t advocate to banish the evil—a naïve notion. The wicked, the malicious, the please-just-don’t-acknowledge-it is there, and it’s not going anywhere.
To believe I can vanquish the inherent barbarism in my DNA is foolish, and a disservice to myself. I am a complicated being. I struggle with bad thoughts, with ugly thoughts, about the world and what makes it not being part of. I struggle with the urge to hurt myself, and as a consequence hurt others, in an attempt to push that sick part, that morbid part, that you’re-not-good-enough part away. I want to tear myself in two, maybe literally, in an attempt to “just make it fucking stop.” I want to be Sheriff Wydell. And there’s righteousness in that plight.
But the attempt to tame the beast can quickly veer into destroying the beast, destroying part of myself. Except, to my realization as I get older and more aware and more tired, there’s no such thing as destroying “part” of myself. The part of me I don’t like is still part of me. To stomp the life from it would be to stomp the life from myself. I nor the sheriff can destroy the beast, because the beast is inevitable.
As the world becomes more open and loving and welcoming, it also becomes more restricting and hateful and infected. Balance doesn’t mean tipping the scales, but understanding that the scales cannot possibly be tipped, that cognitive dissonance is inevitable, that, for whatever reason, the good in the world must always have an opponent.
And the root of that eternal fight might be this simple: that same battle exists within us all individually. Or, at least it does with me. Every fucking day. And it’s hard. But The Devil’s Rejects makes me wonder if the evil isn’t so bad. I mean…yeah, it’s bad. I can’t let the evil win. But I can’t be stupid enough to believe I can vanquish it, that I can harness divine powers and send it back to hell.
No. Stop with that. The Devil’s “rejects” were a family. They held each other and loved each other and laughed and laughed and laughed with each other—laughed at some fucked up shit, sure, but they laughed. And laughing is good. The rejects were human, no matter how badly I want to believe otherwise. And they can’t be destroyed. But they can be loved. I can tame the beast with love, with compassion, with a promise that I won’t hurt myself or those I cherish most. Then I can be here, a whole individual, ready to take on the world next.
