cinematic shame

hello there

i have a confession and a cry for help, all rolled into one.

i have spoken with my colleague jett loe about this, and he has expressed his empathy. but i feel i must share this story with you, dear reader, in the hope that you might be able to assuage my fears.

yesterday i took advantage of a couple of hours away from my labours and bought a ticket at one of the local nashville multiplexes, for a film that looked to any reasonable viewer that it might pass the time, if not enjoyably, at least with a few moments of entertainment. failing that, some light dancing on a white screen has always served as a counter to the monotony of a tuesday afternoon.

after 45 minutes of the film had passed, i found myself gasping for a reason to stay. this film, which i do not wish to name, for it has already had enough publicity, was so derivative, so formulaic, so utterly without interest or merit that i had become bored enough, as mr loe once said to me, that i wanted to eat my own hair.

i attempted to steel myself for the possibility that something would eventually happen to pique - or resurrect - my interest. such as laurence fishburne turning in the kind of performance he used to. but then i realised something.

i was embarrassed.

even though i was alone in the cinema, and nobody else knew i was there, i was actually beginning to feel ashamed that i had spent six bucks fifty on this movie.

my inner monologue told me that i had enough self-respect left to choose life.

and so i left the cinema, and didn’t look back, lest i see the destruction facing the rest of the audience, and turn to a pillar of salt.

in the hope of purifying my spirit, i decided to step into the next screen and see what was playing there.

then i visited the next screen.

and the next.

‘tyler perry’s meet the browns’

‘drillbit taylor’

‘vantage point’

‘10 000 bc’ (on which more in the next thefilmtalk episode)

and, sweet merciful lord

’superhero movie’

after my embarrassment had dissipated, i was faced with a terrible question, one that my colleague mr loe has been asking himself for far longer than i:

do notable exceptions ultimately do nothing so much as prove the rule:

that cinema is dead?

r.i.p.

ladies and gentlemen it’s hard to believe - but this week sees three significant film-related deaths, with the sad losses of anthony minghella, arthur c clarke, and paul scofield.

jett loe on www.thefilmtalk.com has already said that minghella was a genuine ‘big’ film maker, and nick james, editor of ’sight and sound’ suggests that he was the natural heir to david lean; all i’ll add is that i never saw a film by him that i didn’t like, and i could watch ‘the talented mr ripley’ any time - for its rhythm, for its performances, for its music, and for the way it gets under the skin of how loneliness can turn into neurosis.

what do you say about arthur c clarke? i grew up with his ‘mysterious world’ tv show; i can replay his gutteral voice in my mind, i had my imaginative horizons expanded when i read his book ‘rendezvous with rama’; but, beyond all that, ‘2001′ is one of those movies that leaves me feeling like i’ve seen the greatest film ever made, every time i see it. people suggest that all he brought to it was scientific nuance - but his sense of wonder at the possibility of there being intelligent life elsewhere in the universe is clear.

Paul Scofield - a real actor

and then there is paul scofield. ‘a man for all seasons’, ‘king lear’, ‘quiz show’, ‘the crucible’ - do yourself a favour: take your pick, and watch one this weekend. he may have had the accent of a pompous theatrical knight - but this guy knew how to act.

the moral pulse of the oscars

The Oscars are a little under two weeks from now - with the threat of the writer's strike leading to an unexpected interruption of one of the most surreal nights of the pop culture year now gone. Rich and famous folk slapping each other on the back, handing out gold statuettes for works of art that many of us haven't seen. It has always surprised me how the winning speeches rarely seem to mention the films that have led to their success – family members, agents, even pets get name-checked – but few awardees talk about the feelings the film may have stirred in the audience. It's as if the heady emotions that are caused at the cinema are too … human … to talk about at something so tawdry as an awards ceremony. Just imagine Jack Nicholson or Nicole Kidman or Will Ferrell discoursing on questions such as the power dynamics in The Godfather, or the sense of loss in American Beauty, or the hope exemplified in Magnolia on the Kodak Theatre stage, and you'll get the picture.

But every now and then, of course, we get the kind of standout moment exemplified by Michael Moore's none-too-subtle attempt at culturally impeaching the president by invoking both the Dixie Chicks and Pope John Paul II at the red-carpetless ceremony that took place just a few days after the war in Iraq began in 2003. In spite of its clunkiness, here at least was a sincere stab at using one of the biggest platforms on earth to make a difference for the common good.

The interesting thing this year is that the films speak for themselves as ethical statements. Each of the five Best Picture nominees represents a high quality attempt at exploring a question of morality, and each takes its purpose seriously enough to propose a response that could stand alongside the kind of ethical positions people who seek to embody progressive spirituality might take.

To continue reading this post on the God's Politics blog, click here.

remembering john o'donohue


The following is taken from a short address I gave as part of the memorial service for John O’Donohue, which was held in Galway on Saturday 2nd February 2008. The photo to the right is of two pilgrims with the beautiful John, in September 2007.

The first time I had a proper conversation with John O'Donohue, it ended with him responding to my invitation for him to participate in a peace-building initiative in Belfast by saying,
‘I think I’m beginning to become involved’. At the time he was referring only to a speaking engagement, but little did I know that he was also going to become involved in my life as a beloved friend, one of the most life-enhancing people I’ve ever known, and a man so in touch with his real self that his goodness was always on the surface, no matter what was going on in his life.

The last time I spent a day alone with him was in July last year, in this very city, beginning only a few hundred yards from where I stand right now. We had arranged to meet on a Sunday evening, but by 9 o’clock that morning I was experiencing an attack of anxiety and depression, no rare thing for a writer, but all I wanted to do was to go home and be alone in my own space.

When I rang John to cancel our evening, he happened to be on the outskirts of the city, and he insisted that we at least meet for 15 minutes. We found ourselves at the McDonalds restaurant car park by the Omniplex cinema – a place which ordinarily I would not consider sacred territory, but now I believe proves John’s assertion that everything can be holy. He bought me both an orange juice and a coffee, invoking his notorious over-reliance on quoting advertisements for L’Oreal haircare products, and telling me he’d get me both ‘because you’re worth it’.

He then said words that I will always hold in my heart; ‘If you need to be in your own space to be depressed, I totally understand, but if all you’re going to do is be depressed, then come and spend the day with me, and we can be depressed together. Because I love you today, and I will love you forever.’

I think you’ll agree that it is a far better deal to be depressed with John O’Donohue than to be depressed on your own. and so, even though his day was busy, we spent the next 24 hours together, as I went with him to the anniversary mass he celebrated for an old friend, and onto his home at Gleann Treasna, where we talked about depression and anxiety, and I felt the healing balm of his friendship over cigars and whiskey by the fire.

I cooked him dinner, and we ate as a spectacular burnt orange sun went down. After dinner, we watched the Coen Brothers’ deliriously funny and smart film version of Homer’s Odyssey ‘O Brother Where Art Thou?’, and laughed the kind of deep laughter that comes only when friends have let their guard down. After the movie, he hugged me goodnight, and I went to sleep on his profoundly uncomfortable sofa. In the morning, he made me porridge and coffee, and then I drove back to Belfast, filled with a sense of well-being, and with insights into my own life that still reverberate in me today, but most of all, with the knowledge of the love of my beloved friend.

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Several years ago, John O’Donohue said to me, ‘I think I’m beginning to become involved’, and it is one of the richest blessings and deepest privileges of my life to acknowledge here today that, for those of us whom he loved, he is still involved.