Favorites: Inception

In keeping with my last post, I will continue writing about film in this post (also, I have not been feeling well the past couple of days and am now bored at home, so what do I do? I watch movies). Up now, one of my more recent favorite films, Inception. By the way, I'm probably going to reveal some plot points, so be warned.

The year Inception came out, 2010, was a good year in movies. However, most of the best picture nominees were derived from some other source. Inception was truly an original film, right next to Black Swan, and that's why it's still my favorite film of that year. And I'll tell you why: Watching it was and remains to this day, the most exciting time I've had at a movie in quite some time. I loved how it played with my mind, without cheating it. The film set up its premise and stuck with the rules it set up nearly the entire way. The moment that van rolled over in one dream, causing Joseph Gordon-Levitt's character to have to fight projections while his dream went ass-over-end, caused me to smile, a big Gandy-man smile (for those of you who remember the commercials). I was a boy again, enthralled with the images on the screen, thoroughly engaged with the storytelling, and loving every single second of it.

There are not many films I can say have had such an effect on me. At the moment, I can name four: Inception, The Dark Knight, Crash, and Schindler's List. The first two are exhilarating, tense experiences. The latter two, while also tense, are still two of the best movies to ever make me cry, and not just one tear; I'm talking about Alice in Wonderland crying. Such movies are rare, even among my long list of favorites.

Inception is unique in not only its storytelling--though I'm sure others will argue this point--but also in its combination of action and emotion. The film would not have been as good if not for the Cobb-Mal romance/dynamic. Yes, it would have been quite a good action film, but not nearly as effective.

Christopher Nolan knows how to keep his audience grounded in an emotional reality while everything around them is going to hell. He's done this before in Memento and will probably do it again. For Inception he provides two, shall I say "totems," to help us along the way: Cobb and Mal's love and Ariadne (played by Ellen Page). Both elements help to keep the audience "in the loop." Without them it would have been much easier for everyone to be lost. Ariadne serves her namesake quite well, for Cobb and for us.

Nolan himself once said that the film is about the process of making a movie, with the characters representing various jobs within the filmmaking process. However, the main reason I love the film so much is in how it deals with trauma. While in graduate school, I came across a literary theory that just seemed to speak to me (although I don't exactly know why): trauma. In our class, we discussed how trauma can be revealed and relieved in art, specifically film. To start, we had to understand how the mind reacts to and attempts to overcome traumatic memories.

At first, any traumatic event that is too much for the brain to handle is suppressed, locked away, until the brain can create a more manageable narrative of the event. The problem with this suppression is that frequently symptoms of the traumatic experience break through the suppression and manifest themselves in many different ways: such as irrational anger or crying over something others consider small.

Cobb has experienced a very traumatic event: the death of his wife. As the film progresses, Mal appears in his dreams, often acting against his own interests. Of course, the Mal Cobb sees is nothing more than his own guilt surfacing, angry at being forced into hiding. Until Cobb faces what happened, accepts his role in it, and forgives himself, he cannot be released from the traumatic memory.

Nolan follows this process by revealing Cobb's narrative, piece by piece, to Ariadne, and also to the audience. If the audience had known ahead of time what had happened, the film would not have worked quite as well. Indeed, we would have been cheated of the healing process. It doesn't matter if the spinning top at the end of the film ever falls. The more important point is that Cobb has stopped caring. He has found his reality. He no longer needs the dream. Nolan is asking where we are in our journey. Do we care whether it falls?

Inception reminds me of the power of film, how it can transform us, how it can hurt and subsequently heal us. Above all, it reminds me of why I go to the movies: for a damn good time.

Contact: Sagan's Love Letter to the Earth, and to Us

Last weekend I finished Carl Sagan's Contact. The film adaptation has long been one of my favorite films. In fact, I believe I once listed it in my top-ten for an interview. Ever since experiencing Robert Zemeckis' film, I have wanted to read the book. After all, Sagan is well-known as brilliant scientist. Hell, I knew as much long before I ever saw Contact.

I once gave a speech in the ninth grade, for an octathalon competition, on the effects of nuclear war. A book on the subject by Sagan was an invaluable resource, and I'm happy to say he helped me get a gold medal in public speaking.

I'm always struck how films and books can differ as mediums, most especially when adaptation is involved. Sadly, most adaptations don't live up to the original medium. I love the Harry Potter films but much prefer the books. However, every once in a while, a book and film combo come along that seem to defy the general consensus that "the book is better than the film." Indeed, I'd venture to say that both versions of Contact are equally great, just in different ways.

Since I first encountered the film, I'll start there. Zemeckis' film adaptation, which included Sagan as writer, struck me as an intelligent and realistic portrayal of what could happen should extraterrestrial life ever make contact with Earth. There will probably be none of the characteristics common to the sci-fi genre. No little green men. No "Take me to you leader" pronouncement. No devastating assault on humanity for our resources. (Well, maybe the latter, but I'd bet we wouldn't be capable of mounting a successful defense like in Independence Day, no matter how good it'd make us feel.)

Through the unimaginable vastness of space, it seems quite logical that an extraterrestrial species would test the waters before coming all the way out here. After all, space travel is not the easiest thing in the universe. It's not like the aliens can hail a cab and say, "Earth!"

No, they'd probably send out a message first just to see if anyone was out there. And in our "technological adolescence" we'd probably respond in much the same way as the film predicts. Crazies and all. Speaking of, I'm reminded of another sci-fi film that has a quote that fits, "A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky, dangerous animals" (Men In Black). Yes, despite all our advances, all our attempts at civilization, people are not all that well equipped to deal with things on a galactic scale.

All of this is wonderfully established in the film, but what truly makes this film one of my favorites is it's dialogue between two radically different viewpoints. Ellie Arroway (Jodie Foster) and Palmer Joss (Matthew McConaughey) represent two seemingly diametrically opposed systems of belief: scientific skepticism and spiritual faith. These two belief systems generally don't react all that well whenever forced into discussion. Indeed, avoiding religion/spirituality or a person's lack thereof is the hallmark of polite discourse. However, Arroway and Joss discuss their beliefs in intelligent, reasonable ways, neither attacking nor using hurtful language. These are adults having an adult discussion. Oh, how I wish others would discuss contentious issues in such respectful manner, without resorting to attacks on intelligence. Just because one person doesn't agree with another doesn't mean that one is more intelligent than the other. Different beliefs are just that, different, no better, no worse. We can just hope that as our collective intelligence grows, our species can grow in both understanding and respect.

The film is Arroway's journey, not just through the universe, but through her own understanding of both faith, science, and the relationships she develops--especially in regards to her father and Joss. Indeed, my favorite line from the film comes from Arroway herself in response to the more cynical David Drumlin (Tom Skerritt):

Drumlin: : I know you must think this is all very unfair. Maybe that's an understatement. What you don't know is I agree. I wish the world was a place where fair was the bottom line, where the kind of idealism you showed at the hearing was rewarded, not taken advantage of. Unfortunately, we don't live in that world.

Arroway: Funny, I've always believed that the world is what we make of it.  

Not only is this particular exchange demonstrative of Arroway's optimism and nobility, it's also a wonderful dig at Drumlin's falsity.

The film version of Contact is a far more personal journey than Sagan's novel. Interestingly enough, Sagan's novel seems to be less about first contact and more of a love letter to humanity.

The book's protagonist is still Arroway--it starts and ends with her--but the book has more time to illustrate the various changes to humanity that occur after the message goes public. Arroway is the main human character, but Sagan spends almost the same amount of time on the entire human race. And he does so without the slightest hint of judgement. Yes, he does find humor in how some people might react to first contact, but his descriptions are more akin to a loving parent watching the silliness his/her child then to a fierce critic passing judgement. He loves us all: each eccentric behavior, each seemingly random choice, every triumph, and every mistake.

Sagan's book is more about humanity than it is about an alien civilization. Even the destruction of the American Machine is treated not with condemning language, but with sadness and pity. We are both our own saviors and our own enemies. There are no true antagonists in the novel, only those who have differing opinions and reactions than Arroway. Of course, being the protagonist the reader follows through the entire novel, this is understandable. Sagan offers us no "bad guy" other than ourselves.

Arroway and Joss don't have the same romantic relationship in the novel as they do in the film, but from their exchanges you can tell where the filmmakers got the idea. The two characters are a great fit, the paragons of moderation in a world of extremes, and the novel gives them more time to fully develop their arguments. However, they are not as personable as their film counterparts, or rather the novel keeps a relative distance from the more emotional aspects of the story. Of course, this isn't a criticism, just an observation. Sagan has a reason for keeping emotion at a distance, but I'll let you figure what that purpose is.

Contact in both its forms is a wonderful experience: highlighting the best and worst of us all. And Sagan approaches his subject with understanding, pity, acceptance, and love. Given the chaotic nature of the universe, we need more of each in this world.

Shakespeare and Me

Love is a babe: then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.


Shakespeare--Sonnet 115

Having not seen any new films lately that have inspired me to write, I'll focus instead on the past, say Renaissance England.

This semester I have been blessed with teaching literature for the first time. Up until now, I've only been teaching grammar and essays, and while I do enjoy teaching these--odd for me to say considering how much I hated studying grammar in school--I have thoroughly enjoyed teaching literature. Granted, since this is my first semester to teach it, I don't truly believe that I've done the best job, although my students have been turning in some wonderful papers, but I do believe they have been learning.

However, it seems I have been subconsciously leading them to Shakespeare. Yes, when I planned my syllabus, I knew Shakespeare would come near the end of my semester; but what I didn't know is that I would enjoy teaching him as much as I have. After all, Shakespeare and I haven't always seen eye-to-eye.

One of my earliest experiences with Shakespeare was Romeo & Juliet. This first reading occurred in junior high. I didn't get it. Of course, that's not to say I didn't understand the language. I knew what was happening in the play, not everything, but enough to know that the entire play takes place over the course of three days. Three days. That's one day for Romeo to lament his unrequited love for Rosaline and subsequently see and fall in love with Juliet. Okay.... that's almost believable.

The second day has the couple marrying, Tybalt killing Mercutio, Romeo killing Tybalt, which of course leads to Romeo's banishment. Wow! These characters don't believe in wasting time.

And on the third day, Romeo and Juliet have an early morning love-making session--despite Juliet being torn between her love for her cousin, Tybalt, and her love for her new husband--, Romeo is banished, Juliet takes a sleeping draft and becomes a sleeping beauty, Romeo believes she's dead (as does everyone else) and goes back to Verona to kill himself, Juliet wakes to find her husband dead, takes his knife and kills herself. The end.

Now, my timing may be off. While writing the above, I feel I may have missed a day in there somewhere. Nevertheless, to my young mind such extreme passions seemed illogical, unbelievable, and just plain stupid. Who in their right mind would do this, any of it? It's all utter madness! Madness, I say!

Romeo & Juliet was not the best introduction to Shakespeare, at least not for me. Not until a couple of years later, in high school, did my fascination and understanding of Shakespeare began to grow. Theatre, Shakespeare's kingdom, forever changed my perspective of that poet who couldn't write a simple, easily read sentence to save his life. During my sophomore year in high school I auditioned for One-Act--every year, schools compete against each other by delivering their best one-act plays--and that year our director decided to adapt Macbeth into a one-act play for us to perform. (We ended up not performing Macbeth but that's another story.)

Maybe this is the "boy" coming out, but I loved the gore, the overwhelming guilt, the witches, the insanity of it all. Now that's a Shakespeare I can sink my teeth into. To this day, Macbeth remains my personal favorite (I've seen a version of Titus Andronicus, but that play is too violent and distant to appeal to my emotions).  Macbeth displayed human emotions I could understand, not to the extent that I shared Macbeth's motives, but they were at least understandable. The passion of love still escaped me. However, thanks to the Scottish Play, I was willing to give Romeo & Juliet another try.

Some of you may find what I'm about to write sacrilegious, but nevertheless it's the truth. Suffice it to say that I was once young, naive, and craving the passion of Romeo & Juliet. Baz Luhrmann's "eclectic" mess of a film, his MTV version some have called it, changed how I viewed Romeo & Juliet. After viewing his film, I got it.

Yes, the line delivery was not all that great. Yes, Shakespeare's language gets lost in the rapid cuts, dizzying shots, and screaming, but that doesn't change the fact that for the first time I understood Romeo and Juliet's passion for each other. Of course, it probably helped that I was feeling the first stirrings of passion myself. Around the time the film came out, so did I. At least, I came out to myself. Denied love was something I could relate to as I started crushing on guys from afar. Always looking, nothing more. Being forced to hide a part of myself, like the two star-crossed lovers, was definitely something I could relate to. So it seemed, I just had to wait for the right time to get Shakespeare's best expression of love... from what I've read so far.

And now, jumping ahead to today, I'm showing another film version of a Shakespearean play to my students. No, I'm not showing a version of Macbeth, although in another semester I will show the recent PBS version starring Patrick Stewart (it is the definition of "awesome"!). I will be showing Kenneth Branagh's ambitious and robust, full-length version of Hamlet.

I came to truly respect Hamlet when I took a graduate class entirely devoted to what many consider Shakespeare's masterpiece--the other one up for the top spot in critical circles is King Lear, but I have yet to read or see that one yet. I truly wish I could devote an entire semester to this play, but my students are not up to that level yet. Maybe in a few years; plus, there's another class I'd love to teach first: an entire class on the Harry Potter series, but that's for another post. Going so deep into the play was an exhausting and liberating experience. It was amazing to see passages I'd thought incomprehensible suddenly burst into understanding. I only hope I can reveal the beauties to my students. I know I won't reach all of them, but it'll be worth it to reach one or two, or at the very least light the spark that will fuel the fire of curiosity for years to come. Like me, many of them may just need time to appreciate the wonders held within these works of art.

The light started to come on in some of their heads when I introduced to Shakespeare's language through a couple of his sonnets. It's amazing what you can do with a well-placed curse word and a bawdy image to bring forth understanding. I always find it funny when students realize the rather humorous and sexual nature of Shakespeare's writings. In their minds, they can't equate the stuffiness of Shakespeare with humor and sexuality. That he made dirty jokes blows their minds!

Dirty jokes aside, I cant wait to see how they react to the rest of the play. My journey has been fun and fulfilling. I hope it can be for them as well.

And blest are those
Whose blood and judgement are co-meddled
That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger
To sound what stop she pleases. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave and I will wear him
In my heart's core--ay, in my heart of heart--
As I do thee.

Hamlet-Act 3, Scene 2

A Life Full of Food, Family, and Plenty of Laughter

Just a couple of days ago, I was asked by my Mom and my Uncle Joey to deliver the eulogy for my grandmother. I was happy to do so; below is the written version. I'm posting it here so the family and friends who were not able to make it to the rosary will know what was said. My grandmother truly was a unique person, a woman of incomparable gifts. She will be missed by all who knew her.

A Life of Food, Family, and Plenty of Laughter

Last week I was discussing an old Greek myth with my students, and I ended up giving a lecture on being able to let go when faced with the loss of a loved one. I never imagined a couple of days later that I'd be standing here in front of family and friends to talk about the life of my grandmother. And now I'm faced with taking my own lecture on "letting go" and applying it to my own life.

Maria Racquelita Gonzales, or as I knew her, Little Grandma, was the only sister among a line of brothers; however, being surrounded by brothers did not reduce her spirit, instead she became a second mother and loving provider for her brothers. Whenever the family needed anything, she was there with enough food to feed an entire city and ten times as much laughter.

Indeed, when the hospital chaplain asked for some final words, my sister said she'd miss our grandmother's laughter more than anything else. As for me, I think food would take the top spot, but laughter would definitely be a close second. Her laughter was infectious. Even now, I don't remember a lot of the reasons why we laughed, just that we laughed so much that tears sprung from our eyes and our stomachs would ache for days afterwards. Even so, I do remember one time when grandma was preparing breakfast for my sister and me. It was something simple, just cornflakes, milk, and a little bit of sugar. Well, somehow my sister's bowl had something that looked like sugar but was most definitely salt. When grandma was around, life was not boring.

Just this past week, I was shown plenty of pictures of grandma, but one sticks out in my mind. It's a simple picture. It was grandma wearing a cowboy hat, a belt with a holster, and a six-shooter. Despite being a unique image, the one striking characteristic of the picture, the thing that draws your eyes is her mouth, wide open, teeth showing:  in other words, the perfect image of the kind of laughter she shared. No one can say Rachel Sedillo didn't love life, and she took every moment, no matter the situation, and transformed it into a joyous moment.

However, laughter was not her only gift. Another was her cooking, and if you've ever had her enchiladas or tamales (two of my favorites) then you know just what I'm talking about. Some of my favorite memories involve holidays, or those special occasions when grandma would pay us a visit, when I would sit in the kitchen and watch grandma make tamales, a tedious and long process that produced some wonderful food and even better memories.

Food usually accompanied grandma's other gift: helping others. Even if all she could give was food, a friendly ear, or simply her time, grandma was there for those she loved. Family, friends, she was there for everyone and anyone. Even after she retired form work, she still found time to help others. One particular memory comes to mind. My mom used to tell us a story that involved grandma sending mom to school with rollers in her hair. Obviously, for a teenager, this was not the best way to go to school. However, there was method to grandma's madness. During lunch, mom had one of her aunts do her hair because that day was "picture day" and grandma wanted her daughter to look her best.

She always wanted the best for and of her children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. Even when my mother took up horse-back riding, despite not having ridden a horse before, grandma became her daughter's unofficial coach. She'd spend hours with children, playing and just listening, no matter how many ninja turtles I showed her, no matter if she knew what I was talking about. She'd nod and smile as though she understood everything. No matter what, she was everyone's biggest fan, especially when it came to family and friends. When her son, Joey, my uncle, played football, I'm sure there was one voice rising above all the other screams and cheers: his mom. Years later, she was even prouder when Joe married his wife, Tiffani, who later gave birth to more grandchildren. Grandma loved being a grandmother.

Of course, grandma did spend time on herself, as the bingo halls and casinos of New Mexico can attest. I remember one time when both my grandmothers found themselves in San Antonio. My parents and I had taken them to one of the great attractions San Antonio has to offer: the River Walk. We'd walked all over the River Walk, and I believe we even took a boat ride down the river. Needless to say, they were quite exhausted after all that walking, and of course they let us know just how tired they were. However, on our way back to the hotel, someone mentioned "bingo" and suddenly both grandmas had the energy of four year olds. Almost nothing could keep grandma from one of her favorite hobbies. Nevertheless, family came first.

She lived the life she wanted, a life full of food, family, love, and plenty of laughter. And while today there is a little less laughter in the world, while our hearts still grieve the loss of so unique and independent a person, her life will live on in our collective memories, and in the hearts of those whom she touched with her gifts. From now on, every excellent meal, every moment spent giving to others, and every laugh will be a reminder of the wonderful person we've lost. Until we meet, Little Grandma, until we meet again. In our hearts, you were anything but "little."

Madness and Writing

Even though I believe the genesis of this particular post stems from the current stresses of my live (mostly work and my lack of time for anything creative, including this blog), the subject of madness and writing has been a topic that has flown in and out of mind for some time now, hell, probably since I first put pen to paper all those years ago.

As I started moving through the material I had assigned this semester for my first literature-focused class, I realized something: I like "crazy" authors and "crazy" stories. Without realizing it, I had assigned works by Poe, Woolf, Gilman, and Kafka, and that was just the first part of the semester. We have since moved on to the Greek gods. Many students, I have discovered, find the ancient Greeks' myths nothing short of pure insanity. How can anyone ever believe that a god could take the form of an animal, impregnate a human woman, and thus produce a half-god offspring? That is, of course, until I draw comparisons to Christian theology (and I am VERY careful not to use "mythology" when referring to Christianity; many students would probably not appreciate their religious beliefs being lumped into the same category as those crazy Greek gods) and the Virgin Mary.

The next major works my students will read include Oedipus Rex and Hamlet. Needless to say, those works could also fall under the umbrella of "crazy." I fear my students may think I'm nuts and not just because I enjoy reading and writing as much as I do.

However, my sanity aside, all of this got me to thinking more and more about how intricately linked madness and writing can be. Stephen King writes (in his stellar writing book On Writing) that there are about four levels of writing (if I've gotten this wrong, forgive me, for all of my books are currently packed away, so my ability to double-check has been lessened considerably), structured as a pyramid. The bottom layer, which is the largest, is comprised of people who are not competent writers. The second layer consists of competent writers. The third layer is comprised of good writers. And the top layer is populated with genius level writers.

Most people occupy the bottom layer, which is not necessarily a bad thing (unless you're an English teacher and your job is to educate students on how best to write). Fewer people occupy the middle and second layers, but this is still quite a large portion of the population. The top layer has the lowest number of members, obviously. So few true geniuses appear in our lifetimes that in order to occupy this layer it's almost a necessity to be a bit "off."

Stephen King places himself on the third level, the good writers, which is defended by the fact that he is one of the most popular writers of our time. Since I have yet to be published and have my mettle tested out there in the real world of publishing, I'd have to say I'm a competent writer, hopefully moving up the pyramid.

Occupying the top layer is not a place King wants to find himself, and neither do I. His reasoning is that most of the people who are considered genius level writers usually have severe emotional and mental problems and quite often find themselves living a lonely life. It's actually kind of depressing when you think about it. Just think of my favorite writer, Virginia Woolf, who suffered from severe depression, bouts of insanity, and tried to committ suicide a couple of times before she was finally successful.

While I greatly admire Woolf's writing, her life is not one I aspire to. Yes, I want to be published. Yes, I would love to have my books read by millions and be a well-respected writer, but I have to face the fact that such dreams may not be a possibility for me. Of course, this does not mean I'll stop writing. On the contrary, I will always write. I have to. Ever since the first writing project I can remember when I was asked to create a book and I blatantly stole a scene from Disney's The Little Mermaid, I have had this insatiable desire to write nearly everything that comes to mind. This can explain my sometimes insanely long blog posts. This one is seriously threatening to become one of the long ones

Random note: For some reason, reading anything on the Internet that takes more than a couple of minutes constitutes a long post. Welcome to the twenty-first century.

Writing is an outlet for me, and when deprived, I find that I'm irritable, angry, and even moodier than usual. Even if my books never get published, I will continue to write down the stories that come to my head. Not all of them, since some of my ideas are just awful, just the ones that stick, the ideas that linger on in my head for long periods of time.

Recently, I've faced some of my first of many future setbacks, I'm sure, to my professional writing career. They came in the form of rejection letters. The first was a rejection letter from a potential agent. No surprise there. The second came from an academic journal, which said my article "lacked the clarity of argument necessary for academic articles." Apparently, my article was not clear enough in its argument, or something like that. This one did hurt a bit because I had worked pretty hard on the revisions they had asked of me, none of which included: "lacked the clarity of argument necessary for academic articles."

Oh well.

The third rejection letter was for another article I'd submitted, but this one wasn't a surprise either. After submitting the article, I'd reread it (something I should have done before submitting it; I know, stupid mistake) and thought it didn't sound at all like an academic article, but the paper of a first semester grad student, which was exactly when I'd written it.

I've received rejection letters before, but not in such quick succession. The timing is what I think hurt the most. So, I've been wandering around, doing my duties as instructor and tutor just like I always have been, albeit in a more depressed state, wondering if I'll ever be published by anyone other than my former university's literary journal. Not a great state to find myself. Indeed, the madness of writers like Poe and Woolf is starting to become all too clear although not because my writing is fantastic but because I'm now starting to feel the first stings of rejection. I have a feeling wine will be near and dear to me in the coming months and years. Just kidding, of course...or am I?

Anyway, instead of whining about all of this (although I am doing quite a bit of whining in this blog post), I'm going to push on, no matter what may happen. I may find myself an aged teacher, cynical, surly, irritable, and bemoaning my students' lack of writing abilities, but at least I'll have accomplished one thing: I at least taught someone how to express themselves in writing. And that won't be too bad an accomplishment.