Unconventional Christmas Tunes

Wonderful soundtrack. Not so great movie from what I hear.

Christmas Films

Over this break I have had the opportunity to see several films, and I thought I would post a two to three sentence review of each film I've seen. Here they are in no particular order:

With three powerfully honest performances at the heart of this independent gem, Beginners is one of the better independent films in the last few years. Christopher Plummer deserves the awards he will likely receive for his performance, and Ewan McGregor gives his most nuanced performance to date. The quirky feel brings out the character in writer/director Mike Mills, and I certainly look forward to his next film.

The Descendants, a unique and surprising study of grief, is a courageous glimpse into the slow reconstruction of a family after the husband (Clooney) discovers that his wife, comatose and soon to die from a boating accident, has had an affair. There were times when watching this film that I wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry or be outraged - I think this is the films greatest draw and, perhaps, draw back. With one of Clooney's best performances (I'm still partial to Michael Clayton), and a strong addition to Sideways for Payne, Descendants is sure to be a strong contender for best picture.

Given that I am a big Mission Impossible fan, I can say that Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol hit every mark as far as I'm concerned: beautiful locations, ferocious action, familiar theme music, cool gagets, humor, and Tom Cruise being his usual self with bravado to spare. Brad Bird, of Pixar fame, does a fine job directing this big budget installment into the franchise, and I think it's fair to say the Mission Impossible world is safe in the hands of Jeremy Renner.

Martin Scorcese, with his first family friendly film, delivers a magical story of a young boy's search for a message from his father, which unfolds into a small piece of Cinema history in Hugo. Scorcese blends childlike adventure and history together beautifully, helped as per usual by perhaps the greatest living editor, Thelma Schoonmaker. Hugo is certainly the must-see family movie of the break.

Well...I could spend a long time on this one. If you haven't seen it yet, do. I'd be happy to talk about it with you!

Wow. One of the most unique films I have seen. Painter turned filmmaker Steve McQueen is adept at building and releasing tension, almost effortlessly. Hunger felt like a dance, and that is saying quite a lot for a film about prison inmates organizing a hunger strike. Very dark, very graphic, yet nothing here feels gratuitous. Also, keep an eye on Michael Fassbender - he is slowly becoming one of the best actors in film today. His performance here is arresting.

With Midnight in Paris, Woody Allen has crafted his most crowd-pleasing film of recent years (as the numbers would indicate). From the fairly straight forward but interesting plot, to the game of spot the reference/historical character, this film has something for everyone.

OK, so I saw this one last break, but I just had to finish off the list with The Muppets! Very funny and very fun, this one is definitely worth a (very pricy) night at the cinema.

Gazing at the Tree

The Christmas lights are singing stars
that lift the proclamations of the
angels toward celestial heaven

And I, a lonely shepherd pressed
against my couch, can only think
of innocent sheep
beneath God's lions of holy light

Peace

The absence of noise is not in all cases the same thing as the presence of peace. Wordsworth also found morality there of one sort or another. But Damaris had never yet received any kind of impulse from either vernal or autumnal woods to teach her more of moral evil and of good than all her sages. Certainly she had found no particular impulse that way in her sages either, but that was because she was rapidly becoming incapable of recognizing a moral impulse when she saw it, the sages from Pythagoras onwards meaning something quite different from her collocation. Peace to her was not a state to be achieved but a supposed and necessary condition of her daily work, and peace, therefore, as often happend, evaded her continually. She ingeminated Peace so often and so loudly that she inevitably frightened it still farther away, peace itself being (so far as has yet been found) a loveliness only invocable by a kind of sympathetic magic and auto-hypnotism which it never occurred to her to exercise.

~Charles Williams, The Place of the Lion

Peace is a discipline sought through virtue. So often I think I expect things to give me peace (movies, books, etc.), as if it were a thing to be gifted or bought, but it is good to be reminded that true peace is is a state of active being.

7 December 2011

The evening sits with me and listens
Listens to the passers by
Immortal gods in conversation
Whistling down the winds of time

The bustle of the trees is hushed
The prophet's mouth is stricken dumb
My breath is stilled in expectation
For the words, words yet to come

Insomnia

Some sleepless nights

          My mind lines up my thoughts

Like dominoes and flicks them down

          To build them up again an hour later

For My Mother

This is a poem that I wrote for my Mom and thought I would share.

Warm hands
Skin and bones
Made full with memories
We four will share

Tears, joy
Wind and rain
Fixed at home
Fluid in time

Breath of my life
Life to my soul
Whispers my name
Name of my ancestors

Laughs through the phone
Smiles heard in silence
Walks down our streets
Flights through the starlight

Burdened with worries
You never deserved
Strength of my family
Lover of virtue

If ever I'm proud
Of who I've become
Your spirit lives on
My reflection of you

Growth

Your smile slashes
Through the layers
Caked around
My heart
And
Soul.
And through it
Slips the sacred
Arrow - word
Unspoken -
Flowers
Full.

An Evening At The Beach

This is the beauty of a thousand stars
singing in harmony
through the ripples
of seawater
that
wrap
around
your
ankles
Coolly licking the fronts of your shins
reaching on it's
tiptoes to touch
your knees
softly
kissing
hands
and
hair
Blue green yellow dresses soaking up
the darker shades
blowing gently
breath, wind
joining
together
in
perfect
rhythm

Beauty

"Perhaps it is to prepare to hear some day the music of the spheres that I am always turning my ears to the music of streams. There is indeed a music in streams, but it is not for the hurried. It has to be loitered by and imagined. Or imagined toward, for it is hardly for men at all. Nature has a patient ear. To her the slowest funeral march sounds like a jig. She is satisfied to have the notes drawn out to the lengths of days or weeks or months. Small variations are acceptable to her, modulations as leisurely as the opening of a flower."

~Wendell Berry 

Smash

Stars burst
Imploding
Beams of light
Cut like glass
Upon your shirt

Pools of light
Reflecting up
Luminous strands
Liquid light
Between your toes

Very light of
Very light
Entangled between
We talk of
Dancing

The Newest Addition to My Room

The Thames at Westminster, Claude Monet

Fear And Trembling

Then David lifted his eyes and saw the angel of the LORD standing between earth and heaven, having in his hand a drawn sword stretched out over Jerusalem. 

I Chronicles 21:16

Inebriated, the old men stumble

Down the streets where broken bottles

Reflect the rays of moonlight on

The walls of brick and worn down stone.

The sawdust soaks the beer that falls

Out of their mumbling mouths.

Two pairs of graying eyes that turn

From shadow to shadow, looking for nothing.

Lazily they make their way

With bare feet sticking to sawdust and muck.

One says to the other with uneven breath,

“My friend, I’m bored to death.”

 
                            And then the sword struck.

Children of Light

light unfolds like a wrapped candy

budding into color on your shirt

winding,
             dripping
         down
               your
            hair

and curling up around your toes

it washes in your mouth when you smile

(and hides in your eyes)

it glides with us as we dance
       to the rhythm of the night.

we are the children of the light.

Mousie

The pitter-patter paints a picture

Slides along the bedroom door

And works its way into the kitchen

Glides across the granite floor

Onto the darkened wooden counter

Spills the milk set on display

And scurries in the open cupboard

Shrills with fear and runs away

For mother flicks the kitchen lights on

Flips the milk from on its side

And little mousie scurries homeward

Slips into his home inside

A Morning Haiku

Tears fall from a friend,
And this acidic water
Nourishes my roots.

Ponder Anew

Yesterday, as I was reading a book of poetry outside the library, a friend of mine walked by and asked in jest, "Are you pondering anew what the Almighty can do?" I laughed at his joke and kept on reading. Today, though, as I was reading another book outside and gazing at the grand tree that was providing shade for me I began to really think about that old hymn and verse. This week has been fast paced and rather stressful at times; lots of new faces and names and very little time for rest. But today I sat back and practiced that age old and often forgotten Christian virtue: rest (well...perhaps its not a virtue, but certainly a worthwhile practice). Today I rested and pondered anew what the Almighty can do.

T.S. Eliot

Tonight was the final meeting of my summer book club, and it didn't disappoint. Neither did the words of T.S. Eliot, whose Four Quartets we discussed. I sometimes forget how much I miss discussion of great books and ideas until I am doing it and can't imagine how I did without before. Nevertheless, tonight was harmonious. We discussed everything from Shakespeare to Anglo-Catholicism to Terrence Malick and film, and everything in-between.

However, it seems strange to be commenting on something just as or after it has happened (a subject we discussed tonight), and so I am going to end this post here with a section from the Four Quartets, though it also seems a crime only to read a section.

IV 

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error,
The only home, or else despair
     Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre-
     To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
     We only live, only suspire
     Consumed by either fire or fire.

~T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

Sufjan and Wasps

Today as I drove about, working my way through the days endless responsibilities, a moment of peace came over me. I was sitting in a parking lot, waiting for my mother to come out to the car, and listening to this song:

Just about a minute into the song a wasp lighted on the window beside my head. Usually this would freak me out a bit (bad run in with a wasp as a child!), but today it didn't. The wasp was beautiful. It seemed almost to know I was listening to a song in which its kind was featured, and it demanded my attention. And yet, it wasn't demanding. It simply danced along and flew away a few moments later. In those few moments I thought of nothing else but the beauty of the music and of the wasp itself, and for those moments I was in paradise.

Also, here is a picture Sufjan and another one of my favorite musicians, St. Vincent (Annie Clark):

This photo just made me happy, so I thought I'd share!

In other news: I am very excited about an Arthurian Literature class I will be taking this fall! It took a little bit of work, but I claimed the last spot! This is beginning to have the look of a great semester.

Summer Movie

Ok, so it isn't your usual summer blockbuster...it's a three and a half hour masterpiece by Russian filmmaker Andrey Tarkovskiy! I watched it a couple of nights ago and was blown away by both its scale and imagination. At its heart, it is a film about the role of the artist in a time of horrid, senseless violence - a dilemma Tarkovskiy knew all too well growing up under the grotesque oppression of Stalin.

Andrei Rublev may seem a daunting task at three and a half black and white hours, but Tarkovskiy is too skilled a filmmaker to allow the audience room to grumble. This is not to say that the pace is quick (far from it), but rather that Tarkovskiy and cinematographer Vadim Yusov employ so many innovative and unique styles of capturing the images that it is hard not to be engrossed throughout. Many of these shots can clearly be seen to have inspired modern filmmakers such as Peter Jackson and Terrence Malick.

One of the most memorable scenes is a recreation of the crucifixion of Christ in a Russian winter:

Despite a headache, being supremely tired, and misjudging the length of the film by about an hour (oops), I was riveted. What more can I say?

Thanksgiving

**Nota Bene: I had written this poem about a week ago (well...50% of it is Scripture, so I guess I didn't really write it), and didn't think too much of it since. Then, tonight, when discussing Charles Williams' novel War in Heaven, this verse came up repeatedly. Throughout the novel, characters are repeating incantations in order to converse with the supernatural in a demonic sense, but the one pious character uses Psalm 136 almost as an Invocation of the divine, and thus I added to my title a bit.**

Thanksgiving: A Christian Invocation

This body was given me by my mother,

            though it was not hers to give.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

This breath is lent me by the earth,

            though it is not the earth’s to lend.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

These thoughts will be thought by greater intellects,

            though they will not be theirs to think.

O give thanks to the Lord; for He is good:

            because His mercy endureth for ever.

Shark Week!

That's right, folks. Tomorrow begins an all new shark week. Get ready to have your minds blown.

http://dsc.discovery.com/tv/shark-week/

And on a completely unrelated note, check out Wade Robson being his usual crazy self:

Novelties

Five opening sentences from novels yet to be (or never to be) written:

1. Sarah was crying again, but something was peculiar about these tears: they moved in the reverse fashion, rising from her lap, gathering along her cheek, and inserting themselves into her eyes; everyone was taken aback, but this soon faded as each couple filed their way out of the house backwards and in reverse order of their arriving, and Samuel was left to wonder what on earth that gypsy had slipped into his drink at lunch.

2. The blood was draining quickly, but he had just enough time to drag his near corpse of a body from the dining room to the front door to write a message in his own blood, "Joseph Carpe" but his hand slipped for the last time and rendered the message unreadable.

**Has anyone written a novel where the murderer is known to the reader but not the victim? I'm sure its been done, but for some reason I can't think of by whom at the moment. I think that would be a fun one.**

3. It wouldn't be until years later, in a conversation with Jim Needham on the event, that Jonathan would truly realize the gravity of his mistake in asking Mother Martha if her nonexistent baby was to be a boy or a girl.

4. Charles had always been fond of children, but this was simply too much for even him to handle, he thought as he attempted to forcibly walk out of the walk-in pantry in which he was currently imprisoned.

5. Jack had never given the idea of a twin brother any thought, but now it dominated his mind as the only explanation for this imposter who stood before him in poor dress, and with unmistakably familiar features, who had apparently been responding to the name Jack for weeks, giving the real owner of that name quite a bad reputation for slovenliness.

This is what happens when my job requires me to fold brochures for several hours...

Ansel Adams Decor

If there is one thing I regret about my past year at college it is that my dorm room was almost devoid of art. I had music covered by my record player, film covered by my (always in progress) collection of films + netflix, literature covered by my bookshelf and nearby library, but art was sadly given a minor role in my room. Given that I am living on a hall with scores of young men I have given up the idea of appeasing my sense of smell. Perhaps some day...

Growing up my home has always had various paintings and photographs hanging about, and I was missing that aspect of my life a lot this year. One of my families and my favorite photographers being Ansel Adams, I have decided to rectify my lack of art by hanging one or two of his photographs about.

Here are the few I'm deciding between at the moment:

If anyone has any opinions, feel free to share. I also found a website that does fairly nice prints of paintings on canvas, but they are also fairly expensive...so I might have to stick with this for now.

I Don't Know

How I get any reading done in this house...

This is Calvin.

Star Gazing

As we gaze at the blazing of the stars
Engulfed in beauty from our moving cars
They gaze at us and wonder at the mirth
Of sacred weddings and supernatural birth.
Each takes his ancient constellation seat
With care not to destroy us with his heat
And watches as the miracle of life
Upends the tears of momentary strife.
Each sings the joyful song of the creation
Over the birth of every new-found nation.
All saw the fall of man, the rise of Rome
All saw Christ turn a stable to his home.
This world is not a stage, we are not players
Our work is real beneath the gazing suns
We wait with folded hands and fervent prayers
Till Christ return to take us as God's sons.

Some Days I Feel Just Like Charlie Brown

Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find the two songs I wanted to put from the super fun musical You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown. But! I did find two great ones from it. This is one of those musicals I really wish I could have seen with the original revival cast. Enjoy!

On A Silent Day at Home

This Present Stillness

“Teach us to sit still

Even among these rocks”

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

I have lost the stillness.

Did I ever have it?

I think I had it as a child,

when I would sit in my mother’s arms,

never questioning what tomorrow held,

or even today for that matter.

Everything was new, everything wonderful.

Now I act as if the only wonderful

thing is whatever comes next.

I throw out the present with the past,

always waiting for the future,

which of course will never come.

The past is definite, the future infinite,

and both turn to stone in the light of the present.

Teach me to be still in this eternal present.

Trees

Think of the trees.
Not of their violent striving
to kiss the stars at night,
not of their secrets
swished about amidst the breeze,
not even of their age, and generations
dead and gone who also sat
beneath these very branches,
but only think of them as of a profile.
See the dark outline against
the bright white of the sun.
See all the shapes that work their way
up from roots to the tips of leaves.
Then see the whole of the
ancient vertical trunk.
See it's constancy, never shaken: a paragon
               of straightness.
Think of the trees.

Today

Today I woke up quite early without any alarm to blame.
Today I read poetry to an audience of a dog and two cats.
Today I organized my bookshelf in alphabetical order by the author's last names.
Today I read a book through the afternoon.
Today I went on a walk about the neighborhood.
Today I felt the victory of putting together a puzzle.

Is it just me, or am I slowly becoming an elderly lady?

Just An Average Day At Work

An Evening At My Grandparent’s House

The old grandfather clock sits in the corner

where it always has.

At night it wages war against the silence -

            its pawns fighting skirmishes by the second.

Each one more present than the last;

            each shot heard round the room.

But the hour marks the entrance of the aged general

           with his distinguished bellow.

His voice is strong, but weathered -

            a battered ship on its homeward journey.

The army of the clock is meticulous in its fight,

            and I dare say it will not be beaten, save for by time itself.

The Grand Mirror of Facebook

**I want to begin this blog post with a disclaimer: I am not against Facebook. On the contrary, I think there are many wonderful things about Facebook, and I used it to much good, I think, while I had one. Further, this post is not merely a warning about Facebook, which is simply the easiest example of an issue I have been thinking about for some time now, but a warning about a point of view that I think effects many people – myself not excluded. And that is all that this is: a warning. No more, and no less. All right, now on to the post.**

Several months ago I made the decision to switch off of Facebook for a while. At the time it was kind of on a whim to be honest. There were many reasons (which I can tell you if you want to know), but I'm not quite sure which one was the tipping point. At any rate, I just decided the cons outweighed the pros for me. And having been “offline” for some time, the distance has given me a bit of clarity.

In the last few weeks I have been thinking about Facebook in a new way. Quite a few ideas had been spinning through my head, but it wasn't until I was reading a certain chapter in Perelandra by C.S. Lewis that they all came into alignment for me, and I saw what I couldn't before.

To set the scene from the book, the hero, a philologist named Dr. Ransom, has landed on a beautiful and exotic planet called Perelandra (Venus). There he has met a woman whom he comes to find is the first of her kind on the planet - the first parallel to the story of Adam and Eve. When Dr. Ransom meets her he comes to find that she has lost a man whom she calls the King (the first man). He further learns that she is in direct contact with the God figure of the story, Maledil. But an evil has entered the world of Perelandra. The “Tempter” has taken over the body of a professor of physics, Weston, and is attempting cause the mother of Perelandra to disobey Maledil's instructions. One of his weapons is a tiny mirror that he has brought with him. Upon seeing herself, the lady is taken aback.

Here is an excerpt:

            “Things being two when they are one,” replied the Lady decisively, “That thing” (she pointed to the mirror) “is me and not me.”

            “But if you do not look you will never know how beautiful you are,” [replied Weston’s Body or the Un-man].

            “It comes into my mind, Stranger,” she answered, “that a fruit does not eat itself, and a man cannot be together with himself.”

            “A fruit cannot do that because it is only a fruit,” said the Un-man. “But we can do it. We call this thing a mirror. A man can love himself, and be together with himself. That is what it means to be a man or a woman – to walk alongside oneself as if one were another person and to delight in one’s own beauty. Mirrors were made to teach this art.”

            “Is it a good?” said the Lady.

            “No,” said Ransom.

            “How can you find out without trying?” said the Un-man.

            “If you try it and it is not a good,” said Ransom, “how do you know whether you will be able to stop doing it?”

            “I am walking alongside myself already,” said the Lady. “But I do not yet know what I look like. If I have become two I had better know what the other is. As for you, Piebald [her name for Ransom], one look will show me this woman’s face and why should I look more than once?”

            She took the mirror, timidly but firmly, from the Un-man and looked into it in silence for the better part of a minute. Then she let it sink in and stood holding it at her side.

            “It is very strange,” she said at last.

            “It is very beautiful,” said the Un-man. “Do you not think so?”

            “Yes.”

Now of course the story of the man who looked at himself in the mirror and fell in love with the image he beheld is as old as Narcissus himself, but this passage brought me back to a line that I remembered from Hannah Coulter in which Wendell Berry says, “A man’s desire is the most flattering mirror a woman ever stands before, and she wants to see herself shining in it.”

I began to think of a mirror as not only the physical object, but rather as a mechanism for viewing oneself when one should be looking outward; or rather of projecting what is inward into the outside world. Further on in the chapter from Perelandra, Lewis says, “The image of her beautiful body was offered to her only as a means to awake the far more perilous image of her great soul. The external and, as it were, dramatic conception of the self was the enemy’s true aim. He was making her mind a theatre in which that phantom self should hold the stage. He had already written the play.”

This was when I began to think more clearly of Facebook and the online persona that we often give ourselves. With Facebook, we “upload” ourselves online, but we are very selective with what we show. We want others to see the best versions of ourselves. We quite literally become two out of one. And the frightening thing is that we can manipulate the image to a great extent.

One inevitable result is that this image becomes how we really see ourselves, and it is divorced from who we truly are. Because we begin to see this image as outside ourselves and other, we can begin to admire it. To take this to a bit of the absurd, we can begin to see ourselves as an amalgam of status likes, picture comments, and friend counts.

Another problem that arises is that we cease to see our friends for who they truly are, eternal souls created in the image of God, and begin to see them as a distorted reflection of ourselves, or a means through which to see ourselves.

Because we live in a culture that blurs the line between what we desire and what we deserve we are constantly being told that we are the gods of our universe – that we are the ultimate deciders and deserve the ultimate praise. But I know myself enough to be thankful that God is completely other than me. Like Chesterton, I would much rather be the man who tries to fit my head into the heavens, and not the man who tries to fit heavens into my head.

But what if I could delete all of the imperfections that remind me of my place of subservience to my Savior? What if all I saw were the carefully selected and very few virtues (dim reflections of the ultimate good) that God allows to shine through me? Perhaps then I would be tempted to look inward to the reflection and not outward to the origin of all Good that ever has been and ever will be.

A Summer List

Things I Am Fond Of (In No Particular Order)

• People who say "mobile" instead of cellphone
• Pure laughter
• The London Eye
• An honest acting performance (not an oxymoron)
• Listening to a beautiful piece of music for the first time
• Reading a wonderful book for the first time
• Reading a wonderful book for the second time
• Reading a wonderful book for the third time
• etc.
• Beautiful cinematography
• Trees
• Pasta
• Reading poetry aloud
• Long discussions with good friends
• Good friends
• Dressing up to go to the movie theater
• Going to live theater in general
• The beautiful homeland, Texas
• Family
• Praying for friends
• Exploring
• Long movies
• Doctor Who
• People who wave when you let their car in front of yours
• People who are respectful of others in any kind of theater or museum
• Animals
• Things that take a long time
• Education (when done properly)
• Irish accents
• Mountains
• The ocean
• Sharing a favorite movie or book with others
• Going to art museums
• Writing letters
• Learning new things
• The smell of old books
• People who love things that others wont
• Holding warm clothes just out of the dryer

Things I Am Not So Fond Of

• Heights
• 300 meter hurdles
• Airplanes
• Nesquick Chocolate Milk...long story

Perusing Through Post-Modern Poetry

On the advice of Aaron Belz (a professor and poet in California), I have been reading Graham Foust’s A Mouth in California. I must admit, it’s been slow going…

Foust relies heavily on taking the expected and turning it on its head – whether that is a common saying or a song lyric etc. He also plays quite a bit with what the “voice” of the poem is. This is shown through most of his titles - “Poem with Fear, As Half Awakened” gives the obvious rise of the question: “Wait…is the poet with fear or the poem?” And this is just the sort of question Foust wants you to ask. 

After reading many of his poems over and over again (some with more success than others) I finally came upon one that jumped out at me from the start (or at least on the second read).

POEM WITH TELEVISION

But first another picture of the world

                          <> 

I thought I saw you in

the mirror through the window.

You do

remember don't you.

Absence of evidence isn't an answer.

                          <>

I thought you saw me through

the window in the mirror.

You don't

remember do you.

Evidence of absence isn't an answer.

                          <>

What part of

"What part of no

don't you understand?"

don't you understand

on one more American-

money ugly morning,

busy-intersection

skittish in a bed?

                          <>

Greased, it would seem, what I call

what I used to call

belief slides through me.

Is it just me, or am I alone?

While reading this poem you can feel the infinite reflections of the television screen. It's like standing in a hall of mirrors, and forgetting which image is you and which the reflection. But at the end, just with the final line, all the mirrors are stripped away, all the noise of the television, and you stand there, naked, alone.

I'm not quite sure if this connection is a break through or a failing in the poet's form for just this poem, but I might just be beginning to enjoy Foust's style.

Berry, Malick, and the Power of Love

Yesterday I went to see The Tree of Life for the second time. This viewing was a bit less overwhelming (last time I had watched two of Malick's films that day in preparation), but I was still a bit shaken after it. I also saw the film through a bit of a different lens this time, as I had just read Wendell Berry's Hannah Coulter and one of his books of poetry, Leavings. 


Both Coulter and Life are stories told through vignettes, which, together, sketch the life of a family. They tell the story of a family that is held together by love, but eventually, when the kids grow old, dissolves into the city of "a better place" as Berry puts it. Both also tell the story of the awesome power of nature - its beauty and power to heal. 


Malick takes the idea of nature in a bit of a different direction than Berry. He juxtaposes the destructive power of nature, its "war with itself, and need to be pleased," with the ever domineering father figure, played to perfection by Brad Pitt. Even with this picture of nature, magnified by countless images of nature combatting itself, there still is a feeling of immense awe at the beauty and harmony of nature. This also comes from one of Malick's trademarks of filmmaking, which is that he rarely if ever shoots any of his films inside, and he likes to use the natural sounds of the environment as much as possible in his scenes. This graceful side of nature is found in the mother's character, played by the wonderful "newcomer"Jessica Chastain. In the words of her character, "Grace doesn't try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries." And later she says in a voice over, as beautiful images of nature are being shown, "Love. Wonder. Unless you love, your life will flash by." So Malick's answer to brutality is found also in nature.


For Berry, in Hannah Coulter, this brutality is found in the trenches of war. He sees war as a thing alien to nature, in which finds only peace and solace. In the words of Hannah, the novel's narrator, "The stream and the woods don't care if you love them. The place doesn't care if you love it. But for your own sake you had better love it. For the sake of all else you love, you had better love it."


While Berry is an outspoken Christian, Malick is not much of an outspoken anything. However, I do think it is somewhat safe to view him as such (it would at least seem so from all of his films). Berry often times (in the two books I have read) takes the side of nature, and points to man as a fallen creature. Malick, on the other hand, is willing to point to nature as having been effected by the fall just as man has (and in seemingly similar ways). Both do also find their answer in nature, though. For both artists it is the grace and love of and from nature that heals all wounds.

A Word Fitly Spoken

Sabbaths, 2007

V.

Those who use the world assuming
their knowledge is sufficient
destroy the world. The forest
is mangled for the sale
of a few sticks, or is bulldozed
into a stream and covered over
with the earth it once stood
upon. The stream turns foul,
killing the creatures that once
lived from it. Industrial humanity,
an alien species, lives by death.
In the clutter of facts, the destroyers
leave behind them one big story,
of the world and the world's end,
that they don't know. They know
names and little stories. But the names
of everything are not everything.
The story of everything, told,
is only a little story. They don't know
the languages of the birds
who pass northward, feeding
through the treetops early
in May, kept alive by knowledge
never to be said in words.
Hang down your head. This
is our hope: Words emerge
from silence, the silence remains.

~ Wendell Berry, Leavings

The Joys of the English Language: A Poem

One cannot drown
the word
"love"
- the sea of its
uses rising over the
overboard term -
and with that same
breath
exalt it as the
very star by which
you sailed.

A Poem

These words are not beautiful,

Like the ones you would expect in a poem.

They do not give new perspective on an old problem,

Or make you see and hear another’s dreams.

These words will not flip off your tongue,

Like that coin at the start of the Super Bowl.

No, these words will do none of these things,

Because this is not a poem.

In the Audience

The day was June 10th, 2011. I had been highly anticipating this moment for months now, and the day had finally come. Today I was going to see The Tree of Life. I was dressed in my nicest dress shirt and pants, the tie my sister bought for me in London, and a new cardigan my brother gave me...I may have over done it, but it was clear I was excited and had prepared for this moment. My brother drove as my sister and I passed the time talking about the movie and other things. We met my cousin and a friend at a restaurant, but as we ate my mind was still in the hour to come. I had wanted to show up at least an hour early to get a seat, but as always happens in life we were a bit late and had to sit a bit off to the side. But nothing could deter me from fully enjoying the film I had waited for so long (or so I thought). Refrigerated Junior Mints in hand (they sell them that way at the River Oaks theater!) I was ready. But nothing could have prepared me to what was to come.

Unfortunately this last sentence is not referring to the mind blowing nature of The Tree of Life (I will post on that later, once I have seen it one or two more times). No, this blog post is an indictment of the incorrigible couple sitting behind me on that fateful evening. From this point on I will refer to them as Mr. and Mrs. Rude.


Mr. and Mrs. Rude promptly took their seats at the beginning of the previews. They talked a bit, but that seems excusable - people are still arriving, and many people like to talk before the film. The Rudes thus far were merely a part of the crowd.

But then, seemingly out of nowhere, the Rudes began to stand out. It all started with the beginning of the film. The opening credits began to come up, and Mrs. Rude, in a normal speaking voice, turned to Mr. Rude to say, "Well I don't know anything about this film, but somebody mentioned it the other day, so I thought we might as well check it out." This was not a good sign. Mr. Rude then responded, in an equally normal speaking voice, "Well I want to see that Woody Allen film [Midnight in Paris was the only other film showing in the theater], but I guess we can see that another time." Things just went from bad to worse. It became more and more clear that Mr. Rude, in an attempt to impress Mrs. Rude, had taken her to an art film that neither of them truly wanted to see, and they decided to share their running commentary with the ten or twelve people within hearing distance of them. In all likelihood these two were not really married, but I will continue to refer to them as such for the sake of clarity. The first image of the film is a quote from Job, in which God asks Job, "Where were you when the heavens and earth were made?" Mrs. Rude's adept opinion on this opening frame was, "Well that's a little heavy." It only got worse from there. At one point in the film there is a shot of jellyfish swimming in an ocean, and Mr. Rude decided to say (with total confidence and completely out of the context of the film), "The boy was reincarnated as a jellyfish!" I was told afterwards that he was very excited about this insight (which, no doubt, greatly impressed his date). Just a moment later, after a shot of prehistoric dinosaurs, there was a shot of a meteor headed toward the earth. About two seconds before it hit, Mr. Rude felt the need to announce, "That's probably the meteor that killed the dinosaurs!" Perhaps this was news to Mrs. Rude, but it was pretty clear that no explanation was needed. Several other insightful comments and commentary followed as the film progressed, but these were the most memorable ones.

After the film ended there was applause and some cheering, but mostly everyone was quiet. I think I can speak for most of the audience when I say that I was exhausted after the experience of watching the film, and couldn't formulate the words to say in response for some time (I am still trying to do that). However, it was very easy for Mr. and Mrs. Rude to respond, as it seems that they were completely unaffected by the film. The second the film was over, Mrs. Rude said, in a normal speaking voice as always, "Well, it was no Woody Allen film, but it was OK I guess." Mr. Rude concurred right away. These were also the people who had laughed at one of the most awe inspiring twenty minutes of a film that I have ever seen.

Fast forward now to June 12th. I am yet again dressed in my nicest clothes, and on my way to the Houston Ballet to see The Taming of the Shrew with my sister. We took our seats, and were excited because we had heard nothing but good things about this ballet. Directly behind us were seated an older couple (probably in their early 60s) and their grandchild. Just as the ballet began, the boy began to talk. Instead of asking him to sit still, or to enjoy the show silently, the grandparents began to respond to him, encouraging him to talk more. This proceeded throughout the entire show, with the boy even singing to the music several times. Now while this may have been cute for the first few minutes, about an hour in the good will began to wear thin. Perhaps I should have said something, but I truly thought that a couple of well placed glares would do the job, and yet, nothing changed.

Now perhaps I am nostalgic for a time that never really existed (I know I sure never lived in it), but I like to thing there was a time on this earth in which audiences respected others, and even respected their own role in the production that they are viewing - a time when the Mr. and Mrs. Rude's of the world could sit still and quiet for 2 hours and 18 minutes, and save their comments for the ride home.

I truly think that today's audience member has lost any idea of what it means to be sharing an experience with strangers that has a dress code higher than the sweat pants they wore when they got up in the morning. We live in a world where people are used to having things their way when they want it. When you combine that with the way in which people consume most of their entertainment (in the privacy of their own home and with the intimacy of family) you come out with an audience member who doesn't know, or want to know what it means to have entertainment be an event rather than the action he performs every day, all day. Entertainment has lost all manor of specialty, and has become commonplace. I believe this to be a symptom of an increasingly self-centered culture, but a damning one all the same. Many people no longer even dress up when they attend a Broadway show, but instead attend in jeans and a polo shirt as if it were an event just a step up from bowling.

I don't write this to feel sorry for myself because my evenings could have been ruined by these audience members. I know that I am beyond blessed to even have the opportunity to attend these shows. I write this because I think that it reveals an ever-growing problem that is too often overlooked. I hope someday to attend a play or a film showing in which the audience is courteous to all, and even reaches the level of responding well to the event. Perhaps this is merely wishing for something that never has been or will be, but a guy can hope, can't he?

On Reading Poetry At Work

As I imbibe the words, the poet's become my own.
I speak with new-found eloquence, yet it feels smooth
As if these words were always mine, not borrowed
Like an old coat on an especially windy day.

I view the world anew. New colors appear,
And sweet sounds nestle under my head.
But then a loud clash begins to sound -
Reminiscent of a symbol at the climax of a symphony.

I am awakened from my daydream by the ringing phone.
"Ah yes, I am at work." I remember in time to answer.
My own words now seem foreign pouring out of my mouth.
"If only you could hear me a moment ago!" I want to scream.

Where is the poetry in a conversation about insurance?
Where are the words that fit, one after the other,
Into the perfect sentence for my sentiments?
They come back to me - moments too late.
Eliot whispers them into my ear, and they grow into a tree.

Seven Days of Malick Part Two

My project is really coming down to the wire now. I have two more Malick films, and less than twenty-four hours to complete them. Earlier today I checked The Thin Red Line off of my list, and I must say, Malick is really impressing me.


In order to fully understand his films, I think you need to know some of the background on Malick himself. In his early years, Malick worked on a farm until he was accepted into Harvard University to study Philosophy. After graduating from Harvard, he received a Rhodes scholarship to attend Oxford University, but eventually dropped out just shy of receiving his degree because of disputes with his Don over his thesis. He also studied film at the American Film Institute (the alma mater of fellow filmmakers Darren Aronofsky and David Lynch). Malick then went on to teach Philosophy to the students at MIT before taking on his first film, Badlands (1973). Five years later, he released Days of Heaven to critical acclaim, an Oscar for best cinematography (a staple of Malick's films), and an award for best director at Cannes. After he had reached heights that most filmmakers only dream of, Malick inextricably disappeared from filmmaking for a full twenty years. This was the first move towards anonymity for the filmmaker in a career marked with next to no interviews, no public appearances (even to his own premiers at festivals such as Cannes), and only one available publicity photo. It was later reported that he had moved to France in order to rediscover his first love: teaching philosophy. After avoiding the spotlight and teaching for two decades, Malick returned in full force with what is widely viewed as his best film: The Thin Red Line (1998).


So, imagine a brilliant professor of philosophy leading a discussion on mortality and eternity. Now, imagine a flawless filmmaker with a flair for beautiful, meticulously well composed images. Then put the two together and you will have a fairly good picture of the experience of watching a Terrence Malick film.


Before I watched The Thin Red Line, I had been told by several people that it (and other of his films) was intolerably slow and "boring." After seeing that the film runs almost three hours I have to say I was a bit nervous. However, even with the first shot I was enthralled with the film, and didn't look back until after the credits rolled. In addition to the excellent writing and directing, the cast is outstanding - and what an impressive cast list! The list of actors includes Nick Nolte, Jim Caviezel, Sean Penn, John Cusack, Adrien Brody, John C. Reilly, Woody Harrelson, Miranda Otto, John Travolta and George Clooney. Now before you start adding up the usual acting fee for even one of those names (even in 1998), I should point out that this film really has no central character, and for most of the characters it might even be a stretch to call it a supporting role (with the exception of Nolte, Caviezel and Penn who carry the film with brilliant performances). Some would argue that this lack of a true central character, and lack of true story line, are a failing on the filmmaker's part, but I would like to argue that yet again Malick has made a tactical choice that is intended to (and I believe does) put the audience into the shoes of the characters of the piece. The film revolves around one conflict in World War II in which US troops battle Japanese troops for land at Guadalcanal. The reason for the ever changing cast of characters is revealed in a line from Sean Penn's character near the end of the film when he remarks, "They just keep coming, over and over. You're in a box. They want you dead, or on the line." In this line Penn's character sums up the monotony of war. He is referring not only to the never ending cycle of opposition, but the never ending line of troops on his own side. When one brother dies by you, another comes along to replace him, and the cycle begins again. This is exactly the feeling that Malick conveys through his clever story telling, and I think clever casting as well by casting actors who are very commanding on screen (and well known actors at that) to play these roles of the never ending line of soldiers on the front line.


As for the argument that the pace of the film is too slow, I will concede that there were certainly times while watching it when Malick (in true philosophical form) would ask a deep searching question through his story, and I would find myself thinking about the question more than the immediate story. However, he intentionally gives you time to ponder these questions (while giving you a beautiful image to look at). Also, they are never fully divorced from, but rather greatly informed by the story being told. Another loosely connected style choice I love that Malick employs is that he always has his poetic, soul searching lines delivered by ordinary people. In Days of Heaven, he gave his greatest lines to a 14 year old girl with a southern accent. In this film, all of the characters are clearly soldiers who have been trained with guns rather than books, and yet this gives their thoughts an honesty that wouldn't come across if spoken by a bespectacled man of letters.


At his heart, Malick is a man who is searching for meaning in his existence, and this passionate search shines through in each of his films. I have two more to watch before going downtown to see Tree of Life tomorrow night, but I am already sad that I soon will not have any more of his films to look forward to. Malick (68), it would seem, is beginning to feel the weight of his mortality. A filmmaker known for taking his time between releasing films is already in post production for his next film, and appears to be lining up a new project soon. While this sounds like good news in that we have more films to look forward to, I only hope he can stay true to his meticulous, patient style, and not rush anything. Though if his history tells us anything about him, we shouldn't have anything to worry about.


Films to go:


Badlands (1973)
The New World (2005)