There is a sentiment among writers—and no, I do not believe
myself a member of that erudite or eloquent clan—that to write a “true” story requires
a level of sacrifice and pain.
There is also the belief that work is never truly finished.
Well, combine those two, and I would say Writers are about the most masochistic
set of individuals on the planet.
No thank you. I will take “blogger” any day. Too heavy
already? Check out my story about Bowling Squirrels!
I have just finished watching a rather unique film. And, as
typically happens when I combine lofty dramas with a Cabernet, I get a little
contemplative. Ok, pretentious. Ok, maybe pedantic. Oh do leave off!
“At some point you have to choose between real life and fiction. The two are very close, but they never actually touch.”
Basic Plot: Film, The Words
Dennis Quaid plays a writer who is debuting his newest work,
and is being quite coquettishly pursued by a Young Girl, who shares aspirations
of being a writer. Through a rather twisted and confusing chronology, Quaid’s
character reveals to her the central characters of his novel. Among the cast of
characters are: a struggling writer,
played by Bradley Cooper; the writer’s supportive wife, Zoe Zaldana; and a
rather gruff and cryptic Old Man, played by the gruff and cryptic Jeremy Irons.
Over the course of the film, you then enter into a play-within-a-play-within-a-play
storyline; Cooper’s character discovers a briefcase containing an old
manuscript, which he eventually steals, that just happens to be a semi-autobiographical
fiction written about AND by the Old Man. Still with me? I know, a
play-within-a-play-within-a-play. Only
even more confusing since the deepest level of the “fiction” happens to be
based on the “real life” events of the secondary fiction level (re: the Old
Man). [Insert apology for my unfortunate love of dissecting film through the
lens of literary criticism.]
In the film, the story within a story mechanism, presents a
writer whose attempts to educate a young and idealistic girl is more than
complicated: it jumps abruptly between concepts of male desire, loving and
longing, the artist’s insecurity, and even the worthiness of societal
approbation. Each scene could be a vignette—staccato rhythms and disjointed
transitions do very little to connect Quaid to his manifested younger self in Cooper,
or to the source of his anxiety and creative self-doubt, represented by the Old
Man (Irons).
Quaid’s character represents a writer who is questioning his
own success in life, and is wondering if all that has been thrown at him—objects
of lust (the Young Girl), social approbation (the book signing), or his right
to a writer’s voyeurism (the Obscenely Large Glass Loftspace)—is truly the
result of his own talent, or the arbitrary series of occurrences in an
ambitious man’s life? Or worse, he wonders if he is only an mediocre writer,
imitating a greater man’s effort.
What separates the great from the never discovered? Whoever
wrote this screenplay had Harold Bloom’s “Anxiety of Influence” in mind. In that
essay, Bloom discusses the paradigm of the current generation: an ambitious young
man, in whatever age he lives, will always feel the pressure to live up the
legends, or “fathers”, that came before him. The greatest fear of that young
man is not necessarily that he may never be discovered and his talent
recognized, but that his contributions are merely versions, subpar attempts, of
the efforts of his “fathers”. So, Quaid
essentially writes about his own artistic insecurities when he saddles the
handsome Cooper with thievery and the contempt of Old Man Irons. My view
deviates from here quite a bit—if the young man is meant to be anxious of his
own influences, for both their merits and their sins, he is then going to
constantly live in fear of the so-called pioneers who inspired him. Take that a
step further and you end up with a young man at war with the very sources of
his inspiration.
Some might argue that this is the heart of how art makes
progress, and how fields continue to grow. I will not venture there. I cannot
claim to have thought very much on the subject. But I will run with this
War-With-The-Muse idea!
There is a line in the movie in which the Old Man claims, “I
loved words more than I loved the woman who inspired me to write them. [That is]
my tragedy.” Discarding the gender issue, and even the gargantuan character
that is played by the silent character “Writing”, this sentiment builds from
Bloom’s premise: we may overlook, underappreciate, or even over-appreciate the
necessary influences that shape our own self-worth. In order to be happy, in
order to create without fear or doubt, one must accept that choices are but
choices, and inspiration is simply an advantage to the act of creation. They
are springboards for action certainly, but it is the man, and not the “influences”
that redirects a life, a story, a resolution.
At the end, Quaid has a moment where he tells the Young Girl
that the novel concludes with “no morals, no consequences”, just an
understanding that life can go on as usual, despite the horrible and tragic
choices we make. The Young Girl seems extremely put off by this, and in a rather
obvious moment, Quaid counters with the aforementioned “choose between real
life and fiction.” The screenwriters may have tried to tackle about four
different literary/social constructs, but this one is nailed (unfortunately, when
most audiences are probably too confused by the timeline to catch it): in real
life, the “story” does go on, and in so many cases our villains and our heroes
are no different from one another. They exist at a level beneath the epic reach
of fiction—because it is only in
fiction that we demand to actually learn from
the human experience. Real life? Oh gracious, how often do we dance with glee
when our mistakes go unpunished? My point exactly!
And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, will conclude me harassing
your eyes on screen.
Cheers! Now, go read a book or clean the dishes or
something. ::wink and a smile::
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