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Movie Lines with MORE Meaning
By Tara Plog | I recall over three years ago
when I first read Steve's article on film quotes that were meaningful
to him. Joy of Movies continues to encourage me with creative
freedom, and I find it a meaningful tradition; I hope others might,
as well. So, I seize this day to revisit such reflections!
"They built these tracks
[over an incredibly high, impossibly steep part of the Alps] even before
there was a train in existence that could make the trip. They
built it because they knew someday the train would come."
I've heard scriptwriters say
they sometimes pen dialogue they know will become a catch-phrase
for the film: When Harry Met Sally's "I'll have what
she's having"; The Terminator's "I'll be back";
or The Princess Bride's "As you wish". Some phrases
even become a tag-line for a generation. What about Wayne's
World's "Party Time" or "I did not know that!"
The lines above, delivered by both Vincent Riotta and Diane Lane, attempt
to capture that sensibility. They don't ... but they try.
Regardless, I relate to them. Like Frances, it seems I repeatedly
experience a gap between my hope and my perseverance. Anyone else?
I find it revealing, then, that Scripture often refers to these ideas
together (Hebrews 6:11, 11:1; Romans 5:4; Colossians 1:23; Psalm
130:5).
One verse God repeatedly uses
in my life is along these same lines: "For still the vision
awaits its appointed time.... If it seems slow, wait for it"
(Habakkuk 2:3). My first film essays were written in 1997, with
online articles appearing in 2001, and there's little I enjoy more than
sharing my film experiences with others on this site. Yet my central
passion is film production. Even with a degree, I've had to subsidize
any personal film projects with jobs outside the film industry.
It's not unusual. And I haven't had a lucrative creative job in
over a year. Of course, considering the competition throughout
the arts, that's not unusual either. The rights to my current
series of shorts aren't being optioned. Not to mention, the feature
script I started in 1998 is still in development. Uh, yeah.
Do I lose heart? Honestly? Sometimes.
Yet, I know the works that
transcend time also endure it: the paintings hanging in the Louvre;
the lavender fields of Provence; the aged wines and cheeses of the finest
vineyards and farms; the fading stucco walls of an ancient villa.
And if our art has something of God's reflection in it, it too will
endure. Sometimes an artist is unable to write, or paint, or sing--we
cannot create in the way we long to. During these times, like
Frances, let's cook for three bedraggled strangers in the midst of messy
construction--until they become well-loved friends. (Believe me,
you're a brave friend if you stomach my cooking.) Let's
deem friendship the highest love to which we can aspire--until God surprises
us with a love even deeper than friendship. Let's wave at the
gray-bearded man who trudges down the lane with flowers for his dead
wife--until he may tip his hat. Then, let's rejoice! In
these ways, we may not only endure, but--by the grace of God--inspire
others with hope.
"My wife said something.
She said, 'failure is never quite so frightening as regret'."
"Oh, that's good advice.... I wish someone'd tell me that."
"God bless ya', Glenn."
The works of our hands are
not the only ones to consider. For we, too, are works--works of
God. Each of us is God's poeima: "what has been
made" to point to the Creator (Romans 1:20). We are "His
workmanship" (Ephesians 2:10), His poem. So, artistic transcendence
is found in not only the works of oil or stone, metal or pen themselves,
but in we who create them. And who in creating, are being (re)created
by God. In our culture, we tend to long for the weekend, our planned
vacation time, and sometimes even sick leave to break the monotony of
our workplace--dismissing the idea that God uses every day to shape
us. Yet, our God is a frugal, consistent artist who wastes no
time in shaping our lives even, no especially, when we least expect
it.
When Cliff Buxton packed his
pipe the morning of July 14, 1969, he didn't know
that his beloved radio telescope, conspicuously plopped in the middle
of a sheep paddock in Parkes, Australia, would become the prime receiving
station for televising the first moonwalk in history. The Director
of Operations didn't expect a power outage to strike on July 18,
necessitating his 3-man tech team manually reprogram all the computer
data. Cliff didn't know that on July 21,
wind gusts would exceed 60 mph--enough to topple the 1,000-ton satellite
dish spanning nearly the size of a football field. The unassuming
scientist didn't take for granted even that humans
could get to the moon. Cliff, the widower, knew only what
his wife, Helen, would say to him on a day such as this. And this
knowing was enough to move him from what he knew through what he didn't.
Cliff's strength was contemplation:
quiet, slow-moving, unobtrusive. And this humble, consistent strength
moved his team along with him. A team that experienced how "one
small step for man" could become "one giant leap for mankind".
A team of four Australian blokes that shared this experience with the
whole, wide, television-watching world. All because these few
men were faithful in the "little things." And, one week
in July 1969, these little things added up to something big enough for
all humankind. Cliff was wise enough to listen--to daily experience,
to those friends and coworkers around him, and to a wife whose words
touched his life beyond her own--even when these words applied to
him. Like Cliff, let's stop to listen, everyday.
Let's always assume the words we hear may apply to us. And let's
never take the "little things" for granted. Realizing
God uses the unexpected to shape us, we can face each day with hope.
"Did it hurt?"
... "I've never really talked about it. To doctors,
but not to anyone else. You're the first person who's asked."
"I think I know
why I came here. I think I came here to talk about myself."
"OK, why don't we?"
Yes, our God is an artist
of the everyday. And for all of us, this encompasses not only
our strengths, but our weaknesses. Into every life, like that
of Calvin, comes the day when "little things" become overwhelming,
or when a spurned pain, long-ago pushed aside, returns larger than life
itself. Abruptly, a formidable tragedy or unspoken outrage
subverts our life; or perhaps, like Conrad, we deem our lurking darkness
or a long-hidden deceit inescapable. Even so, God splashes grace
on our fragile lives, especially when we least desire it--when we don't
want to feel, or when we can't bear it. When this fitful life
spins into chaos, God's gentle hand intrudes--most often, through other,
ordinary people. People who're willing to be uncomfortable, to
look to the needs of others, and to ask questions. Even without
having the answers. People like the world-wisened Dr. Berger or
the young, self-conscious Janine. Too often, I don't find I'm
one of these people.
Too often, I don't roam
far from my basement office--where I currently write, watch movies,
and make steaming cocoa on rainy afternoons. When I can, I leave
the mail pickup to my roommate so I can have uninterrupted time punching
the keys of my laptop. One day this past week, I even spent till
early afternoon in my pajamas. I admit this with a certain chagrin,
yet I don't believe I'm the only one. I regularly must push myself
out the door to face my 10-12 member Bible study group, knowing that
I need human companionship--especially when I least
want it. But, how often do I realize that God may want
to use me in the life of someone else? And how often do
I ask Him to do exactly that? If I was following the custom of
the best teachers, counselors and doctors, I would ask questions.
Not to mention, if I were mirroring Christ Jesus.
"Who touched me?"
"Who do you say that I am?" "Do you want to be
well?" Clearly, even He who held all the answers asked questions.
Christ Jesus asked questions to reveal people's needs. Or, more
truly, to rouse each person to him or herself--the physician prodding
the sleepwalker to wake from misbelief. Sometimes we avoid questions
because we don't know the answer, instead of trusting God to work in
between. And often we repress questions because we know there's
pain around the answer. Recently, I've had deeper discussions
about God with non-Christians than with other believers. My non-believing
friends aren't afraid to step on my toes, over the boundaries of orthodoxy,
or into church politics, and they have an acute awareness that questioning
needn't garner suspicion. Indeed, it may even merit praise.
In this same way, let's ask questions not merely to know--but to
be known. Let's allow ourselves to be vulnerable,
uncomfortable, and imperfect. For only then will we recognize
our need--and the needs of others.
"... right now,
we're gonna' sit down and talk this over." "This talk
is like all the others. It gets nowhere--nowhere. And it's
painful." "Alright, let it be painful."
Seeing the needs of others
may allow us to become the hands of our Creator, bringing hope to those
in despair, forecasting long-term commitment
where there was once an outlook on only short-term survival. But,
it's never easy. Particularly among those with whom we're most
familiar. Those whom we used to admire. Those whom we may
assume we understand. Those whom we want to love us--or, at least,
to approve of us. At least for me. I have little problem
speaking the truth to my family; however, I struggle with Scripture's
qualifier "in love". As the storm of a tempestuous anger,
resentment and despair grows, faith, love and hope are obscured.
Like Brick, the fallen athlete drowning in disappointment--with himself
and with those closest to him--I can't see past my pain.
And despite many useful books on the subject, no human being likes pain.
Several months ago, my
dad had a farm accident that might have proved fatal. After all,
when you lump together an 18-foot combine header, a slipped jack, and
a sloppy mire of muddy earth once called a farmyard--with a person somewhere
underneath--it's a foul arrangement. God blessed my mom (who found
him there), the paramedics, and the surgical team, and my dad's recovering.
At least physically; but, emotionally is altogether different.
He's angry and disappointed ... with the new limits to his physical
activity, with his caregivers, with the advice of others--even those
who have been through similar complications. He repeatedly says,
"I don't know why I didn't die," and it breaks the heart of
each family member who hears it. For he says this not with a sense
of awe, but resentment. We humans are in agony.
Like Brick, I'm sorry
for the pain this mishap has brought my dad. Yet, I'm strangely
thankful for it, too. First, it's given my parents another opportunity
to slow down and "see" each other. Instead of my dad
spending most of the day working around the farm while my mom is house-bound,
he's had to extend his time inside to rest. Second, it's brought
my brothers and I a fresh understanding of how fragile life is--and
that our parents are aging more quickly than we like. I made a
two-week visit to my parents' home in the spring, and my brothers have
dropped in regularly. Most of all, it's offered my parents a chance
to empathize with one another. My mom has extensive back trouble,
and her body doesn't allow her to do many things she'd like. Now
my dad's body is rebelling against him, as well. Like Brick and
his mixed-up loved ones, if my parents persevere through this painful
season, seizing on those things for which to be thankful, there's hope.
"Reckon it did some good?" May we be able to say, "Some
good."
"If you want your
dream to be, take your time. Go slowly. If you want to live
life free, take your time. Go slowly. Do few things, but
do them well. Heart-felt joys are holy."
Despite a few setbacks,
emotional upheaval, a tragedy or two, some people still think we have
it all: a lucrative job, a solid family reputation, a bit of real
estate. Like Francis of Assissi, they might envy our designer
clothes, our standing in the community, or our front-row seat at church.
Those close to us know better. They see the sleepless nights,
the short temper, the strained conscience. When we're not following
as close as we may to what God has for us, these are often the symptoms.
And regret. Always regret. Yet, it's all too easy to stay
here--in the familiar hometown, with the bridge drawn, where protection
and comfort abound. After we've fought a bloody war, it's much
more difficult to set out on pilgrimage. Because, now, we're acutely
aware of what we stand to lose. We hear God calling, but there
are other voices, too.
Many of these voices scoff
at what we believe God has called us to: "Oh, that's
Bernardone's son." "She's just a farm girl."
"Isn't this the carpenter's son?" Some go further and
call us crazy. Like Francis, the nay-sayers may be our parents
and friends; coworkers might spread the word; or, perhaps it's our neighbors.
A very few express admiration, but they refrain from adventuring along.
After all, there are bills to pay, kids to support, and that great health
insurance package. And self-employed artists, like 12th-century
monastics, aren't known for making money or, even, for eating well.
I suppose this is why--despite clarifying when I returned to my administrative
post that it was only for a short time--I was asked if I'd had a "change
of heart" about staying. Caught between what I haven't done
lately (ie, a film project) and what I don't have (ie, my own home and
business), it took a coworker's kind words to refresh my aspirations.
"You're one of the
few people I know who is following her dream." I'd forgotten
that I remain on a journey; I'm still moving
toward something--however haltingly. By amplifying the
creative restrictions of my administrative job, I diminished the skills
I've maintained, the projects I've done previously, and even the friendships
I've been given. When job ads, résumés, and bills become an overwhelming
white noise, my emotional and mental equilibrium is distorted, detracting
from the films yet to be made.... Surely, as Henri Nouwen writes,
"Patience involves staying with it, living it through, listening
carefully to what presents itself to us here and now" (Embraced
by God's Love). What of Francis's example? Let's not
note those who call us crazy. Nor those who call us saint.
Perhaps we only want to follow the words of Christ Jesus. Maybe
we simply hold fast to a holy dream.
All kinds of people listen
for God's voice: writer, scientist, student, soldier; divorcée, widower, younger sibling, monk. Both men and women have visions.
And all of us must, at some time, wait ... for the dream. May
we allow that God shape us in the waiting.
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