What Next?

The real question of course

What happens when we’re on the other side

When all the chaos retreats

And the restraints are lifted

And we have a new world to explore

And figure out

Like three hard traveling survivors of an old universe

Somewhat remembered, but not really (depending on who you talk to)

The first survivor, eager to document and meticulously notate what has changed, no matter how small

The second, inconsolable/bitter that the changes even happened, obsessed over what was lost

And the last one

Just hoping

For peace and a place to sit down

Without having to worry about

Fading away to find the next Crisis

How do we navigate this brave strange new world?

Where familiar things remain familiar but are

Just

A little

Off?

The Lesson In the Eyes

So, I've had quite an emotional ride over the last few days. The first quarter of teaching hybrid has come to an end. It wasn't the disaster it could have been, but it was indeed every bit as challenging as expected. Imagine, if you will, two equally powerful forces taking turns pulling you in opposite directions while trying to balance a stack of plates on your head. That has pretty much been the hybrid experience.

At the beginning of the month, I was posting daily thanksgivings like I do every November, but it fell to the wayside as school got busier, not to mention all the other stuff of life one can become overly preoccupied by.  While I remained thankful in my prayers, I felt like I was getting caught under a grind that was slowly wearing me down.

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And then, in the middle of my race to finish one marking period and start another, my heart was first broken and then uplifted when I encountered a seven-year-old boy named Danny Sheehan on social media. A video of Danny gushing with unrestrained excitement over receiving an Aquaman action figure went viral the other day, and it was shared by some comic book buddies of mine, which is how it came to my attention. 

His expression of pure joy just rocked me to my core because of how familiar it seemed. I knew that joy as a child, and, like Danny's, it was often associated with a superhero. I suppose upon recognizing that feeling, I felt connected to Danny as a result. But, that just served as a cruel set up for heartbreak as I learned through the video that Danny is also battling a rare and aggressive form of brain cancer and has been doing so for the last three years. So nearly half his life has been a struggle to simply live.

Physically, he shows the ravages of the aggressive treatment he's undergone. His hair has fallen out. His face and body are bloated. In one Facebook picture, you can make out the outline of his stomach tube as his mother, Natalie, comments about being grateful that the changing of a faulty tube would mean no more stains on the front of his shirts. Tears flowed from my eyes when I saw pictures of Danny as a vibrant, healthy-looking little boy in contrast to the physical changes that have overcome him.

But, then I noticed something in nearly every picture or video I saw of Danny: his eyes. With the exception of pictures of him sleeping, Danny's eyes never change from one image to the next. And, I realized I can see in those eyes the same joy and playfulness and cheer that I connected with in the Aquaman video. It just beams out of him despite the physical toll of the cancer and despite everything it has cost and continues to cost him and his family.

Coming to this realization, I was completely humbled by this display of persevering hope. This little boy, who has been dealt just about the worst hand a child could be dealt health-wise, still finds joy. He chooses joy.

Or perhaps more accurately, Danny, like most children, is gifted with the ability to just assume the best in every situation, and his heart seeks out the joy in even the most dire of circumstances. And, again like most children, that joy is mostly expressed in his eyes.

That's something we tend to lose when becoming adults. I wonder if my eyes ever had that type of joy. I remember feeling it when I was Danny's age, and I certainly remember when there was so much happiness and magic to be found in playing with your favorite toys or reading a great story or watching an exciting movie. But, what about now? My adult sensibilities get in the way far too often. I am critical of books and movies more often than I simply enjoy the journey they take me on. And, toys are collectors' items now, not something to share with a child in order to help them create their own adventures. Maybe when I was a child, my eyes were like Danny's. But, as an adult, I know they are serious and stern most of the time.

Learning about this child and his situation has me aching to feel that unbridled, innocent joy once again, however elusive it may seem. Ove the last few days of thinking about Danny, I have been shaken emotionally in ways I didn't know I still could be shaken and in ways I'm still discovering. This kid's happiness in the face of so much adversity was the kick in the butt I needed to get me out of my stressed out funk and not only be grateful for what I have but strive to feel truly joyful about those things. We absolutely should be hollering with joy about being blessed with good health, the love of family, and our connections with friends. And, even our darkest moments, there is joy to be found in something as small as a simple gift.

This has been an exhausting year on every level, and it would be so easy to give up and wallow in the darkness. But, dammit, if a little boy with terminal brain cancer can conjure up that much excitement over a plastic doll, then what the hell excuse do I have for not being grateful or not choosing happiness?

I'm keeping Danny and his family in my prayers. As much as his plight saddens me, I am thankful I noticed his eyes because in seeing the light in them, I feel like I got a little of my own back. And, I am grateful for the different perspective he has shown me.

*****

Some notes:

Here is a link to the video I write about if you would like to see it. Be prepared to laugh and cry: https://youtu.be/7hV345HFpKk

Danny has a Go Fund Me to help with expenses related to his treatment: https://gf.me/u/y4bcgf

Finally, thanks to efforts from people on social media, Aquaman actor Jason Momoa heard about Danny and called him. It was a beautiful gesture and one that I know had a great deal of significance to Danny because, like I said in the blog post, I know that joy. And thinking back to when I was Danny's age, it would have been like getting a phone call from Christopher Reeve or Harrison Ford. Here's a link to the video showing a portion of their FaceTime conversation: https://youtu.be/UipxF2VGGgw

What To Watch Wednesday: The Apartment (1960)

There is a moment in my life that comes to mind whenever I re-watch Billy Wilder’s The Apartment. I was having dinner in a restaurant with a woman I had been dating for some time and with whom I was madly in love. We were seated perpendicular to each other at a corner table by a window, and we were leaning into one another while we ate, joyously lost in our own little world of flirtation and laughter. At one point, an elderly woman stopped by our table on her way out the door and said, “It gives me such joy to see two people so much in love. You two clearly enjoy being in love with each other. Don’t ever lose that.” Sadly, we did lose it. Things happened. Choices were made. And we found ourselves needing to move on. Heartbreaking, yes, but that’s how it crumbles, cookie-wise (if you’ll forgive me using a line from the film). Still, my memory of that moment and what the woman said has stayed with me through the years, and it helps me remember how wonderful it is to be madly, head-over-heels in love. And, it has become apparent to me that this feeling is exactly what The Apartment is celebrating in the characters of C.C. Baxter and Fran Kubelik.

I don’t know if it is due to Wilder’s direction, the screenplay, or the unmistakable chemistry between Jack Lemmon and Shirley MacLaine, but something happens between Baxter and Kubelik whenever they are together, one-on-one, without the intrusion of other characters or plot developments. When the two interact, they both just come alive with such ease and comfort which quickly turns to love. And, what is more, you are happy for them as they discover their feelings for one another.

For instance, there is real joy in watching Baxter prepare a spaghetti dinner for Kubelik, who has been recovering in his apartment from an attempted suicide. Yes, suicide...in a romantic comedy. And, yes, the plot details and a bit of the dialogue venture into some dark, seedy territory at times, but Baxter and Kubelik never head in that direction when they are together. Realistic or not, you can see how Baxter’s affection and goodwill start to bring Kubelik out of her depression. And, you want to believe that the love from someone who cares about you can lift any darkness from your life, just like Baxter does for Kubelik.

Whatever the reason for this little bit of film magic, The Apartment, with all its goofiness and filmic stylization, pulls off the nifty trick of putting you squarely on the side of its protagonists. And you route for them through all (and despite of) the plot beats of a conventional romantic comedy. I suppose what I’m really getting at here is the film’s sense of hope. Baxter and Kubelik hope for success; they hope for happiness: and they hope for love. And, if a movie can get you to believe in that hope for even the tiniest moment, doesn’t that make it worth watching?

What-To-Watch Wednesday: Searching (2018)

Aneesh Chaganty's Searching is one of those films in which all but the last ten minutes is a taut, tense thriller intertwined with a brilliant character study of a grieving, desperate man. It is also the first film I've seen that successfully utilizes social media platforms and digital communication as authentic storytelling devices and not just as narrative gimmicks. There is so much to recommend about this movie, so much to admire, and then there are those last ten minutes.

So, let's get the bad out of the way. The last ten minutes of the film essentially turn it into a predictable thriller that had it been filmed more conventionally would have barely registered on anyone's radar as a worthwhile movie. It isn't bad per se, but it is something of a let-down after the promise shown in the preceding parts of the film. And, to be honest, it is something that would probably only bother a picky movie goer like me. Most audiences and critics wouldn't find it problematic and apparently haven't if current reviews and audience ratings are to be believed.

Here's the thing: If you like neat wrap-it-up-with-a-pretty-bow closure at the end of your movies, you will be just fine with Searching. If you are like me and prefer that a film follow its narrative to a more realistic and earned resolution, then the ending will be a noticeable, although hardly ruinous sticking point for you. But, if you are like me, you love movies and appreciate ones that are well done, and this one is well done.

The story is about David Kim (John Cho), a widower, who wakes up one morning to find his daughter, Margot, missing. After some denial and false leads, David begins to panic when it becomes clear that he truly has no idea and seemingly no way of finding out what has happened to Margot. He then begins an investigation into the secret life Margot has led online, slowly beginning to piece together her lonely, solitary world.

It is David's investigation that makes up the majority of the story, and Searching is nothing short of a revelation in how the audience discovers new things about the inner lives of Margot and David. Told solely through social media apps and digital video, the format becomes a way in which Chaganty communicates all aspects of the story to the viewer, everything from major plot revelations to the most subtle of character moments. This is both a brilliant move and a huge gamble for Chaganty as the entire success of the narrative depends on the audience being intimately familiar with the idiosyncrasies of communicating online.

To illustrate, there is a moment in which a character types out a text message, pauses as if reading what was just written, and then deletes the message in favor of something more benign. The audience only sees the screen and the typing. This moment, which would have been of no importance in another kind of film, reveals the emotional state of the character doing the typing, and there is not one line of dialogue or facial expression on camera. The fact that we are able to become emotionally invested in this speaks not only to our own experiences with social media but to incredibly masterful film-making as well.

This isn't to say that the actors aren't important in Searching. Debra Messing plays Rosemary Vick, the detective investigating Margot's disappearance, and she is worlds away from Grace Adler in this movie.  As Detective Vick, she is all stoic professionalism masking a deep emotional core. And then there is John Cho, who effectively conveys a man on the edge of grief and panic. The subtle shading he gives to his facial expressions as his character unravels the mystery of what happened to his daughter is a prime example of wonderful screen acting.  Both of their performances manage to penetrate the personal distance potentially created by social media platforms and show the real people behind the text messages and digital videos.

Essentially, Searching is so good at showing us David's inner turmoil that the mystery becomes not what has happened to his daughter but what he discovers about her life before she went missing. He's trying to find out where she is, but in the process he is uncovering what brought about her disappearance in the first place by connecting with her life. And, really, what else do we have when we lose a loved one? None of us get a spectacular revelation explaining the reason our loved one was taken from us. All we can do is try to understand the life they lived through the remnants they leave behind. This feels like the larger idea at work here in Searching; I just wish it had been carried through to the end.

Batman Memories - A Personal Tribute In the Character's 80th Year

Whenever I am asked why I still love comic book super-heroes as a middle-aged adult man, I have a stockpile of answers ranging from the whimsical desire to maintain a sense of childlike wonder in my life to the more profound notion that these characters and their stories are nothing short of American mythology, harkening back to Joseph Campbell's assertion of the recurring themes and archetypes of the Hero's Journey.

These are all true.  I am both the unapologetic fanboy gushing over the next fantastical adventure he can read and the literary scholar able to see the cultural and social significance underlying these characters.  But, something I have never shared with anyone is that my affinity for comic books resulted in me having what I can only describe as a spiritual experience.

No, I am not feeding you a line here.  I once had an experience that quite simply transcended my conscious reality.  All because of a comic book super hero.  Specifically, Batman.

For the 80th anniversary of Batman's first appearance, it is time I tell the story, I think.  But, to do so requires some explanation, so, please, bear with me as I lay it out.

To begin with, when teaching Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird, I conduct a lesson in which I show my students how some comic book artists have modeled their renditions of Batman on Gregory Peck in an effort to link the character with Peck's most famous screen performance as Atticus Finch.  The lesson is meant to highlight the cultural impact of both Atticus Finch and the novel.  Through the examination, I hope to show the students that Atticus has even been able to influence one of the most popular super-heroes ever created.

The lesson usually goes well.  It provides an opportunity for cross-textural analysis to figure out just why an artist would want Batman (a character who reaches the highest levels of coolness and bad-assery throughout comic book fandom) to look like an old southern lawyer who tries, yet ultimately fails to protect an innocent black man from racial injustice.  I mean, how could such a visual association hope to enhance one character or the other?

Without going into too much overwrought detail that would not only be terminally boring to most and completely beside the point I want to make here, both characters are enhanced by being associated with one another, Batman in particular benefitting the most by the association.  Although there are a variety of reasons for this, the primary one is that Batman, like many comic book super-heroes from the Golden Age, has a blank-slate quality that allows for a multitude of interpretations to emerge, based on how social mores and conventions change over time.

This isn't to say that Batman can be written any old way a writer feels so inclined.  Most fans would agree that Batman has certain essential qualities that make him Batman, even if there is some disagreement on what all those qualities are.  But, if a writer can stay true to a certain amount of those qualities and keep the essential Batman essence (so to speak), then there is a great deal of room in which to take the character in different directions and tell a variety of stories.

Among the best examples of this (and arguably one of the best iterations of the Batman ever) is the 1990s animated series.  Over four seasons and subsequent animated shows, the DC animation team provided an interpretation of Batman that was both kid-friendly yet managed to appeal to grown-up (and getting increasingly older) fans.  However, I don't want to rehash all the adoration and accolades the series received when a simple Google search would reveal as much.  The point I want to make going into what will become a more personal account is that the animated series is one that most fans will agree got Batman right and did so consistently when other media (including the comics) so often would get him wrong.

With all that said, the experience that affected me on such a profound level was when I watched my first episode of the series and heard Kevin Conroy's voice performance as the Dark Knight for the very first time.

Yes, I am serious.

The episode was "On Leather Wings," and it aired on a Sunday evening at the beginning of September 1992.  I was seventeen and going into my senior year of high school.  By that point, I had been a long-time comic book reader and seen a lot of ups and downs in the medium that comprised the vast majority of my personal reading.

I nearly missed this "premiere" episode but for the lucky chance of visiting the beach cottage of my great-Aunt Ruth in Fenwick Island with my mother that overcast Sunday afternoon.  While there and more than a little bored, I happened upon a TV guide while waiting for Mom to finish her visit with Aunt Ruth.  The TV Guide had a feature article about the new Batman series, giving it a good review.  It mentioned how it was airing that evening during primetime.  The episode synopsis revealed that the main antagonist was Man-bat, a detail that caught my attention because of his being such an offbeat choice compared to Batman's more colorful rogues.

Unknown to me at the time, the series actually had its premiere the day before during Saturday morning television.  But, for me and most long-time fans, the premiere was that Sunday evening.  And, I hurried home very much anticipating how this new iteration of Batman would turn out.

As I watched the episode unfold, I was very much taken by all the things the series has been praised for: the dark, art-deco look; the sleek writing; the voice acting; etc.  And, I remember getting a thrill at the now famous opening sequence of Batman fighting crooks on the rooftops of Gotham.

But, my light enjoyment at the show suddenly exploded into something much greater the moment I heard Batman utter his first spoken lines.  The actual lines weren't particularly dramatic - no grand statements or "I am the night" speeches, just Batman having a conversation with Alfred in the Batcave about the case.  But, it was enough to set something off in me I couldn't quite explain.

And then Batman took a phone call as Bruce Wayne...and his voice changed.  Not an actual change in voices (or voice actors), but an actual change in the voice.  I mean, the actor, Kevin Conroy, actively changed the timbre of his voice to "sound" like how a billionaire playboy might sound, or at least sound like someone trying to sound like a billionaire playboy, which is something Bruce Wayne is supposed to do in the comics.

To this day, I struggle to fully explain the effect that moment had on me.  I know goosebumps blossomed on my arms and tingles shot down my back.  Everything else but the show and its story faded out of existence, and I was transported into another consciousness for the remainder of the half hour it aired.  My imagination was engaged in a way I had not experienced since I was a child when I was reading as many comics as I could and immersing myself in the worlds of these characters I loved.

You see, that voice, THAT Batman voice, was THE voice.  And...I already know I need to explain that better.

I don't know how you read a story, but, in my "reading voice," the voice we all use when we read silently to ourselves, I create distinctive voices for the various characters that help guide me in my reading.  These aren't voices that are clear enough for me to mimic or even describe in any great detail, but they are singular and unique to each character.  But, for characters that have been with me for a long time, like super heroes, their voices are particularly clear and distinct.

The voice I heard in this cartoon at that moment was precisely the voice I had been "hearing" as Batman for most of my reading life.  Somehow, incredibly so, the show creators had plucked the voice out of my imagination and made it a real, tangible thing in the world.  I could actually hear Batman.  My Batman.

I felt exposed in a way, like my inner most thoughts had been laid bare in front of me in dark hues and colorful sounds.  But, instead of feeling embarrassment at this, I felt a vindication of sorts.  Vindication because my personal view of the Dark Knight was no longer relegated to some solitary pocket of a lonely boy's imagination.  It was actually valid and carried weight because there it was plain as can be on prime-time TV.

Kevin Conroy

Perhaps another way to illustrate my point is this: Kevin Conroy tells a story of helping out in a restaurant feeding 9/11 relief workers in the weeks after the attack.  The mood in the restaurant was somber understandably, and hardly anyone was talking.  When a co-worker found out who Conroy was, he had Conroy speak as Batman over a microphone from the kitchen.  It brought the restaurant to a joyous uproar, and everyone for a brief moment enjoyed some levity.

My experience wasn't nearly that demonstrative, but it was no less profound on a very personal level.  And, nothing like it has ever happened to me again.  But, that only serves to make this particular moment more precious and special.  It is also why I totally understand why those relief workers would react the way they did when they heard Conroy over that microphone.  Batman was there for them then, and he was there for me as well in that one brief, fleeting moment.

To My Grandmother

Below is a poem I wrote for my grandmother as a Christmas present this year. This goes along with the series I've been doing for important people in my life, starting with my mother, father, and sister. --- Steve

To My Grandmother…

The process of going to Mommom’s

Like the old suitcase used to say

Is a sequence of slight, gentle moves

The turn down the long used-to-be-dirt but now-partly-paved lane

The bend passed the barn

And the quick assessment of vehicles

To guess who might already be there

The farm, a mixture of fragrances (chickens, horses, and something that seems to change every time)

Hits the nostrils

While getting out of your car

And walking to the cement patio,

Up the brick steps and into the closed-in porch

Which typically gives the first hints of what might be cooking (or just cooked)

In her kitchen, the first room entered, the one where she is master and commander

Caretaker and socializer

You greet her first with a kiss and a hug,

And she greets you with, “Have you eaten?”

Or some approximation thereof

And you say no (even if you have)

Because even her tuna fish sandwiches are phenomenal

Washing it all down with her sweet tea

That doesn’t taste like any other tea you have tried

And you have tried a lot of them

The ensuing conversation

Had in-between her washing, wiping, sweeping in the kitchen

Takes you back to the summer you lived with her

She, newly widowed

You, home from college

Staying with her because family said she would need you

But, it is you who were in need, and you didn’t even know it

In need of knowledge and revelation

Because you learned what it is

To be strong

To keep on

To set life in motion

With the everyday things like cooking and chores

The solace of a neat living space

The routine of family care

All of it

The daily fragments that hold up the tapestry of life

Giving it something sturdy and true from which to spring forward

What-To-Watch Wednesday: Paterson (2016)

The funniest thing happened.  When I finally sat down to get back to doing some proper writing on my blog, the intention being to start off with a new W2WW movie review, I accidentally deleted my review for the film Paterson.  The hows and whys of how I managed to do that on a blogger system that isn't exactly intuitive or user-friendly and requires multiple steps to accomplish even the simplest of tasks remains a mystery to me.

What isn't lost on me is the irony of my losing a review of a film that has a very similar problem at its core.  I won't say too much more about that as it would be a major spoiler to the movie as a whole, and my situation isn't nearly as dire as the one faced by the story's main character.  Truth be told, I was never very happy with that review anyway and often thought about revising it in some way.  So, I took this happy accident as a sign that I should kick off my return to blogging by starting afresh with a new review of Jim Jarmusch's Paterson, starring Adam Driver.

My usual approach to the W2WW entries is to re-watch the film I am reviewing so I can have something accurate if not altogether fresh to say about it.  I don't feel the need to do that with Paterson though.  This is a film that has stuck with me since I first watched it on Amazon Prime, and my thoughts on it are very clear.

At the risk of sounding hyperbolic, I knew there was something special about Paterson twenty minutes into it.  The film is quirky enough: the title is both the setting (Paterson, NJ) and the name of the main character, played by Adam Driver.  Paterson, the man, is a bus driver with an easy-going, understated personality and married to a scattered-brained wife, Laura, who he loves very much.  The film follows Paterson's day-to-day interactions with his wife, people in his community, and the passengers on his bus route.

Honestly, the film could have stopped there and allowed Paterson to be our way into viewing the very intriguing and intricate relationships the various characters have with one another.  It would have been a passably interesting story just by doing that.  However, the film goes further and reveals to us the internal life that Paterson lives as a poet.

It is here that the film became almost magical to me.  Never before have I seen a movie so successfully capture the idea that writers exist in two separate worlds: the exterior world of physical reality and every day living, and an interior world of careful observations and quiet inspiration.  A simple book of matches becomes the basis of a beautiful love poem for his wife.  An overheard snippet of conversation on the bus evolves into a commentary on how men and woman communicate or, rather, don't communicate.  Through voice over and subtle acting, we get to see Paterson find his way into writing his poems via real world experiences.

Somewhat paradoxically, the push and pull of these two worlds (and Paterson's attempts to keep them separate) creates the unstated central conflict in the film.  Paterson exists too much in one world and not enough in the other to understand the full effects and potential consequences of each.  Ultimately, the story leads to a tragedy that only someone who has spent time creating and crafting something out of nothing would understand.  The loss that Paterson endures and his subsequent coping with it come right out of the hopes and fears of every writer.

Paterson is written and directed by Jim Jarmusch, a name familiar to me although I haven't paid much attention to his prior films, an error I still need to correct.  He has made a film of real charm and power, grounded by a strong central performance from Adam Driver.