GUNDER - a poem written by my dad

GUNDER

by Severt Score

March 20, 1984

On the Gaula River's south bank,

between Støren and Singas,

a cave so deep and dark and dank

makes you shudder as you pass.

With mouth between two wooded knolls

it winds beneath a rocky hill.

It once was home to many trolls.

Some say trolls live there still.

There three hundred years ago,

on a cold midwinter morn,

by a burning pine knot's flickering glow,

Gunder the troll was born.

Young Gunder was not pretty

and Gunder was not cute.

His face was rough and gritty

and he had a lengthy snoot.

But that young troll was healthy

and he soon became quite spry.

He learned moves that were stealthy.

He pulled pranks that were sly.

Each night he'd join his ugly friends

along the river's banks.

At farms and towns around the bends

they'd steal and play their pranks.

Just before the night was over,

before the sun lit up the sky,

they all scurried for cover

but no one told Gunder why.

The other trolls would sleep all day

in the cave so dark and deep,

but Gunder kept on with his play.

He had less need for sleep.

In the cave he only had the trolls

to pester with his pranks.

He kept it up without controls.

Of course he got no thanks.

At last they said, "We've had enough.

Gunder has to leave us

so that with all that pesky stuff

he can no longer grieve us."

One troll grabbed him by the leg

so quickly it made him shivver.

They stuffed and sealed him in a keg

which they tossed in the river.

The currents took poor Gunder

up into Trondheims Fjord.

There the sailors on a schooner

hauled the soggy keg on-board.

The captain said, "Get busy!

No time for this old junk!"

With the sailors in a tizzy,

Gunder sneaked into a trunk.

Of that trunk's destination

Gunder knew not one iota.

Via the New York Station

he was shipped to North Dakota.

He thought his new home would be fine.

He might well have been afraid.

There was a lot of sunshine.

There was very little shade.

He would have hid throughout the days

if he had only known

that when touched by sun's direct rays

many trolls will turn to stone.

Gunder, reclining happily in St. Cloud, MN

A handwritten note on the hardcopy of this poem my dad gave me reads:

". . . your great grandfather, Ole Score, came from a går called Skårvold in the Støren district, southeast of Trondheim. Your great grandmother, Sigrid Klefstad, came from Trondheim. It is part of the legend of the trolls that some of them would turn to stone if touched by the direct rays of the sun."

My dad is not only a poet, but also an artist, sculpting all sorts of creatures out of rocks, epoxy, and various other found objects. This poem is based on a true story. I know because I have had the pleasure to meet the real Gunder. When I met him in northern North Dakota, of course, he had already turned to stone, so he was unable to verbally verify the story. The mischievous twinkle in his petrified eyes, however, said it all. This poem is the explanation of how Gunder came to live with us in the Lutheran parsonage of Fairdale, ND.

Instead of coming out of the closet, I'd like to invite you into my closet... and while you're at it, take a gander at my underwear drawer!

Realizing that I haven't been a reliable blogger, I'd like to say that's going to change--that from here on out you can expect to see something new from me every day or every week or at least every month. Such a promise, however, would be like a dog vowing not to linger long enough to sniff the territory he just marked. Nature is nature and A.D.D. is... what were we talking about?

I'll never forget that moment in junior high English when I was first introduced to the concept of the "Stream of Consciousness" narrative mode. It was like a tiny glimpse of freedom in the stifling linear world of traditional education. I might have grasped how profound that moment was, had I known then what I've come to realize in recent years of "dealing with" and researching my own kids' learning challenges. As I came to grips with the fact that one of my children had all the symptoms of A.D.D. (which is harder to spot than it's more obvious cousin, A.D.H.D.), I also had to admit that I fit the description to a tee (and that coping wasn't getting any easier with age).

My brain doesn't process things quite as "efficiently" as the brains of others may--efficiently for the results that traditional academia is seeking, that is. I take detours to check out alternate possibilities (lots of detours), which means it may take me longer to get from point A to point B. When I get there, however, I usually have a web of connections that incorporates other tangent points; and, even though I may be slower, I think a web just might be stronger than a single thread. Some "Stream of Consciousness" literature seemed to reflect that web-spinning way of thinking that felt most natural to me.

As much as I can count my differing mode of operation as a gift that has allowed the birthing of some of my most creative ideas, I must admit that in other ways it is also a disability. What good is it to have heaps and heaps of ideas if one is too disorganized to ever see any of them through to fruition?

In preparing for NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month http://www.nanowrimo.org/) which is only days away, I've been trying to find all the story ideas and files I've compiled over the years. I've dug in boxes and file cabinets and drawers and closets, and plugged in external hard drives and zip drives. I've read notes that were typed on an old word processor, scrawled on restaurant napkins, and incorporated into old journals. In spite of all this searching, the two ideas I thought were developed the furthest are still nowhere to be found. All is not lost, however... in this process of searching, I've stumbled upon gems that I had totally forgotten about:

-- treatments for feature films that have held up over the time--I'd still like to see the movies described therein

-- old poetry, both mine and my parents'

-- short stories and plays

-- articles and books clipped and saved for possible adaptation...

I'm not going to fool myself that this will be easy to sort through. It's quite the overwhelming task. Those who live close enough to have been in my house in recent months can attest to the fact that what was supposed to be "Spring cleaning" has drug on into Summer and now Autumn with little evidence of an end point. I hauled boxes out of closets in order to sort through everything before putting it back in the closets, and now my closets are the only areas of my house where I would feel comfortable entertaining guests. Oh, my sock and underwear drawers are super-tidy now, too, but I'm not sure what that has to do with entertaining guests. It does, however, bring up an interesting quirk of mine that I have admitted to few:

My sock and underwear drawers are a sort of barometer of my psychological well-being. If I'm depressed and have essentially "given up"--as I sometimes do--I will start shoving undergarments into the drawers unfolded. If, on the other hand, I'm hopeful and my self-esteem is intact, I treat myself to the neatest, most orderly (nearing O.C.D. levels, I will admit) storage of my unmentionables (which, I just mentioned... sorry 'bout that.)

I am taking hope, however, that since I was able to organize my eating and exercising to the point that I've lost 1/4 of my previous body weight and dropped a bunch of pant sizes since the beginning of the year, I CAN discipline other areas of my life as well. At some point in time, I may have to ask for a little help from my friends. The number one way you can help me is by holding me accountable. Feel free to bug me. To prod me. To remind me of what I said I was going to do. If you haven't heard from me for a while, that doesn't necessarily mean I'm off making good progress on a project... It might mean I'm tangled in one of my A.D.D. webs and need to be reminded where I was headed.

I’ll Never Forget: a somewhat fictional autobiography

It was suggested to me that I write a memoir. I wasn't sure where to start, so I looked for a sign. Here it is.

Born an infant in the prairie province of Saskatchewan, Canada, where the tumbleweed danced, the deer & the antelope cavorted, and the summer sun shown well into the night, I now enjoy quite walks on the treadmill, diet water, and the covert founding of polyandrous sects in rural Utah.

I’ll never forget the day my mother packed my bags and sent me off to join the circus. She said she was doing it for my own good, so that I would one day have an interesting story to tell. “How tragic,” she would often say, “to emerge from childhood with not a stitch of Lifetime movie-of-the-week material. To squander one’s youth on avoiding tightropes and explosives is tantamount to owning only matching pairs of socks. What a colossal waste!”

As a frail child getting caught up frequently by the winds that rushed across the prairie, I was sentenced by my doctors to the mandatory consumption of only whole milk even though everyone else in the family got to enjoy mom’s secret recipe low-budget “mixed milk” with it’s charming granules of powered milk snuck into the watered down bottled milk. Ah, the seeds of eating disorders.

I’ll never forget my trip to the emergency ward to get my tongue clipped.

This time I will freely point out that this is a true story--with the rest I will leave you to guess where fiction meets non.

It all started when I was in junior high and one of my friends had a younger brother who had a crush on me. I’ve heard it said that being crushed upon can be a flattering thing. There have been women throughout history who have captured the hearts of men and as a result had a ship, a street, or even a city named in their honor. Would that my friend’s brother had been a sea captain or an engineer of shiny slick machinery... but, alas, little brother was but a lad in 4-H. I never did know what the four H’s stood for, but I suspect that one of them may have been heifer, because that’s what I had the pleasure of having dubbed my namesake, and that darn cow didn’t even win a blue ribbon at the Vernon County Fair... but I digress.

What does that have to do with my trip to the ER to have my tongue clipped? Well, when you think about people going to the ER to get their tongues clipped (and you know you do), don’t you think of blue-ribbon-wanna-be cows sitting around with their fat tongues hanging out? Of course you do. I know cows don’t wear orthodontic braces, so I’m pretty sure my bovine namesake never had to choose between the expensive propositions of calling in an orthodontist during off-hours to snip the offending bracket v. cutting the tongue out of the braces. So, if Becky-the-Heifer never would have had a similar experience, why do the two events get all clumped up together in my mind?

Good question, but I’m bored with the topic so I will move on without answering it.

NANCY DREW, INCEPTION, & THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARTH

Once in a while, you come home from a movie and you know that you’ve just experienced something great. Other times, you come home and you think you experienced something great, but it may have just been a dream. My metaphysical jury is still out on the wonders of INCEPTION.

It’s kind of like Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew? What on earth does Nancy Drew have to do with the movie, INCEPTION? you may ask. Allow me to explain.

Years ago, a little girl who was supposed to be sleeping read Nancy Drew books under her covers by the illumination of a flickering flashlight. That little girl would read until she could no longer hold open her faltering eyelids, then, in the midst of the vicarious sleuthing, she’d drift off to sleep. In her dreams, the mysteries would always go in directions far more interesting to that little girl than the imaginations of the imaginary Carolyn Keene. Before long, that girl quit reading Nancy Drew, because the plotlines became disappointing.

Likewise, the blockbuster summer film INCEPTION is built upon a fun idea that provides a framework for some pretty spectacular special effects, but I don’t think the result is as groundbreakingly original or heart-stopping as some reviewers would have you believe. As usual, hype kills. You may enjoy this film more if you go in with lower expectations, so allow me to lower them for you. Before you dub INCEPTION “the greatest film of the decade” or an “instant classic” (as some online reviewers have done), step back, take a deep breath, and make sure someone hasn’t just hacked into your mind, planting a version of a film that doesn’t even exist.

Some people are lauding the “depth” of this

story. So... we go to a dream within a dream within a dream within a dream. Does that make this a psychologically deep and original story? I think I saw that same scenario played out by Garth in an old SNL “Wayne’s World” sketch. Just as I can dig a deep hole and still come across nothing but dirt, depth for the sake of depth doesn’t represent a wealth of content. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good dream movie and I don’t think INCEPTION was bad. I just think it had flaws, and I question whether those who so wholeheartedly (to the point of near worship) ignore those flaws may have had their minds hacked into and had ideas planted which have taken over like a virus.

If you are in love with the movie, don’t let me ruin your romance. Our reactions to films, after all, are subjective. We all bring our own projections with us into the theater, and those projections can make a single story different to different people. Moreover, we may not even be talking about the same movie. What is reality anyway? Maybe I only exist in your dream, or you in mine...

Here’s what is certain: I think I saw INCEPTION last night, but it may have just been the idea that my daughter put in my mind when she said I should go see it... What if there is no such movie, and technology has grown to the point where you can merely suggest that there is a film and people will imagine that they have seen it? Making seed-planting trailers might be cheaper than actually completing a film.

Logic is like an oven mitt.

Logic is like an oven mitt.

Need I go on? What more is there to say? If you can draw conclusions from the analogy, then there may be hope for you; if not, well, then (as the great Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say) "Never mind."

On a not entirely different subject, someone finally inquired into why I have not been writing here lately. Truthfully, it hasn't been mere laziness or even innocent preoccupation that has kept me from it as much as outright hiding. The title of this installment holds a clue to at least part of the reason. Anyone who caught the missing blogs may have detected a hint of frustration seepin' out my seams.

In the time since my last surviving blog:
~ there has been a senseless death in my community caused by an immature, irresponsible, selfish act;
~ my defenses were piqued when media buffoonery crossed the line with hasty and unfair generalizations that hit too close to home; and
~ suddenly real life surroundings in every direction began to bear a closer resemblance to the shocking spectacle of Reality TV.

Now, it's my birthday.* I've been thinking that by my age I should be settled with a pretty good grasp of the world around me, but it seems that rather than making more sense, things are making less. And as I observe the smug know-it-all attitude of so many young (and old) people these days (did I really say that? Boy, am I sounding old now?!!), I can't help but wonder if "the [proverbial] hill" that people refer to "being over" when they get old is actually the tipping point between thinking that you know it all and realizing how much is outside your realm of knowledge.

When you hit those bumps near the crest of that hill, it seems that there are a couple possible results: (1) they humble you, bringing you down to earth, or (2) they send you soaring airborne into denial (you think you're still on the upward climb, but in reality, you're just full of hot air, biding your time before the inevitable crash.) I edited and ultimately deleted a few blogs because I so desperately want to be found in the former group--humble, grounded--but I had detected a pinch of smugness in the mix. (It can happen to all of us, so the best we can do is try to be ever honest, ever learning.)

Well, the kitchen timer is beeping. It's time to take the cake out of the oven. Do I really want to fold a dishtowel and hope it's thick enough to keep me from burning my hands? There must be a better way.



* July 21 (when I wrote this, not when I posted it)


Sincere gratitude to my friend, Jim Foust, whose facebook status line inspired the title (and thus the direction) of this installment of Rebekah's Core.

Being Lovely

A few years ago, a friend gave me a lovely birthday gift. Knowing how much I enjoy the movie, Breakfast at Tiffany's, she gave me a book entitled How to be Lovely: the Audrey Hepburn Way of Life (by Melissa Hellstern). As I glance at my shelf and wax philosophical, I am drawn to focus on one word in that title: "Be."

"Be" is a very present sort of word. It doesn't say "How to Become Lovely." The implications of these words are distinctly different. The difference ties in with this insight on yearning:

"Yearning is not only a good way to go crazy but also a pretty good place to hide out from hard truth." (from an old Creative Screenwriting email: Jay Cocks, the screenwriter of De-Lovely)

If one of the functions of yearning is an avoidance of truth, focusing too much on what we want to become someday off in the future can serve as an excuse (distraction) for not being what we want to (or should) be now.

It reminds me of a philosophy class I took years ago. As my friends and I worked on our final papers for the class, I realized that being caught up in the "search" for truth was actually keeping some of us away from believing anything in the present. It was as though the very search--the yearning--became a beloved idol-god that mocked any definite belief.

Obsession over the search, the yearning, can keep a person from appreciating or embracing the present--that which is as clear as day... while the one who has become a slave of yearning is constantly drawn to looking in the shadows for life.

"For since the creation of the world, God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that men are without excuse. For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles." (Romans 1:20-23)

Yearning determines vision--where we direct our sight.

"We look for the next reason to be happy. What if it is not about what happens to us, what we own or where we live, but how we look at it? Maybe those rose-colored glasses aren't such a bad idea after all." (Melissa Hellstern, How to Be Lovely)

As an artist, I find myself often yearning for the perfect expression. In the frustration of trying to become something that I am not yet, it's easy to become cynical and start looking at the world through darkened lenses.

I need to remember that it's not about becoming, but rather about being. It is through being that we become... and being comes from clearly seeing:

"...whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable--if anything is excellent or praiseworthy--think about such..." (Phil. 4:8)

Power of Media: Nazis, Reality TV, and You

My friend Greg recently shared this link to an article on a rather disturbing "experiment":


http://news.sky.com/skynews/Home/Strange-News/French-TV-Experiment-Which-Encouraged-Players-To-Torture-Another-Contestant-Condemned-In-France/Article/201003315575334?f=rss

Given that so many of my friends are active or at least interested in various forms of media, I'd very much like to discuss the subject of the power of the rolling camera, the flowing pen, the clicking keyboard, etc. Power used and power abused. Power knowingly employed and power under-estimated...

What are your thoughts?

Ouch, that Hurts so Good: The Tortured and the Torturing Artist

Ouch.

Just got one of those healthy, humbling kicks in the pants that reminds me of why some artists say they don't read reviews, and it's got me thinking about rejection in general. Artists of any sort get a lot of that ouchy stuff and the hurt is probably deeper the more of yourself you put into what ever it is that is getting shredded--be it a painting, a poem, a performance...

I can't remember any especially bad reviews as an actor, so most of the rejection I associate with acting would be audition-rejection--not getting the part--which is a daily staple for most actors. There are so many factors that go into casting, so that kind of rejection is really no statement about the talent or value of the actor as an artist... it's more of a matter of fitting in. I can deal with that.

Rejection of a script can be similar, but since it takes longer to create a script than it does to secure and drive to an audition, I think the blow to a writer is a little bit more personal. Writers, too, have to remember that often the rejection of a script is a matter of not fitting into the line-up or tastes of a particular production company at a particular time (that's not to say that a writer shouldn't also consider the fact that the script may still need work, or may actually belong in the trash).

The jolt I got today was neither of those types. It was a full frontal assault on the most personal piece of work I've ever done. It wasn't a simple "I didn't like it" or "It wasn't my kind of thing..." but rather: "This was the biggest disaster of the festival... if people are telling you nice things..they are being kind…not truthful."

I wrote, directed, and produced a piece that I knew wasn't for everyone. I knew I was taking a risk and that there was a chance that I would be the only one who "got it," but on the off chance that there were others out there, like me, who longed for this type of film, I made it. When I read that review, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised. It was the bluntness of it that caught me off guard, though. I was raised on the Bambi philosophy of "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

Don't get me wrong--I'm as opinionated as the next person (okay, maybe even more so), but I do always try to balance the blow with some kindness, some benefit of the doubt, some personalization of the "maybe it's just me" type. And this reviewer seemed to truly HATE our film--enough to put the energy in to rattling off his/her longest review of any in the festival. I think the review was actually longer than my script!  [BTW, I found it interesting that he/she could dub something the "biggest disaster of the festival" so early in the line-up--there is a lot more to the festival than just the shorts. Who knows? there could be a 5 hour documentary on which direction one should hang a toilet paper roll! I do hope that Mr./Ms. Brave Anonymous Reviewer will expend the energy to come back and update the review if some later film manages to beat us out for the honor of the "biggest disaster"; however, since most reviews are basically hit-and-run, I don't expect and would be seriously shocked by such a courteous post script. But I can dream, can't I? I'll imagine the addendum of: "sorry, I spoke too soon; your film was actually the second worst disaster of the festival. It didn't suck as bad as _____." Ah, what relief!]

Before this review, I was already struggling with how to word my own comments on other films in the festival. I want to be constructive. I want to see filmmaking as a whole grow in artistic quality, but I also realize that much of appreciation is in the eye of the beholder. I want my words to encourage that which is universally good, beautiful, challenging, moving, entertaining and all that, but I also don't want to be a snob that derides things that I personally don't like just because it doesn't suit my particular taste. It's a scary thing to put your art out in front of others to be critiqued, but it's also daunting to be in the role of the one offering feedback. Sometimes I'm tempted to do neither and just crawl back into my cave and write. Sometimes I think I should become one of those artists who refuse to read the reviews and just create what they want to create... but I have a feeling I'll always be tempted to peek, and I'll always go through these emotional roller-coasters after doing so. To me it's part of being an artist. People don't walk down the street looking for artists to torture... it's something we do to ourselves. It may be painful for those who have to live with us to watch, but I think it does have some value in that it humbles us and it pushes us on to fight back--to reach even further next time.

"Acting Out" in Desperation

I got into a conversation today about actors. My daughter and I are producing a short film together. This is Grace's first time as a producer. At eighteen years of age, she still looks young. Most girls her age trying to get in movies are pursuing the dream of being ON camera, not behind the camera--especially when they are as good looking as she is (and I'm not being biased, it's a fact.) Anyway, as she manned the door of our call back room: checking in actors, handing out sides, getting them to fill out paperwork, and dealing with those who grew impatient waiting, she was occasionally mistaken for an actress cutting in line. A few waiting actors, in their weariness from waiting, were rude to Grace. She's good-natured and didn't let it get to her, but what she really noticed was the sudden shift in how she was treated when some of these actors learned her title, "producer." This lesson is not unique. I learned it a few years ago when I first took on the "powerful" role, and I've heard countless other producers share their memories of the first time they noticed actors "kissing up to" them in hopes of getting cast.

Well, when I shared this tidbit with an actress friend who I know strives to be real and kind and respectful of everyone, she expressed embarrassment over the behavior I described, saying: "A sad testimony to our 'race' -actors!!" I love her humble attitude, and I've seen that same beautiful humility in many other actors. In fact, during the previous days' auditions, I had interviewed almost every actor who came in, asking questions about WHY they wanted to act and what it was that kept them in it. Not one person said a word about fame or getting attention. Instead they would come alive talking about how wonderful it is to get to understand what it would be like to be someone else. What they spoke of, even if they didn't have the word for it, was empathy. I know that from my acting days, and it's something that keeps us writers going too. Empathy is that something that fosters connections that are deeper than surface, and I believe its something that many creative-types thirst for more than the average person--a driving force.

That's why I went on to tell my friend that I think actors are wonderful people... They may be annoying at times, but *anyone* in a state of desperation can fall prey to self-defense mechanisms that are blind to the needs of others. We all have to guard against that. Most actors have a hunger for that "getting inside the skin of another person" which can lead to a very positive sense of empathy. Ah, but that desperation is always lurking... It's complicated, like everything else. I think actors amplify life, both on screen/stage and off. They amplify the good and they amplify the not-so-good. They amplify that which is noble in human beings and that which is base and even downright destructive. It's important for an actor to be able to get into all sorts of characters, and in the process of fighting for those roles that can be so few and far between, they sometimes forget about feeding the "character" that represents them as real-life persons. That is one of my passions when it comes to working with actors--to help them discover the connection between creating characters through tapping into empathy and creating *character* that is truly empathetic--to help them discover how their career can be a ministry to the hearts of their audience and to the people they deal with day-to-day as they learn to be truth-seers, truth-tellers, and truth-be-ers.

Yes, I've been annoyed by the pandering of some actors. But, yes, I can empathize with actors--I've been there and I know what that desperation is like. Those outside of the profession who look at actors as vain and shallow would do well to consider what it would be like to be in a career that requires a person to re-apply for the job over and over and over again, being rejected the majority of the time, sometimes for reasons as silly as wearing the wrong shoe size. It's quite a sacrifice to go through the rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows, of rejection and adoration followed by more rejection, and for what? Is it a selfish endeavor? No, most storytellers, whether it be the writer or the actor or the director or any of the many team-members it takes to make a film, most of these people do what they do because they really want to make a difference in the lives of others. This is the way that they can most effectively communicate, and their desire to communicate is a compulsion that often even overrides their own well-being. For that reason, I would encourage anyone who is judgmental of actors to try on a little empathy. It's something we all could use a bit more of.

AVATAR: Where did the extra “D” in 3-D come from?

Dare I admit that AVATAR left me feeling... um... unfulfilled? I’m at a loss as to how to begin my response to this new 3-D super-high-tech film. While some of those who are singing Cameron’s praise as the Ruler of the Universe look at me like I’m crazy to not join in the mantra, I sit dumbly with no response... kind of like I did during the movie. True, it was full of beautiful eye candy, but I feel like the kid on Christmas who opts to play with the box rather than stare at the fancy gadget her parents forgot to buy the batteries for.

Was it just a matter of the hype setting me up for such disappointment? I wondered if that might be the case, but then I remembered TITANIC. Cameron’s previous film was also surrounded by a lot of hype. I went to see the sinking ship film at the bidding of a friend who said I had to see it because it was “the best movie ever made.” I admit that, initially, I was sucked in by the visual beauty, the romance, and the emotional ache that left me feeling like I had experienced something profound... but it didn’t last. In retrospect, I know that I was manipulated, not truly moved to think or process my response to the story. TITANIC did such a good job telling me what I should feel about it that the experience never became personal for me, and thus, it has not lingered in my memory as a great movie.

It’s not that AVATAR is a bad movie, per se. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel compelled to rant if it weren’t for all the hype. When hype goes to the extreme of not only making sweeping Oscar predictions, but even making comparisons to classics that have stood the test of decades, I believe hype warrants a deeper analysis. Avatar is being touted as an historical landmark. One comment in response to a review of this film read:

“AVATAR is to our generation as Gone With The Wind was to our parents (or grandparents) generation. This is the dawn of a new era in movie making.... You will be forever changed after you experience AVATAR. I feel grateful. Awsome [sic] is the only word I can use.” (Victor Nemo, http://blog.beliefnet.com/idolchatter/2009/12/avatar-movie-review.html)

As the praises of masses rise and undulate in the balmy, albeit smoggy, breezes of Hollywood, it’s as if it fulfills some visual prophecy given within the film itself. The masses of admirers sit naked in the moonlight, bowing and chanting in unison the name of James Cameron, as if he were the tree inhabited by the mother goddess. All are connected, of one mind. Why am I not in tune with this universal hum? Why do I feel like mourning in the midst of this celebration?

The visual achievement of AVATAR is unquestionable, but is that alone enough to stand the test of time? Not long ago, I heard a speaker at a screenwriting conference say that a time will come when all films will be shot and exhibited in 3-D. The idea saddened me. Earlier 3-D was clunky and had a tendency to call attention to itself. I must say that this technology was a much more natural element in AVATAR (even if the glasses were still oppressive to a four-eyed geek like me, who had to add them to the weight of spectacles already perched on my nose--when will they come out with 3-D clip-ons for those of us already wearing glasses? I mean, you just try being comfortable wearing TWO pairs of lenses for almost three whole hours! But I digress.)

Back to the reason the 3-D trend disturbs me. When I think about art and painting styles, it would be tragic if due to the ready availability of photography, artists stopped painting. You may say that is an absurd comparison, but the idea some have that ALL film will be 3-D in a similar way signals the potential of loss of legitimate forms of artistic expression. My primary concern, however, is the plight of story. Will the penchant for out-tech-ing previous films become so epidemic that story will habitually be relegated to second fiddle? Stephanie Zacharek made a good point in her review of AVATAR (http://www.salon.com/entertainment/movies/avatar/index.html?story=/ent/movies/review/2009/12/17/avatar), that although Cameron essentially spent fifteen years bringing this story to the big screen, the script—that is the story—does not seem to reflect such an investment of time. I would have to agree.

The idea was good and had great potential. However, I think I know where that additional “D” in 3-D came from. It didn’t appear out of thin air, but rather was stolen from the characters, who--even though they visually “pop” off the screen--are nonetheless flat caricatures, and the storyline, which suffers from lack of development. The stereotypes (especially of the bad guys) were so pervasive that there really was little to relate to except from a distance.

Enough of my film snobbery! Even though, like so many others in this industry, I’m prone to the “I could have done that better” attitude, that’s not what I’m saying. I know I couldn’t have done better on such an ambitious project as writer/director/producer/editor/and-whatever-I’m-missing-in-the-total-king-of-the-world-job-description. Not I, as in “I alone.” Something would have suffered, and with me, it likely would have been the special effects. However, in the company of great collaborators whose skills are being milked to the fullest, I know this could have been a much better film. I hope this lesson will stick with me in the rare event that I ever personally achieve “Queen of the World” type success: turn down the title, embrace the team, and never lose sight of the importance of story. A strong story will cover a multitude of technical mediocrities, but I don’t think the reverse is true if you’re looking for a lasting emotional impact. At least that's my opinion.

p.s. If my friend who acted in the film reads this, please know that MY idea of how to make the script better would include enlarging the role of YOUR character ;)

Trees

If a blog is written in a cyber forest,
and due to technology takes the lives of no trees,
do the trees in the actual forest sigh?
And would anyone hear them if they did?
or is the world sitting glued to computer screens,
far from the forest of actual trees?