background is probably more useful (ornat least less confining) than the usualntraining of television’s fast-cut realism.nExcess is, after all, one of the subjectsnhere. We see, at the end, Sand andnChopin driving off together to hisnconsumptive love-death in Corsica,nand the scene is a cheerful one, ansunny, happy moment in which smallngestures figure large meanings. Chopinncoughs and closes the carriage window;nSand opens the window to let in thenfresh air he fears will kill him. It’s lovelynand neat, apparently effortless and . . .nimpromptu. Yes!nAstonishingly enough, the smallngestures in Terminator 2 are those thatnare most effective and make the filmnwork. Its level of mayhem and carnagenis extraordinarily high, as one mightnexpect in a pricey repetition of anneadier success. What we get, however,nis a kind of send-up, although at thesenlevels of production expense, it becomesndifficult to distinguish campnfrom the authentic article. But hownelse is the minimally sophisticatednmoviegoer to react when ArnoldnSchwarzenegger, the villain from theneadier film, returns, again as a cyborgn{i.e., cybernetic organism), but thisntime as the instrument of good and,nnot incidentally, as the underdog?nThere is a newer model now, thendreadful T-1000 that has been sentnback in time to kill the young JohnnConnor and prevent him from growingnup to lead the humans in their revoltnagainst the wicked machinery ofnSkynet.nThis is all utter pifBe, of course. Butnwhat non-piffle is there left for us tonagree on or believe in? We are in favornof peace and against war, just as we arengenerally loyal to the human speciesnand distrustful of-computers and machines.nSo in this crusade to keep thenworid safe for humankind, we root fornthe kid who is destined to save thenworld and his brave and selfless mothern(just a touch of Christianity here, perhaps?).nIn the course of business, wenwatch the machines slug it out, or notnmerely slug but shoot, dismember.n50/CHRONICLESncrush, crash, incinerate, freeze, melt,nboil, and otherwise annoy — for theynhave a nasty ability to repair themselvesnalmost.instantly. They refuse to staynmaimed or killed, reorganizing themselves,nswitching to alternate power •nsources, and continuing on their relentlesslynprogrammed way.nThis is by no means a philosophicalnfilm. Indeed, with the strenuous pacenof its vehicular recklessness and its flairnfor mannerist trauma, the preventionnof thought may well be one of itsnpurposes. There are, nonetheless, anfew general assumptions that constitutenthe foundation of the violent dazzle onnthe screen. One is that psychiatrists arencruel, stupid, and dangerous. Indeed,nall intellection is to some degree aliennand suspicious — the villains of thenworld who are going to blunder alongnuntil they have destroyed civilization asnwe know it turn out to be the computernwizards at Cyberdyne. The good guysnare the innocent kids and the women,nand to keep anyone from missing thatnnuance, Sarah Connor proclaims tonsome poor male, “You can’t create anlife. All you create is death.”nWell, life is better than death, isn’tnit? But if humans are in any sensenmorally superior to cyborgs, it is notnbecause we behave any better thannthey do but . . . because we are able toncry. Schwarzenegger is curious aboutnthe way water comes down from theneyes of the humans at certain moments—nas are the screenwriters, whonwring what advantage they can fromnthis set-up to get some emotional liftnat the ending.nThat ending is interesting. The Terminatornconcluded in some unspecifiednbut highly automated factory innwhich Sarah crushed her attacker in anmonstrous stamping machine. Nowninstead of that vague widget factory, wenget a steel mill with its convenientnfurnaces and pools of molten metal.nBut the level of our expectations has bynthis time risen well beyond anythingnthat either stunt men or special effectsnexperts can contrive for us. The movienis now required to reach out to thenprimitive resources of emotion, whichnare accessible only in the old-fashionednways. Schwarzenegger’s Terminatornhas to express as well as it can a kind ofnaffection and loyalty, sacrificing itself,nbecause its duty is to do so and also itsninclination — or what would be its in­nnnclination if it were human.nThe real drama, then, is an emotionalnone, and the struggle is not withnCyberdyne and the T-1000, but withinnthe Terminator’s own Central ProcessingnUnit. Strong, it may be, but it isnalso oafish and bumbling, an emotionalnnaif who is always getting nuancesnwrong and must learn from a preteenagenkid how to talk and how tonlove. The Clint Eastwood style ofnwisecrack just before or after an act ofnviolence is now famous (“Go ahead.nMake my day!”) but here Schwarzenegger’snfanfare quip {“Hasta la vista,nbaby!”) has a further spin inasmuch asnthis is what he has learned to say fromnthe kid. His expression, then, is one ofnloyalty and of bonding.nSchwarzenegger’s grotesque shapenand peculiar diction make him exactlynthe right kind of vessel for this oddnformulation. We are amused but alsonfeel a little sorry for him, the poor, big,nmuscle-bound yutz, who has to donthese absurd things. His adversary, thenT-IOOO, is small, lithe, conventionallyngood-looking, an improved model.nSize and strength, then, having nothingnto do with one another, Schwarzenegger’snphysique is poinfless andneven demode. He blunders along,nverging on ridiculousness as the kidntries to teach him how to talk, and hownto behave. This is where the movie’snenergy comes from. At one point,nSchwarzenegger picks up some hugenpiece of ordinance, a machine gunnanyone else would operate from antripod but that he will brandish andnshoot one-handed, as if it were a pistol.nThe kid looks at him, notes the imagenof the outsize body and the outsizengun, and says, “It’s definitely you.” It’sna funny line, expressing as it does thenaudience’s all but unspeakable sympathynfor the tristesse of Schwarzenegger’snungainliness.nIt was right, then, that Schwarzeneggernbe paid so handsomely — forngiving the movie more of its appealnthan any $30 million’s worth ofnwrecked cars, trucks, and helicopters.n”How much did you get?” one televisionninterviewer asked him, just a tadntoo crudely, but Schwarzenegger onlyngrinned and said, equably enough,n”Blenty.”nDavid R. Slavitt is a poet and novelistnliving in Philadelphia.n