Film
affects the mind differently than prose or fiction. You carve out two and a half hours of time and spend it
visually and aurally with the arc of a motion picture. Even if it is awful, the residue
lingers around in a way differently then a two and a half hour read of nearly
anything before bed. I much prefer
to read. And perhaps film’s impact
is stronger because I watch cinema much more rarely.
Here I am sitting early in the early day, having watched a
film with my kids last night. We
watched “The Secret Life of Walter Mittty” a film directed by and staring Ben
Stiller, based off the original novel by James Thurber from 1939. It was an imperfect film. The corporate minions who take over
Life magazine aren’t plausible.
The search for Sean Penn becomes one extreme too many. The resolution with the girl,
predictable. And yet the setting
and the 'watch as we': 成方破浪[1]
narrative, wherein he escapes from his corporate routine in Manhattan to do
remarkable things, in remarkable places, is swirling around my mind regardless.
I also read some Tacitus before I went to bed. To be fair I only made it a few pages
before conking out. But even
when I’m in it, I confess, what I’m doing is referring back to the Tiberius and
the Livia I know from the BBC’s “I Claudius”, lodged there in my mind. I also finished Robert Louis
Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” last night for my younger one. I’ve never seen any depiction of that,
so the “Long John Silver” in my mind can only be the one my mind has created. And again, maybe it's a matter of time
and concentration; it was only the last six pages or so, but it doesn’t float
around the next day the same way. It’s
there, but I need to draw on it wilfully.
In as much as I rarely see film, I even more rarely read
film reviews, but I do tend to enjoy the New York Times, A. O. Scott. His references from his youth seem to
cast a certain subtle affinity and he’s funny when he’s scathing. I was surprised how gentle he was with
“Mitty.” I expected him to tear it
apart. We wait two hours to watch
the everyman build up the courage to tell the young upstart corporate titan to
shove it and all he can say is “don’t be such a dick.” But the many narrative imperfections,
which can just be categorically dismissed by calling something “Hollywood”
didn’t register as meriting specific critique. What did was the corporate placement. Here again, I note my
naïveté, as I wasn’t able to note, in the moment, that I was being bombarded
with advertisements.
And try though I may, reading a story aloud to one or my
other daughter, can never be the same as sitting down as a group and watching a
film. There is a neutrality to the
viewing experience. No one is
reading, or “driving”, we’re all just passengers. And some of this powerful American normalization: here is yet another movie set in
Manhattan, here is a lonely guy, watch him hate his corporate job, watch him
spy a girl he fancies, watch him develop courage and fight the system only to
be embraced by it. I think,
perhaps that my kids have to know it, before they can critique it, or dismiss
it.
And what music to speak of? Well, I haven’t had David Bowie on DustyBrine before. His song “Major Tom” features
prominently in this film and it is part of the residue, swirling about my
mind this morning. Written in
1969, and appearing on the album “Space Oddity,” I suppose its one of his songs
I’ve always enjoyed, despite its ubiquity. Beyond a few other requisite hits, I was never a fan in my
day. Too late and melodic for my early
classic rock fascination and definitely to soft and early for my days as a
punk, by which time he was singing things like “Let’s Dance” on MTV, for which
I had absolutely no time or patience.
And with distance, he has a body of work I’ve selectively and
slowly come to appreciate. And the
fantastic appearance of the song, consciously chosen, (and paid for) like the title, to evoke something older and
deeper than this mere film sung by the girl, jettisoning Walter into something
like self-actualization felt intrusive, like someone with big hands
manipulating my heart’s accordion.
But there I was singing the words out loud, because it was important, I
think that my daughters were aware that I knew these words. An oddity, indeed.
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