savior complex // joel & spring
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A lot of the times, when things get this broken, people don't fret too much about putting them back together.
If it's not ignored, it's destroyed so it can start new; it's easier that way. But in the same way that winter pays its respects to autumn by preserving leafless trees despite the freeze, spring pays its respect to winter by building off of what's already there when it blooms over again.
Nanuq has chosen, whether on purpose or not, one of the warmer days in February in Kugluktuk to trek out near the floe edge. About time he meet this neglected fisherman's shack that Spring has mentioned a time or two needed some TLC. This far into the film, Naomi has found her footing and is relying a little less and less on Joel, who's happy to watch from afar and is a skidoo ride or phone call away.
Really, the only reason it's gone as smoothly as it has so far is because of Spring. Her scout work, her brother's aid, the way she has a connection to just about everyone in the hamlet— if she hadn't been there at the Enokhok Inn the night they met, he's not sure things would have shaped up. You could argue that, inevitably, he and Spring would have crossed paths one way or another— the Nat Geo crew has shaken things up, to say the least— but there's a reason for magnetism, always, even if the reason is that there isn't one.
"This doesn't look so bad," he says, leading in taking a closer look despite the fact that the girl has probably been here a million times. It's cold, but not debilitatingly cold, not freeze-your-nose-hairs-off cold. He has his Carhartt on, a Red Sox hat, a pair of fleece-lined jeans, his trustiest pair of work boots. Gloves, of course— but a pair of red Milwaukee wrecker ones, so he still has ample mobility in his fingers. It's worth noting that the shack looks bad, and TLC was putting it lightly. However, it's the exact kind of thing Joel's been itching to busy himself with now that he's more or less taken a backseat on the film. It's up to Nay, now. This— this is something he can own all the way.
And no, not in a way like, he'll want to put a shiny gold plaque that says IN HONOR OF JOEL BARRETT, DOCUMENTARIAN on when he's all done with it. In a way like, he promised Spring he'd lend a hand someplace around the hamlet as a thank-you for her agreeing to be his scout— and this is him holding himself accountable. Besides, a month away from his garage where all his happy tools are has him feeling withdrawals. Idle hands are the devil's playground, as they say.
"Watch your step, sweetheart."
He trudges through some wayward planks leading up to and throughout the deck of the shack. It looks as if a bad storm or blizzard blew a chunk of it off, including the roof. The door leading inside blows open, its hinges creaking with the breeze. A ceiling light hangs from its wires, and the bones of a once well-oiled machine are still there: shelves, a desk, a chair, some hooks with old tools and poles. Just resting. Rectangular rings of dirt are on the floor, outlining where deep freezers once were.
Bravely, Joel stomps twice on the floor when inside. The planks don't crack in half, but he knows they don't have much life left. Without a clue of the age of this building, he figures it's safest if they replace the majority of it with newer, stronger, weather-treated material. The frame of it will still be here.
"I think it'll take more than a weekend, but I'm willing to get the project started and hire a crew of guys to see it all the way through. What do you think? Is it worth it?" He asks Spring because she knows this place better than anybody, even better than some of the elders. He looks over his shoulder at her, feeling kind of tall in the otherwise tiny shack. A grin splays across his face.
"We could always turn this place into Kugluktuk's first Dunkin'. Whadda you think?" Hands stretch out in front of him, mirroring the window facing the water. "Lines and lines of polar bears and narwhals and seals ready for their early morning hot n' readys. Could be good business here."