Bear Necessities

Once, someone accused me of stealing. I was directing a production of "The Winter's Tale," which isn't performed as often as many Shakespeare plays. But for some reason, around that time, four other companies were doing the play. One company was actually doing it in the same theatre where my production was going to open. They were finishing up their run and then, once they had packed up and left, we were slated to move in and begin our run. This upset many of the people involved in both productions, because they all wanted to feel unique. But I was thrilled. How exciting to see multiple productions of this hard-to-see play! Surely, they would all be very different, each one enlightening different aspects of Shakespearean complex work.

So I went to see the production that was closing just before ours was opening. During the intermission, I introduced myself to the director and told her that I was directing the production that was moving in after hers. I wanted to talk to her, because her production was so wildly different from mine that our two productions were like oil and water. Yet I felt they were both successful on their own terms. Her show was great for Shakespeare newbies who wanted to be eased into the Elizabethan world. It was a sort of three-ring circus production. There was always something interesting to watch. She would allow about five minutes of Shakespearean dialogue to go on, and then she'd reward the audience with a pageant of some sort -- a dance or a song or a comic bit. Then five more minutes of Shakespeare.

My production had no embellishments. It was completely austere. Bare stage, uncut script, etc.

After a few days, her show closed and mine opened. She came to see my production on opening night. I was really looking forward to hearing what she thought about it, so when it ended, I sought her out. To my complete surprise, she started screaming at me, accusing me of stealing her ideas. I was dumbfounded, because (a) I hadn't stolen her ideas and (b) our productions were so different that I couldn't imagine how this could even be a misunderstanding. Eventually, she calmed down and explained herself.

It was all about the bear. The damn bear.

The one thing that everyone knows about "The Winter's Tale" is that it contains the famous stage direction, "Exit, pursued by a bear." And when I had first announced my plans to direct the play, everyone wanted to know, "How are you going to do the bear?" The question irritated me (at the time, I had no idea how I was going to "do the bear," but figured I'd work it out in rehearsal), because it's probably the aspect of the play that least interests me. I swore that I'd "do the bear" the simplest possible way I could find to do it and move on.

Given my budget and production style, I new we were going to have to create the bear impressionistically, out of actors's bodies and voices. I often do that -- use actors as doors or tables or dragons. And there are two ways to do stuff like that. One is to go for the "cool effect." This technique leaves the audience thinking, "wasn't that cool how they created a train using just actors!?!" I hate that. I want my productions to be about the story -- its plot and characters -- not about cool, showy effects (that are more about how smart I am and less about Shakespeare's tale). So I always look for the simplest, most unremarkable, least cool effect. I just want the audience to think "door" or "train" or "dragon" or whatever else they're supposed to think of at that point in the story -- and then to move on. So this was my goal with the bear.

(I think it's best, in the theatre, to have such a big budget that you can actually bring a bear on stage -- or create a hyper-real bear costume. It also works to do it the way I do it, where you're clearly faking the bear and effectively saying to the audience, "We're not trying to fool you into thinking there's a bear on stage. But lets all pretend that there IS a bear on stage." Either of these methods work, because they let the audience get on with the story. The realistic version is more cinematic; my way is more novelistic -- or perhaps more like pure storytelling or make-believe. What DOESN'T work is a half-assed bear costume. It sends a message of "We're trying to fool you," and the audience thinks, "But I'm not fooled! I can SEE that's fake." At this point, they start thinking about how the DIRECTOR or COSTUME DESIGNER did a bad job. This means they are thinking about the storytellers, not the story. And I always want them thinking about the story. Unfortunately, so much theatre nowadays takes this road. As an audience member, I am continually treated to sub-par cinematic effects.)

Now I had another problem: there are two old-men characters in the play, and I had one actor playing both of them. His first character was the one pursued by the bear; his second character had to find his first character's body (his first character gets killed by the bear). True to austere form, I was using no costumes, makeup or lighting changes. So I had to find a way to have this actor get killed by a bear and then -- without a costume or lighting change -- have him change to another character and find the dead body of his first character.

I tried out various things in rehearsal and found -- I think -- the only possible answer. All the other actors played the bear by becoming a huge, amorphous blob of aggression. They chased the old guy and pounced on him -- completely obscuring him while he screamed. Then they scattered and revealed the old guy, who was "transformed" into his new character (the transformation was pure acting -- no costume change). He then mimed discovering a body (the body of his first character). This solution didn't seem particularly smart or creative or cool to me. It just seemed "the shortest distance between two points." It told that part of the story. It got the job done. I moved on.

Meanwhile, the other director embraced the bear as furiously as I scorned it. She was thrilled with the possibility of showing off her creative talents on this production problem. I imagine that when people asked her, "How are you going to do the bear," she winked and said, "just wait and see!"

And she came up with exactly the same solution as I did.

We were working on the same play in the same theatre, which was "in the round," so there was no way to hide any machinery or to secretly whisk an actor off stage. And we had both made the same casting decision: to cast one actor in those two parts. (This isn't such a strange coincidence: it's hard to find older actors who are skilled Shakespeareans, so we tend to double cast them.) Like me, she had hit on the only viable solution. But unlike me, she thought it was brilliant. And, I'm sure, she had been talking about her brilliant idea to everyone. So naturally she was livid that I had "stolen" it. What if people thought it was MY idea and not hers?

True, I had seen her show before mine had opened, so I guess I saw her bear while my rehearsals were still going on. I honestly don't remember that part of her production -- which shows how little the bear interested me. My guess is that when I saw it I thought, "Yup, she's doing the bear the only way you can do it given these production constraints." As it happened, I had already worked out and rehearsed my bear before I had ever seen hers. I told her this, but she didn't believe me. (How could two different minds have come up with the same brilliant idea?) She told me that even if I was telling the truth, I should have changed my bear after seeing how similar it was to hers.

During our argument, I made things worse by saying, "If I was going to steal from you, I would have stolen something good -- not that stupid bear thing." I didn't understand how proud she was of it. And she didn't understand that I didn't care a fig about the bear. How could I not care about the most famous part of the play? In her view, backed up by the number of people who had talked to her and questioned her about the bear, saying that you don't care about the bear is like saying you're doing "Hamlet" and you don't care about "To be or not to be..." (The analogy seems correct, because the bear and "To be" are the most famous aspects of their respective plays, but whereas "To be" is integral to the story and themes of "Hamlet," the bear is a relatively unimportant subplot of "The Winter's Tale.") She actually got so angry that she threatened to sue me. I told her if it was that important to her, I would be happy to put her name in the program as "Bear Consultant." After a few days she calmed down and let it drop.

(I would have stolen from her if I thought she had come up with something that would have helped my show. Had I thought so, it would have been my duty to steal from her, because my responsibility is to my show. So if there's any way of making my show better, that's what I should do. If I don't steal because I want to "be original," then I'm thinking more of me and my reputation than about the show. If I don't steal because I don't want to be accused of theft, then I'm thinking of me, not the show. And my job, as a director, is to think of the show.)

It still fascinates me that we could have thought of the bear in two such different ways. We came up with the same solution. She was elated by it; I was bored.

What Makes a Good Comic Book?

Cartoonist Art Spiegelman wrote an essay about comics ("New Yorker," June 22, 2002) in which he praised Bernard Krigstein's Master Race as "an accomplishment of the highest order—a masterpiece." Thrilled by this possibility, I sought out a reproduction (online version). After reading it, I felt compelled to write Mr. Spriegelman the following letter. Alas, he never responded. Note: the link to his essay (above) doesn't include the illustrations which originally accompanied it in the "New Yorker." If anyone has a scan of the Kriegstein/Bradbury frame I mention in my letter, I would be grateful for a copy. Thanks!

Dear Mr. Spiegelman,

As a child I devoured comics, but in my late teens I felt I had outgrown them. I wasn't trying to cast off childhood by escaping from something childish. In fact, I'm sure I would have continued to read comics if the stories had continued to interest me. But I got tired of the repetition and cliches. Style became important to me, and I could now see that much of the writing was trite -- and even more of it was terrible.

But I've always retained an interest in the comic form. I'm aware that there's nothing intrinsically wrong with it. In fact, I'm convinced that comics have great potential, that the form could include masterpieces, and that a comic masterpiece would be totally distinct from a written masterpiece or a filmed masterpiece. But I haven't started reading comics again, because I need a guide to help me sort through all the drek and locate the pearls.

So I was excited to read your rave about Krigstein's Master Race in the July 22nd New Yorker. After reading your article, I searched for -- and eventually found -- a reprint of the comic and read it, hoping for the best. Alas, I can't agree with you that it's a masterpiece. I do understand why you love the illustrations and the layout, and I'm sure that the comic is historically important and influential. Certainly Krigstein had a deep understanding of the form's visual potential, and I think his observation about the import of "what happens between the frames" is key. But the work fails as a masterpiece, because the relationship between illustrations and text is uncomfortable and unilluminating.

In your article, you don't spend much time discussing the relationship of words to pictures, but surely this a key relationship in the comic form (exceptions are those rare stories by artists who "speak" only in pictures). For a comic to be a masterpiece, both text and images must contribute something unique to each frame. Remove the text, and you should be left with only half the story; remove the images, and you should be left with the other half. And there are all sorts of ways that image and text can play off of each other: one can hold back while the other explodes, one can take in the-big-picture while the other zooms in on a detail, one can act as an ironic commentary on the other, etc.

But the text should never simply describe the illustration. And the illustration should never simply depict the text. Which is what happens throughout Master Race (at least until the final sequence). As an example, take the panel reproduced in on the first page of your article. The text reads, "Look, Carl! Look at the face of this man sitting across from you in this now deserted subway car." And we see a picture of this very man's face. The text continues, "Remember the guards that gleefully carried out the sadistic orders of the master race... whipping... kicking... beating!... The guards that eagerly dragged the women and children to the waiting, smoking ovens!" And we see these very guards pushing these same women and children towards these same ovens." The pictures add nothing to the words.

Compare this to the two panels you include from Krigstein's Bradbury story. In the second panel, the text reads, "the executioner whirled his silver ax..." but we don't see the ax. Instead, we see frightened birds (not mentioned in the text) fleeing from the tree branches they had been perched on. Our minds are left to associate the sound of the ax with the terror of the birds. And we're also left to imagine the severed head rolling on the ground. To me, these two panels are much more of a masterpiece than then entire Master Race story.

Of course, I realize that Krigstein labored under a huge number of restraints, mostly economic and editorial, and that he didn't create the text. And I fear that many people would respond to this letter by suggesting that I have to understand the context or, even more likely, by throwing up their hands and shouting, "it's just a comic book for Christ's sake!" But we owe it to this unique form to judge it as an equal to literature, film, painting and music, and we should hold it to the same standards. Only then will excellence emerge.

Write Like a Cave Man

Do you know how to write Cave-speak? Ever heard of it? For Cave-speak, the only rule is that no word can be longer than three letters. Got it?

"Hit" is allowed. "It" is allowed. "Just" isn't allowed, but "jut" is. Kind of fun, don't you think?

Look, here's an example:

“My dog is a big red dog, and he ran to me on the day my dad die.”

Note that the end of that sentence was grammatically incorrect. That's no problem, because good grammar isn't required in Cave-speak. Just make your text understandable. Don't worry about it being good English.

Here's a Shakespeare Sonnet (in the original English first, then in my attempt at a translation into Cave-speak):

Sonnet 138
by Shakespeare

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearnèd in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
Oh, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told.
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

Ode 1
by Me

The day my gal do say she tell no lie,
I do say yes, but in my ME say no,
To get her to see me as no old guy,
Who can not see a lie and then say OH!
Yay! She say to me I no so old am,
But in her HER she say he no is new,
She say the lie to get out of a jam.
We both do it, so why get mad and sue.
But why she say she no tell me no lie?
And why I tell her I am so so new?
So I can be for her and she for I,
For her to say my age is so bad too.
So I lie for her and she lies for me,
Yes we two lie, but to us it's the key.

Cave-speak versions of “Why did the chicken cross the road…?”

Q: Why do the hen X?
A: To get far off the at of me; to go to the at of you.

Q: Why wee hen go to yon of way?
A: To get to yon.

What's So Great About Jackson Pollack?

"I hate abstract art."

I love abstract art. People often ask me "What's the point of a canvas completely covered in blue paint?" or "What's the point of splatter paintings?" To me, the problem with such questions is "what's the point...?" My appreciation of art has nothing to do with it having a point, if by "having a point" we mean that it makes some sort of intellectual statement.

Though I'm not alone (and may even be pretty normal in relation to the "Average Joe's" understanding of art), my views on art don't mesh well with common intellectual or scholarly viewpoints, which see Art History as a dialogue about ideas. According to this view, an artistic movement makes a statement and then a later artistic movement responds to that statement. To me, this is a totally boring way of viewing art.

Art affects me emotionally and sensually much more than it affects me intellectually. So just like I'd never ask, "What's the point of cheese?" or "What's the point of a flower?", I would never ask "What's the point of a painting."

I'm always surprised when people don't like abstract art when it's on the wall of a museum, because those same people seem to enjoy it when it's on their clothing (in the form of a pattern) or on their wall (in the form of wallpaper) or on their bedsheets, plates, etc.

The joy of an abstract painting in a museum is that it is pure -- it's JUST the design. So I can focus on the colors and lines and shapes and not be distracted by plates, sheets and t-shirts. I can let the colors affect me and make me sad or happy or giddy or whatever.

I love representational painting, too, but in such paintings color and shape and line generally take a supporting role. So you can't, say, focus purely on the color blue and how it makes you feel, because you're distracted by the fact that the blue is part of a blue military uniform.

People don't get abstract painting because they overcomplicate it. They assume it's a secret code of some sort and try to discover the hidden meaning. But the real joy is the surface. The immediate way the painting slaps you in the face.


"I don't like abtract paintings because they don't require any skill to produce..."

This tells us a lot about you and your aesthetics. To you, the amount of work it LOOKS LIKE the artist has done affects the value of the work. I am not criticizing you for this. It's totally reasonable. But note that not everyone cares (as much or at all) about artistic effort.

I, for one, do not. If I discovered, tomorrow, that the Mona Lisa was painted by a machine, I would still admire it just as much. I don't care about the human effort, I care about the EFFECT the painting has on me -- the effect its colors, shapes and representational elements (i.e. the story it is telling) have on me. I am at one end of an extreme in this regard. Many people care about effort AND effect.

People tend to misunderstand others who are different from them in this way. Perhaps it never occurred to you that someone might not care about effort when judging art. When I was younger, I never guessed that some people DO care deeply about effort. When I figured this out, it explained several things to me.

I always wondered why people seemed to admire movie special effects which you could tell were unreal (I see this all the time with computer animation). People tend not to like effects that look totally fake. But they do tend to admire effects that look just a little unreal -- so that you can tell that they're effects. (I'm not talking about stylized effects; I'm talking about effects that are meant to look realistic and almost do -- but not quite.) I suspect people like them because they can detect the effort behind them. Totally naturalistic effects seem effortless (even though the are probably the result of GREAT effort). Similarly, people seem to admire acting that is skilled but not completely realistic. They like to be able to tell that the actor is acting. Actors who seem totally natural -- like real people filmed in a documentary -- get less attention than good but bombastic actors.

"People who don't like a particular abstract painting probably have never saw the an original in a gallery. They probably just saw a repruction in a book and they're judging the piece based on that."

True. But why is the original better? For some mystical reason? No. The original is better for several stateable reasons. For instance, you can actually see the brush strokes in 3D on the original and the colors will be more vibrant (you can create many more colors with paint than you can with standard printing techniques).

But the main reason the original is better is because it is bigger. Much much bigger. (Of course, I am generalizing -- some paintings are small.) And scale is a trick artists use to make their works fly like a bullet directly to our senses.

We are naturally affected by vastness: think of the ocean, the grand canyon, outer space, etc. And these things never show up well in snapshots, because snapshots can't capture the scale well.

This is why it's an extraordinary experience to stand in front of a vast Pollack canvas. In a book, it looks sort of like a scribble on a small piece of paper. In a gallery, it looks like a whole chaotic universe that you could easily fall into.

"No, the original is better because it's the original—the actual art, as opposed to a sort-of-similar rendering of the art."

If I invent a new kind of sandwich and you make a copy of it with the same ingredients, does mine taste better than yours because I made it first?

The original isn't better because it's the original. It's better because it has certain qualities that the copies lack (or lacks certain bad qualities that the copies have). I have suggested that one of those qualities is (or tends to be) scale.

What if you could make an EXACT copy of the original -- with all of the qualities of the original (scale, color, 3D)? Would it be as-good-as the original? I say DEFINITELY. If it's an exact copy of the original then the only way in which it's different from the original is the fact that it's not the original. In which case, if you still think that the original is better, then you have a sentimental attachment to the original.

I'm not saying this is bad. But I don't share this attachment. I don't care a fig whether I'm looking at the original Mona Lisa or a copy. But if it's a copy, it better be just as well-crafted as the original. Otherwise it won't affect me the same way. And all I care about is how it affects me.

"You're comparing art to a sandwich???"

We are clearly having some sort of confusion in which each of us isn't understanding the other in some fundamental way. If we're to make progress, we'll have to delve into basic assumptions. One tool we can use is analogy. So I may, at times, refer to mundane objects (i.e. sandwiches) in order to make a point. Rest assured, I am not saying art is like a sandwich. What I am saying is that art, being a part of our universe, must share some properties with other objects in our universe -- including objects that are simpler to understand and discuss. We have to be careful with "art" because it's such a loaded word. Art discussions can very quickly become so emotional that all possibility of rational discourse goes out the window. In general, this is a good thing. If art didn't affect our feelings, it wouldn't be of much use. But art's emotive power does sometimes make discussion ABOUT art difficult. For instance, if you think there's a way that Beethoven's 9th Symphony could be improved, it's very difficult to say so without angering people. Your suggestion will likely strike them as similar to one which suggests their child could be improved.

Now, if you feel that art exists in some special, magical realm -- one that literally shares nothing in common with sandwiches, dirt, nuts, bolts, atoms, molecules, etc. -- then we probably have no grounds for discussion. We'll just have to respect each other's points-of-view (or be baffled by them) and move on. To me, the "magic" of art is that it is built out of ordinary substances and ordinary human urges and yet it yields objects that affect us powerfully. These powerful effects are also ordinary -- in the sense that it's normal for people to laugh, cry, fall-in-love, etc. When I am wrapped up in one of these emotional states, it doesn't feel normal or ordinary. It feels remarkable, profound, etc. But if I remove myself from my feelings, I have to admit that I'm experiencing feelings that everyone else feels too. And that art is one of the many catalysts for these feelings. Art is special because it can generate these feelings quickly. So while it may take me months (or years) to fall in love with a real person, I can fall in love with a character in a novel in a matter of hours.

Okay, so lets say we have art object A (which could be a novel, poem, movie, sculpture, etc.) which is composed of ordinary atoms and molecules. It's not the atoms and molecules which are special -- it's the pattern they're in that is special. Now lets say that this pattern makes me cry. This sad feeling is also special. Lets say A was created by artist X.

Now lets say that artist Y creates object B, which is an exact copy of the object A. When I say "exact copy," I don't mean that it's made of the same atoms and molecules as A. That would be impossible. If it were, it would BE object A. But I've admitted that the molecules and atoms themselves are mundane. It's the ARRANGEMENT of them that is special. We can build "identical" chairs made from different nails and pieces of wood, because each different nail and piece of wood is the same as each other nail and piece of wood -- in every way that we care about. As-long-as the arrangement is the same, the chairs are the same (as-far-as we're concerned). Same with art. If B has the exact arrangement of atoms and molecules as A, it will affect me the same way as A. It will also make me cry.

(Actually, B's arrangement can differ somewhat from A and I won't notice the difference. Taking chairs as an example, the type of nails used in two "identical" chairs can be somewhat different and I will probably still experience the chairs as being identical.)

Moving away from abstraction, let's talk about novels: you and I can both read "The Great Gatsby" and love it (substitute a different novel if you happen to dislike "Gatsby".) But we're both reading copies. The original, if it exists, is a typed (or longhand) manuscript created by Fitzgerald's hand. Is Fitzgerald's manuscript somehow better or more important or more Gatsby than your hardback or my paperback? If so, how? In other words, HOW WILL READING THE ORIGINAL MANUSCRIPT MAKE US LAUGH, CRY OR THINK DIFFERENTLY FROM READING A COPY OF IT?

A fair objection might be "art isn't just about the emotional/intellectual way it affects you." Fair, but you need to go farther. Okay, so what else IS art? Or rather, what else is the point of art. As-far-as I'm concerned, art's only worth (and it's GREAT worth) is its power to affect. If you feel that it has some other value, that's fine. In fact, that might be the locus of our disagreement. So I'll be quite clear and honest about my prejudice. I care about art because it makes me sad (happy, etc.). If a copy makes me just as sad (happy, etc.) as an original, then (as-far-as I'm concerned) there's no qualitative difference between the copy and the original.

Another fair objection might be, "Yes, but the copy won't ever affect you the way the original will." If this is your claim, I would like you to explain it and back it up. Now, you might say...

a) It's impossible to make an accurate copy. I would definitely agree that it's DIFFICULT to create an accurate copy of some skillfully made works of art unless the copier has skill equal to that of the original artist (or can utilize the original artist's skill -- see below). For instance, I can't carve an exact copy of Michelangelo's "David" without having Michelangelo's skill. And it's UNLIKELY that I have that skill, because M was a rare genius. But it's certainly POSSIBLE that I might have his skill. It's possible, because M was human and I am human.

It's also quite possible (here's the "see below") for me to use a machine to help augment my less-than-Michaelangeloish skill-set. In other words, I could take a cast of "David" and produce an exact copy. Or use some device to laser-scan "David" and make an exact copy.

In either case, if the copy is exact (or exact-enough) it will affect my nervous system the same way the original did, in which case it will evoke the same emotional/intellectual response. Ergo, by my affect-based aesthetic, it is qualitatively the same as the original.

b) The original was created BY the original artist, so it's historically important. I agree totally. But I think people continually confuse Art History with Art Appreciation. When I read, "The Great Gatsby," I don't care a fig about F. Scott Fitzgerald. I can about Gatsby, Daisy, Nick and the other characters in the book. When I read a biography of Fitzgerald, I care about Fitzgerald.

My way is not the only way. Some people care more about the artist than his work. For them, the work is a way of learning more about its creator. Some people care equally about the work AND the person who created it. All of these interests are valid. But we should be able to see that the work and its creator ARE two different things. And they CAN be appreciated separately. This becomes clear when we note works like "The Iliad" of which we know nothing about its creator. We can still love such works.

If you separate Art History from the art object -- and if you have the skill or technology to make an accurate copy of the object -- how is the copy qualitatively different from the original? At this point, I think you have to fall back on religious language. "The original is better because it has an aura or force or the artist's soul in it." I am an atheist, so such language is meaningless to me. But I grant it may have power for many people.

By the way, I should note that I'm an artist myself. I may not like to admit this, but I DO think it's true that if someone makes an exact copy of my work, in all useful senses, that copy IS my work -- or it's just-as-good-as my work. My creative role was coming up with the original PATTERN. An exact copy will contain that pattern.

Evil Without Hope

Critic Roger Ebert wrote a fascinating essay in August 19th "Chicago Sun Times" in which he suggests that stories containing "evil without hope" are morally and aesthetically wrong. He writes

I believe evil can win in fiction, as it often does in real life. But I prefer that the artist express an attitude toward that evil. It is not enough to record it; what do you think and feel about it?

"Chaos," the movie that Ebert uses to make his point,

...is like a movie of a man falling to his death, which can have no developments except that he continues to fall, and no ending except that he dies. Pre-destination may be useful in theology, but as a narrative strategy, it is self-defeating.

... What I object to most of all in "Chaos" is not the sadism, the brutality, the torture, the nihilism, but the absence of any alternative to them. If the world has indeed become as evil as [the filmmakers] think, then we need the redemptive power of artists, poets, philosophers and theologians more than ever.

I admire Ebert's essay, but I disagree with it. Of course, I don't disagree that he disliked the film. That would be stupid. Of course he disliked it. And my guess is that I would dislike it too.

But Ebert goes further. He suggests it is aesthetically and morally wrong to depict evil without hope. The moral issue is thorny. To prove his point, Ebert would have to show how such depictions of evil harm people. I doubt he can do that. Or, if he's writing from within a Christian framework, he'd have to show how films like this violate God's law. I'm not a theologian than I am, so maybe someone will show me where I'm wrong, but I can't see how depicting evil without hope violates God's law.

Christianity states that Evil exists. And that there IS hope. And that the hope is God. So I suppose that if I went around saying, "evil exists and there's no hope," I might convince someone that there's no point in them turning to God. And in doing so, I'd be doing evil. But films are FICTION. Surely -- even to a Christian -- it's okay to create a fictional world that is godless.

It's pretty pointless to argue aesthetics, except to say that Ebert and I have different systems. In my system, any story that is PSYCHOLOGICALLY truthful is valid. People often misunderstand this. They say that a story must be true and they define truth to mean some sort of reflection of the real world -- "a mirror held up to nature." But I doubt anyone really has this aesthetic. If they did, they would have to instantly dismiss fantasy, fairy tales, etc. (Unless they actually believe that fairies exist!)

Such people would probably tell me that though a story might be set in a fairy kingdom, it can still contain HUMAN truths -- truths about love, sadness, passion, etc. Which is exactly my point. Those are psychological truths: truths about the way we think and feel.

I suspect this is why an open-minded Christian can enjoy fiction set in a godless world. It's because even the most devout Christian must have moments of doubt. And such fiction would tell the truth of these moments. Similarly, an open-minded atheist might enjoy a story, like "2001," that is set in a universe with gods. Because we all feel the presence of gods at some point in our life. The reality of gods might be a lie, but the FEELING is true.

We all -- sometimes -- feel like evil exists and there's no hope. That is psychological truth. Even if we know it isn't really true in the real world. Or even if we want it not to be true. We sometimes feel that it IS true. And that feeling is real. So a story may portray this truth. In fact, a story that suggest that we ALWAYS feel hope in the sight of evil is telling a lie.

One of the things stories do best -- perhaps the THING they do best -- is to give body to a feeling. Stories can create whole worlds that reflect feelings, rather than our physical reality. This is the way stories are most like dreams. Dream worlds need not be true to nature, but they must (and always are) true to the psychology of the dreamer. Stories are the same. Stories can take our abstract fears and embody them as monsters; they can take our internal loneliness and cast it in the form of a barren, lifeless planet; they can take our anger and restlessness and embody them as explosions and laser battles.

Now there are some feelings that we may hate to feel. We may structure our lives, as best we can, so that we avoid these feelings. If "evil without hope" is one of those feelings for Ebert, then he would do well to avoid this film. And a more honest review would say, "This movie makes me feel hopeless, I don't like the feeling of hopelessness. If, like me, you don't want to feel hopeless, avoid this movie. Because it's pretty effective at conveying hopelessness."

And clearly the movie IS effective (or at least it was for Ebert). Ebert doesn't claim it was boring -- or that it tried to convey hopelessness but failed. He claims it succeeded and that made it a bad film.

Some of us enjoy movies about those feelings we try to avoid in life. (Though "enjoy" is the wrong word. Maybe "need" is better.) I am one such person. There are many feelings that I try hard to avoid in real life. Loneliness is one; fear is another. Perhaps it's because I can't entirely avoid them that I seek out films about these feelings. I KNOW I can't avoid them. I KNOW I must confront them. It's so much safer to confront them in a story than it is in real life. I need that safety net.

Ebert writes

The message of futility and despair in "Chaos" is unrelieved, and while I do not require a "happy ending," I do appreciate some kind of catharsis. As the Greeks understood tragedy, it exists not to bury us in death and dismay, but to help us to deal with it, to accept it as a part of life, to learn about our own humanity from it. That is why the Greek tragedies were poems: The language ennobled the material.

Ebert's mistake is to think that the catharsis must be intrinsic to the story itself. But it needn't be. The story can set up a situation for which the viewer provides his own catharsis. As-long-as catharsis takes place, the story has done its job. I suspect that Ebert's catharsis might have been writing his essay. Sometimes a catharsis can be total rejection of the story. "I damn you and will have nothing to do with you!"

Such movies can -- for me at least -- provide a catharsis while I view them. When I watch a movie of "evil with no hope," I may cry or clutch the hand of the person I'm with. But I will give in to the truth of my feelings -- those truths I've been working so hard to avoid. And that "giving in" IS cathartic.

I so need to give in once in a while, because fighting the feelings is such hard hard exhausting work. Once in a while I need to say to the devil, "Yes! I know you will win! I'm yours! Take me!" Even if I know that the devil will not (necessarily) win.

And then I need to wake up from this dream. I need to know that the dream was just a dream -- that the movie was just a movie. I need to know that (in a dream only) I hit bottom. And that I'm still alive; that I still can love, drink wine, relax with a book, and -- for a while -- avoid bad feelings.

The Director's Job Is Not To Honor the Words Of the Writer

A director's job is to tell the story as truthfully as he can. Or so I told myself after my first few years directing plays for the theatre. And I still stick by this definition. But it's a definition that must be unpacked if it's to make any sense at all.

A director's job is to tell the story… Yes, but what story? The playwright's story? What is the playwright's story? For that matter, what is a story? A story -- or at least the type of story the interests me -- contains a series of events linked via cause-and-effect: THIS happens, which causes THAT to happen, which in turn causes THE NEXT THING to happen. But causal-linkages alone are not enough to make a story. With cause-and-effect alone, you have "mere" real life: I got hungry, which caused me to go to the fridge, which caused me to see that we were out of mayo, which caused me to go to the store, etc. This is boring and not worthy to be called a story. A story contains a series of causal events centered about some interesting organizing element.

I hate dry phrases like "organizing element," but I'm wary of "theme" (though, since it's a short word, I'll use it in this essay), because it evokes term papers and statements like "the alienation of the individual from culture in the context of mechanized society." Such themes are formal and intellectual, and the theatre is most powerful when it is casual and emotional. But a story's "organizing element" CAN be a theme. One could also call it a "center" or a "pivot" or a "world" or a "purpose."

The chief notion here is that plays exist in theistic universes. Whether or not our (real life) universe is controlled by an intelligence mind is open to debate. I think of it as random and chaotic: event A may not have much to do with event B. I may call my mother on the phone and then, after that conversation, spend two hours taking a nap. But that's not a satisfying story. A story is only satisfying if its events are controlled -- if they are metered out to us in order to suggest some whole, which is greater than the sum of its parts. The storyteller, if he is a smart deity, will erase all aspects of the story that don't contribute to the story's organizing element.

I am tempted to say that a story, created by its storyteller "god," must have some purpose. But I'm almost as scared of "purpose" as I am of "theme." Purpose tilts dangerously toward didacticism, morals, ethics and social utility. A story's point COULD be to illustrate some moral principal, but it needn't be (and, in my view, the most satisfying stories don't try to lecture us about right and wrong). A story's purpose could simply be to thrill or titillate or entertain. For instance, a Stephan King story contains a series of causally-linked events, orbiting around a purpose -- which is to scare us to death.

The director's job is to tell the story … Which means that he must make sure that each event is clear. The man went where? Oh, he went to the STORE. The director must make sure that the causal links between the events are clear. The man walked out of the store without buying anything. Why? Oh, BECAUSE he doesn't have any money. And the director must also tie all the events and causes to some organizing principal: Why are we watching this anyway? Oh, because it's scary (or funny or touching or thought-provoking), and it's fun to be scared (or provoked in some other way).

It's not necessarily important that the audience can put their fingers on the theme or center or purpose. In fact, it's often better if they can't. If they can say, "Oh, I see -- this is a play about racism," then they will be able to classify the play in their minds, and once it's classified, they will be able to forget it. The best stories evoke a sense of mystery. They give the audience the feeling that their guide is a confident person with a purpose -- and that they can relax and know that they are in the hands of a master. It's okay that he is going to keep that purpose secret. The feeling that there is a purpose is more profound and satisfying than knowing what the purpose actually is. (God moves, but he moves in mysterious ways.) And the mystery is important. Once the mystery is solved, the story is over -- even in our minds. An unsolved mystery can resound in out brains forever, as we spend the rest of out lives trying to work it out.

(Note: so many storytellers don't understand the power of mystery. They've been taught to build their work around a theme or center, but they don't understand that the main value of the center is for them -- not for the audience. The center's value is to help the storyteller make storytelling decisions. It allows him to choose the right words or costumes or lighting or movement. By ensuring that each part orbits around the center, the storyteller creates a world that hangs together, which gives the audience a luscious, deep, complete feeling. And that's the goal. The goal isn't to explain the center to the audience. Or, if it is, one can do it very simply. One can put a note in the program saying, "The theme of this play is 'racism is evil.'" (Or whatever.) After reading this silly note, the audience can get on with what they came to the theatre to do -- to be titillated, moved, excited and provoked.)

We're used mysterious purpose in music. Those of us who aren't trained musicians can still listen to a Beethoven symphony and get the profound feeling that it all hangs together -- that every note is part of something great; that it has meaning. Yet what that meaning is, we can't say.

But the storyteller must know the meaning. He must know it, because all of his storytelling decisions must take this meaning into account. Otherwise he risks perverting the work away from being a satisfying story. Should the actress where a red dress or a blue dress? How do we decide? Well, does one of those colors distract from the point of the story? Does one further the point of the story? Only when we decide that the story is neither hindered nor helped by red or blue can we risk choosing the red dress, simply because it flatters the actress. The storyteller must use his knowledge of the meaning to make these decisions.

In the theatre, who is the storyteller, the playwright or the director? The storyTELLER is the person who TELLS the story. He's the last person in line between the story and its audience. Similarly, the joke TELLER isn't the joke book, it's the person who tells the joke that he read in the joke book. In the theatre, the real storytellers are the actors. They, along with any scenic, costume, sound and lighting events that take place (live) in front of the audience, are the vehicles that actually carry the story (the causal events) directly to the audience.

The director is the person who tells the writer's story to the actors (who then tell it to the audience). When the writer writes the story, he is the storyteller and the director (and, initially, the actor, when he is reading his script at home) is his audience. But soon the director takes over. He explains the story to the actors -- pushing them to emphasize this point and ignore that point. He becomes the storyteller, making sure the events are causally linked and centered.

Why? Why do we need directors? Why can't the writer -- or his text -- communicate directly to the actors? The director serves several purposes. If he didn't exist, rehearsals (and the resulting performances) would dissolve into chaos. Each actor would read the script, come to rehearsal and do whatever he wanted to do, based on his personal interpretation of the story. Interpretations would clash. The causal links would be unclear and the story would, like the Olympic rings, have many centers. One person needs to be the arbiter, the final decision maker, the guardian of the story. This doesn't mean he has to be a ruthless dictator who listens to no one but himself. A good director listens to everyone. He becomes a president, and the actors, crew and writer become his advisors and cabinet ministers. But the buck stops with him. And he must make the final decisions, so that the story has a chance of hanging together.

(The writer can take this role. He can come to rehearsals and tell actors what to do. But if he does this, he is the director. He may have been the writer when he wrote the play. Writing a play is writing. Telling actors what to do is not writing -- it's directing. One person may have two jobs. That doesn't negate the need for a director.)

The director is also needed to flesh out details. The writer may simple mention that a table is present on the stage. But what kind of table? A round one? A square one? Wood? Metal? Big? Small? These questions may seem unimportant, but they can't be ignored. They can't be ignored because someone has to actually go out and buy a table -- a real table. What sort of table should they buy? It’s appropriate that the writer simply writes, "table." Additional detail would clutter his script. People don't say, "I left the book on the blue, circular, metal table." They say, "I left the book on the table," so this is what the writer should have them say. Sure, writers can add "stage directions" in which they describe sets and costumes. But they can't describe everything. Yet in the theatre, everything must be described. It all must really exist. It must be purchased, placed and then the actors must interact with it. So the director fleshes out these details (thousands of them). And he makes sure that none of them pervert the story's center.

(Note: sometimes it's obvious how this should be done. You're directing a play about rich people. Should you choose the fine china or the plastic cups? Obviously, the fine china. On the other hand, if you're telling the story of a beat cop who happens to carry a notebook, which notebook should you use? There are dozens of notebooks for sale. Which should you buy? The answer in this case is to buy the most boring notebook you can find. The notebook that merges into the background. The notebook isn't integral to the story. It doesn't really contribute to the center. But the cop must have a notebook. If he didn't, the audience would notice -- "Hey, where's his notebook?" -- which steal their focus away from the story. So in this case, you choose one that doesn't distract from the center. In cases like this, you are creating the closest stage equivalent to minimalist writing like, "The cop wrote down the name of the suspect." In a sentence like this, you don't add that he wrote down the suspect's name in a blue, spiral-bound notebook with a Staples logo on the front, because this has nothing to do with the story. On stage, you don't have the luxury to leave out such details. The notebook must exist. So you simply make it boring. Audiences don't focus on boring things. So the boring notebook will deflect their attention towards the story.)

A storyteller has little chance of telling a good story -- an exciting story -- if he is not, himself, excited by the story. We know this, because we've all heard people tell stories that they are forced to tell against their will. It's deadly. We've all heard bored parents reading the same bedtime story to their children, over and over, each night, until they want to pull their hair out. They hate the story. So they won't tell it well. In fact, their children have to keep intervening: "You forgot to do the bunny voice, Dad!"

A storyteller finds the story exciting when it is his OWN story. This doesn't necessarily mean it is the story of his life. But he must feel like he is the owner of the story. When you tell a joke from a joke book, you only enjoy it if it feels like YOU are telling the joke -- that it's your joke. So when the writer writes the story, it must feel, to him, like it's his story, or he'll do a bad job writing it. Similarly, when the actors tell the story to the audience, they must feel like it's their story. They must feel like they have invented the words that come out of their mouths. The words may have originated at the writer's pen, but the actors must ultimately own the words or they will bore the audience.

In rehearsals, the director must own the story. So he's telling HIS story, not the writer's story. This offends many people, because they (rightly) hold writers in such high esteem. They feel like the director should merely carry the writer's words to the stage without adding any flourishes of his own. But if the director does this -- if he's just a pipeline between the script and the stage -- then he won't ever be able to own the story. And if he doesn't own it, he won't tell it well. He'll be like the bad joketeller who says, "Here's something I just read in a joke book. I may not tell it very well, but it's funny in the book." Who wants to listen to that?

If the director does own the story, then he will change it. He may change it in minor ways that are almost undetectable. Or he may alter it beyond recognition. But he will change it. Because by owning it, he will bring his own personality to it. And his personality is not the writer's personality. We want the director to own the story (so that it will be well told on stage) but we want him to stay absolutely faithful to the author's intentions. And this is not possible. If we allow directors to do their job -- and we must if we don't want chaos on stage -- then we will be watching the director's story, not the playwright's. The director's story may be adapted from the playwright's story -- it may even be closely adapted -- but it will necessarily be an adaptation.

(The audience will watch the actors' adaptation of the director's adaptation of the writer's story.)

And the director is not even really adapting the writer's story. He's adapting A story. It's a story that, influenced though it may be by the writer's words, comes out of his own head. Why? Because the story is the about CENTER. The story is the theme, spine, world, pivot, etc. That is what the story is about. But the writer doesn't tell us what this center is. It doesn't really exist in the words he's written. The words simply describe a series of linked events.

The director analyses these events to find the center. And one director doing "Hamlet" may find a very different center than another director doing "Hamlet." In fact, the same director may find different centers for two productions of "Hamlet," directed at different points in his life. And the writer (who takes on the role of director) may find that the play has a different center for him on stage than it did when he originally wrote it on paper.

The center isn't overtly stated in the text, but doesn't the text imply it? Maybe, but we must look closely at what the word "imply" means. Take a look at the following simple story:

Mark kicked the black man in the face. All of Mark's friends disowned him, never speaking to him again.

Most readers would say that this story "contains" a theme. And if asked to articulate it, the would probably say something like, "The theme of the story is that racism is evil." But no where in the story does it state that racism is evil. The story doesn't even show that racism is evil. The story shows that (a) Mark kicked a black man, and (b) Mark's friends disowned him. That's literally all the information that is contained in the story. (Note that the story doesn't make any universal claims. It DOESN'T state that anyone who kicks a black man will be punished. It states that one specific person, Mark, kicked a black man and he got punished.) We may say that the story implies that racism is evil, but the implication occurs in our heads -- not in the story.

Yes, the same implication occurs in most people's heads. But that is because all people are humans. And all humans share similar DNA and cultural experiences. So they are likely to derive the same -- or similar -- implications. A writer can capitalize on the similarities shared by all humans. He can try to push certain buttons, knowing that this will likely result in similar effects in most readers.

But even this theme isn't universal. For instance a racist man, reading this story, might derive a totally different theme. He might, for instance, say, "The theme of the story is that people treat you unfairly when you do something perfectly natural and right, like kicking a black man." We might loathe such a person, but we can't call his analysis wrong. (Though me may call his morality evil.) How is it any more right or wrong then our analysis?

Themes aren't IN stories. They are suggested by stories. And a suggestion must exist in a mind -- a human mind -- that is separate from the story. Yet in school, we are constantly told that, "The theme of 'Moby Dick' is…" or "'MacBeth' is about…" This is, at best, a sort of shorthand and, at worst, a sort of intellectual tyranny. Story's don't have universal themes. At best, they suggest similar themes to many people.

So the director must run with HIS theme. Yet that theme (or center), as subjective as it is, is the most important part of the story. It's the root from which all production decisions will follow. True, he can forgo coming up with his own theme. He can, instead, ask the writer what the theme is. Or, if the writer is dead, he can read interviews with the writer, from when the writer was alive. Or he can turn to scholarly analysis of the writer's life and works, from which, perhaps, the writer's intention can be derived. (Really, it can only be guessed. One can't KNOW another person's intentions.) All such analysis can be useful, but ultimately the director must go with his own theme. Only by going with his own theme, will he be able to own the story. And only by owning the story will he be able to tell it well. It may happen that his own theme matches exactly what the writer said the theme was in some interview. But that is a coincidence. The director must feel that the theme is his own.

And since the theme (or center or pivot or world) is what the story is ABOUT, the director must prune away anything that distracts from that theme. And he must add things that further that theme. In general, this will involve coaxing actors towards (and away-from) certain line-readings and gestures. It will also involve setting down some rules for the production designers. It may also involve altering the text.

This makes people nervous, but it is the natural outcome of sticking to a theme, which is the director's duty (if he doesn't want the play to fail). He may find that the theme is stronger if he cuts certain lines of text. If this is true, it's his duty to cut them. He may find that the theme is stronger if he changes certain words. If this is true, it's his duty to change them. He may find that the theme is stronger if he adds new lines. If this is true, it's his duty to add them.

Why would there be extraneous lines in the script -- lines that distract from the theme? Why would there be missing lines -- lines that must be added if the theme is as-strong-as it should be? Because the writer was using his own theme when he wrote the play; the director is now using HIS. And though these themes might be similar, they probably won't be exactly the same. The director must bring the script into line with his theme -- just as he must bring all other production elements into line with his theme. If he doesn't do this -- if he brings the sets, costumes, lighting, sound and acting into line with his theme but not the script -- then the script will be at odds with the rest of the production, and the audience won't have a satisfying experience.

(It's also possible that the writer simply made mistakes. If the director finds mistakes -- mistakes that distract from the theme -- he must correct them.)

Should the director willy-nilly change the script? No. The playwright lived with the script for a long time -- probably much longer than the director. His reasons for making certain writing decisions may not be clear at first. But upon further study, they may become clear. So before making a cut or change, the director should spend a long time studying the original version. He should make sure that the original really does conflict with his theme. But ultimately, if it does jar with his theme, the conflict must be eradicated.

(In the theatre, there are two traditions that clash. On the one hand, there is a cult of the writer. Actors and directors continually state that the writer's words and intentions must be obeyed. "It's wrong," they say, "to change a word in the text." Yet another tradition allows the text to be cut. "We can't expect a modern audience to sit through a full-length Shakespeare play," they say, "So we must make cuts." As if cutting a line (or scene!) wasn't just as much of a bastardization of the original as changing a line. Presumably, the writer wrote a word just so for a reason. And just as presumably, he included all the lines that he included for a reason.)

Theatre is a collaborative art form. Collaboration is a wonderful tool for bringing many minds to bear on a problem. But collaboration also has its dangers. Collaboration without control leads to anarchy. So in any successful collaborative effort, there must be an arbitrator. And in the theatre, that arbitrator is the director. The director takes the contributions of the actors, designers and the writer, and he bends them into a shape that fits within his theme. It is not the director's job to honor the writer's intentions. It is the director's job to tell the story as truthfully as he can.

The Unknowable Brain

Stanley Fish, former head of the English department at Duke University and a university professor of law at Florida International University, claims "If interpreting the Constitution - as opposed to rewriting it - is what you want to do, you are necessarily an 'intentionalist,' someone who is trying to figure out what the framers had in mind." He implies that interpretation only makes sense if you are interpreting the words of some PERSON:

"Suppose you're looking at a rock formation and see in it what seems to be the word 'help.' You look more closely and decide that, no, what you are seeing is an effect of erosion, random marks that just happen to resemble an English word. The moment you decide that nature caused the effect, you will have lost all interest in interpreting the formation, because you no longer believe that it has been produced intentionally, and therefore you no longer believe that it's a word, a bearer of meaning."

I disagree with Fish: one CAN'T discover a writer's intention, which at most one person knows (or knew): the writer himself. And even he might have been unaware of his intention. Not all writers work consciously.

One can't peer into another's mind. The best one can do is to ask someone his intention (if this is possible, i.e. if he is still alive) and then pretend the answer one receives is the truth. But it may not be. It may be a lie, or it may be a plausible explanation that has nothing to do with what the actual intention was, when writing. (If someone asks me why I decided to write this blog post, I will probably come up with something smart-sounding to say, because I don't want to look dumb. But it may not relate to the REAL reason why I chose to write it, which I might not even know.)

One can try to mine intention from historical context (i.e. by "Separation of Church and State," the founding fathers were not talking about total atheism, because back then no one thought in those terms), but that is equally dangerous. It's a game and we can all agree to play by its rules, but it has nothing to do with real intentions.

I even take issue with Fish's example of "help" written on a rock. He claims that if we found out it "written" by an accident of nature, we would lose interest in it. No. HE would lose interest in it. I wouldn't. I claim it would still be the world "help" just as much as it would have been had it been carved into the rock by a human.

Texts have meaning irregardless of who wrote them. If they didn't, then the works of Shakespeare and Homer would be meaningless, since we know next to nothing about those authors. And if I discovered tomorrow that "Huckleberry Finn" had actually been composed by a monkey randomly pounding keys on a typewriter, I wouldn't be any less effected by the novel. It would still make me laugh and cry.

One can be interested in biographies of authors. One can care about Mark Twain and about the person -- if there was one -- who wrote "help" on the rock. But that is a different from caring about the text itself. People confuse the two all the time, because many people care about both -- the text and the author. It's fine and natural to care about both. But they are two different things.

If you want, you can let your knowledge about the author affect your interpretation of his work (i.e. Shakespeare had a son named Hamnet -- Hmm … pretty close to "Hamlet!"), but that is your choice, and it is a somewhat arbitrary choice. One CAN compare a work to its author's life. One can also compare one author's work to another author's work. Or one can compare a work to a peach. One should do whatever one likes, as-long-as one doesn't demand that everyone else does it.

The author doesn't matter -- unless you happen to be interested in biography. If I buy a book that is missing its cover, I can enjoy the story without knowing who wrote it. Yes, finding out that the author was actually a Nazi might color my ideas about the book, but so could anything. The author might casually mention the town I grew up in, and THAT will color my reading of the book. My mind will make the associations that it will.

Let's say someone says to me, "What happens to Uncle Vanya after the play ends?" If I'm the actor playing the part (or the director of the play), I can answer, "Oh, he goes out in the yard and shoots himself," but does that make it true? Do I have the magic ability to insert an interpretation into the universe? And what if we discover a long-lost interview with Chekhov in which he says, "After the story ends, Vanya moves to the south of France and opens a hotel." Is he right? (If I disagree, am I wrong?) Why is he right? Because he is the author? Okay, but what does it MEAN that he's right? In what sense does Vanya move to France. Vanya is a fictional character, and no where in the work of fiction in which he exists does he move to France. So is the story the original play PLUS anything the author says about it? Or is the story just the original play? There's no answer. The story is whatever I (an individual reader) want it to be. It might be something different to you. All we can agree on is what is printed on the page.

As far as I'm concerned, "The Godfather" is a story told in two films: "The Godfather" and "The Godfather, Part II." There's a Part III, but I don't acknowledge it. The filmmaker does. I say that neither of us is right. Or we are both right. We are right because there IS one interpretation that DOES matter: that of the reader (or viewer). It matters to the reader. It matters to the reader, because he IS privy to HIS interpretation. I can tell you what "The Godfather" means to me and Coppola can tell you what it means to him -- but he can't tell you what it means to me, even though he wrote it. By publishing it, he is allowing me to form my own relationship with it.

A book is like a child who grows up and gets married. When I married my wife, I formed a relationship with her which had nothing to do with her parents -- even though they created her. Parents hate this truth. So do authors. But it IS the truth.

And it all comes down to why we read. Perhaps some people read to form an imaginary relationship between themselves and the author. They imagine that the author is talking directly to them. And they try to figure out what the author MEANS -- just as I might try to figure out what you mean in a conversation with you. This is fine if reading this way gives them pleasure. (Although it is a sort of game. They can play it, but they can't make the game real. They can NEVER peer into the author's mind.)

This is NOT why I read. I read to think and feel -- mostly to feel. I look at the words on the page and let them form ideas and emotions in my brain and heart. This is why I read and it's the only reason why I read. If the words come from a human or a monkey or a freak accident of nature … I don't care. I just care about the effect they have on me.

Of course, Fish is not talking about fiction. He's talking about interpreting a legal document. But the same rule applies. It's pointless to try to figure out the founders' intentions. They are unknowable. To seek unknowable information is foolish and a waste of time. And even if we waved a magic wand and found those intentions, are we sure we would like what we would find? Maybe the INTENTION behind "Separation of Church and State" -- the reason one of the founders actually wrote that line -- was because he got pressured by his wife to d so. Maybe she said she'd quit sleeping with him if he didn't write it. Unlikely perhaps, but possible. And if it's true, what then? Do we cross out that part of the document, or do we decide that it's worth keeping, even if the original intention was silly or self-serving?

But if we don't search for the Founding Fathers' Intentions, doesn't that leave the interpretation totally up to us? And if it's up to us -- to each one of us -- then each one of us could come up with a totally different interpretation. Maybe so. I don't claim to have a solution to the problem of how we should interpret a legal document. But just because I don't have a solution, that doesn't mean we should search for the Founders' intentions. We shouldn't search for their intentions because it's impossible to find them. We waste our time trying to achieve the impossible.

And I don't think we really CAN try for impossible things if we KNOW -- I
mean deeply know -- that they are impossible. I can't try to make 2 + 2 = 5. I just can't. I know it's impossible, so my mind won't go there. When we get caught up in "impossible dreams," when we say, "it may be impossible, but dang it all, I'm going to give it my best effort anyway," do we REALLY think the task at hand is impossible? Many people DO believe (erroneously) that we can know intentions. So maybe they CAN strive for such knowledge. But I know it's impossible, so I can't strive for it.

What I can agree to do is play a game: I can say that evidence from written texts (and other evidence from history) is called "intention." And I can search for and study that evidence. If we all agree that such evidence equals intention then we can play the game together, perhaps to great utility. But that doesn't change the fact that I know of another type of intention -- the type I feel in my own head. And I know that no one has access to it except me.

I can say, "In his private diary, Jefferson reveals his intentions…", but this is a kind of conversational shorthand. In reality, I mean, in a document that probably is Jefferson's diary, the writer -- probably Jefferson -- makes a claim about his intentions." When we admit that this claim gives us ZERO insight into the actual Jefferson's unknowable intentions, why continue to talk this way? Say, I read the Constitution and was swayed by it. And then I read another document, and I was further swayed by THAT.

Good Writing

When asking for book recommendations, I often say that I only like "good writing." What a stupid phrase! I should speak more clearly. For what is good writing. To one man, it might mean good grammar and spelling; to another, it might mean that the writer knows how to wax poetic and spew out metaphorical devices. Sometimes, I say (a bit more clearly) that I am talking about writing style. At which point the listener usually points me towards ornate, flowery writers with showy prose.

But I read to get lost in a writer's world. I read to escape. I read to adventure. This is obviously true with fiction, but it's also true with non-fiction. By which I mean that a writer's world is a controlled version of our world. It's controlled in the sense that the writer keeps our mind from infinite wandering.

In our world, we can freely think about anything. You can I can be standing on the front lawn, talking about taxes, when I can suddenly wonder what's under that rock by the tree. It's safe to wonder about the rock, because if I pick it up, there will be something underneath. And whatever it is will obey the laws that govern our universe. True, I will have strayed from taxes, but that's okay in real life. Life isn't about sticking to a point. Life's only point is living, and one needed try to stay on task. For one is bound to live until one dies.

But books have a point. If they are non-fiction, their point is some subject. And that subject is the world. If the subject is George Washington, it's pretty disastrous if, in the middle of a paragraph, I start thinking about the Easter Bunny. Of course, an author can't control my environment. There's nothing he can do to stop my roommate from dressing in an Easter Bunny suit and hopping about in front of my while I am trying to read about Winter in Valley Forge. But he can take pains to control his own world. He can keep the text firmly focused on George Washington. It is this focus, in fact, that leads me to books. Real life is so un-focused and haphazard. I turn to books for meaning. In life, I'm an Atheist who believes in a random universe. But I love books because each has a god, and that god is the author. The author creates rules and all the characters and devices in the book are bound by those rules.

In fiction, I may wander with the main character to the grocery store, to school, or to the court of King Arthur. But once there, I can't idly pick up any rock I choose. I can't do so because there's nothing under than rock. The writer can't completely flesh out his world. Yet his world must feel completely fleshed out. Otherwise reading his story will be a tawdry experience. So he has to trap me in a train of thought. He has to control my mind to such an extent that I don't try to peek through certain doors and don't climb certain staircases. Also, if I could wander anyway, I would lose the thread of the story. Fiction has just as much of a point as non-fiction, though generally the "point" is the life and times of a specific character. While reading about Oliver Twist, I shouldn't be thinking about Justin Timberlake.

Which isn't to say that writers should hold my mind in a vice. The trick is to make me feel as if I have freedom to wander anywhere within their world without actually allowing me to do so. The writer should create a cage for me like the ones in today's sophisticated zoos, in which the animals feel as if they are wandering through hills and forests, while all the time they are trapped in an exhibition. Sure, they can wander from the lake to the gulley, but both lake and gulley are trapped within the same enclosure. And there's no way the animal could wander into the gift shop.

When I'm reading it is possible for me to experience a high so great, it's like the best sex in the world or the best chocolate cake or the best cup of coffee. This happens when my I control my surroundings: when I'm sitting comfortably in a quiet, well-lit room; when no one can disturb me and when the wristband of my watch won't chafe my wrist. In short, when I can focus with complete attention on the writer's words.

At this point I have done all that I can, and the rest is up to the writer. If there are no internal distractions within his book, I can submerge myself totally within its world. If it's non-fiction, I will get so caught up in the book's ideas that all other thoughts will be banished from my brain. If it's fiction, I will believe the world is real. Sometimes this belief doesn't last long, but there are those rare, wonderful moments when I fall in love with the heroine or scream when the hero falls off a cliff. Others may read for different reasons, but this is why I read. It's the only reason why I read. For these orgasmic moments of complete escape.

(So-called post-modern fiction, in which the fourth-wall is broken and the story admits that it is a story, is not an exception to the rule. Such fiction still should contain a controlled world. Perhaps the writer wants you to think about the fact that you're reading a book; perhaps he wants you to consciously compare the hero to Bill Clinton; perhaps he wants you to notice puns and other word-games in the text. But he doesn't want you to think about anything. When watching a Brecht play, you're meant to always know it's a play -- but you're not meant to think about what shoes you're going to wear tomorrow. A PoMo writer's world contains items external to his book -- but it doesn't contain ALL items external to his book)

There are many ways a writer may can stumble and distance you from his world. He can contrive a plot device so ridiculous that you know it could never really happen. He can flout logic. He can insert anachronisms in a historical novel. He can put didactic speeches in his character's mouths. He can use obvious exposition and try to pass it off as dialogue.

Imagine coming across something impossible in real life. You're walking down the street and you see a dragon. At first, you cast around for physically possible explanations: it's someone in a dragon suit, etc. But when this fails, you're forced to except on of two possibilities -- either there is magic in the world of you have gone insane. But your mind will try everything else before jumping to one of these conclusions.

When reading a book, your mind will never jump to these conclusions. Those orgasmic submersions are powerful but fragile. If you come across something impossible for in a book and your mind can't account for it within the book, your mind will do the only logical thing: it will think, "it's just a book, and clearly the writer made a mistake." At which point you're no longer submerged. You're thinking about the writer, and the writer is not part of the story (or, in the case of a PoMo story, certain aspects of the writer are not part of the story).

Some people may enjoy the story even if it contains such lapses (after all, the fight scenes are still cool, and the language is still astounding), but I can't. I read for submergence, and no one can be simultaneously submerged in a world and sitting outside it. You're in or you're out. Sure, you can be in for parts of a book and out for other parts, but if you come out too often, it's hard to keep resubmerging. It's painful to be yanked out of a submergence, just as it's painful to be yanked out of a pleasant dream. And if a clumsy writer keeps yanking you out, you're not going to trust him enough to allow yourself to be duped back in again.

One of the easiest ways a writer can burst the bubble is through bad use of language -- bad style -- or as I stupidly put it, bad writing. Something simple as a spelling mistake can rip me from the world. After all, where could a misspelling come from except from the writer, and if I'm thinking of the writer, I am not thinking about his world. As a terrible spelling, I would long to join those ranks that say, "spelling doesn't matter as long as you know what somebody means." But it does matter. It doesn't matter for some polite, academic reason. It matters because bad spelling makes you think about spelling. Whereas good spelling doesn't make you think about anything. So you are free to think about the world.

Cliches are good yankers. They make you think about the ineptitude of the writer, in which case you're not thinking about the world. The same is true with bad dialogue, mixed metaphor, poor grammar and overly-complex construction. The list could go on and on.

There are a million uses for good language. Words can be beautiful things in and of themselves. And while pedestrian writing may not hurt, skilled writing can evoke powerful, often unconscious feelings and urges. And I praise all these poetic and magical uses of worlds. But when I ask for good writing, I mean something far simpler. I mean writing that doesn't dislodge me from the world. I want to thrill to the fear of what's behind the creaking door without cringing at who's responsible for the creaking sentences.

Peter Jackson: con-artist

Of Jackson's "Lord of the Rings" films: most people I know -- people who have never read the books -- were mildly entertained by the movies. The Tolkien fans were either ecstatic or furious, depending on how close they thought Jackson got to their scripture. I wouldn't call myself a Tolkien fan. I think Tolkien had some great ideas for a story, some of which he pulled off, others would have been better left for another, better writer. But I did enjoy reading his books.

I HATED the movies. And I think of them as sort of a con-job, pulled on the movie-going public. As a HUGE movie buff, I get irritated every time I hear Jackson talked about as if he's some sort of great director -- as if he's a Kubrick or a Welles. He's not. He's a hack.

Here's what he did: he took the Tolkien books and ILLUSTRATED them. And he used the most banal illustrations he could find. People think the films are "visually stunning" because they contain huge battle scenes and show expansive landscapes. But they are actually visually sterile and cliched. Gandalf looks exactly the way we all imagine him to look when we aren't thinking about him in any meaningful way. So does Gollum. So do the landscapes and castles. Everything looks the way these things look on dozens of mediocre book-jacket illustrations. A REAL director -- a Copola or an Ang Lee -- would have his own, unique and brave take on the book. Jackson's visual style seems to be to accept the first thing that pops into his head and then MAKE IT REALLY BIG.

If he didn't have a really unique take on the books, he could have hired someone who did. This is how the makers of "Alien" worked. They wanted something really special, so they combed art books and found H.R. Geiger. And with him, they came up with a really original, scary style. (Which doesn't seem so original now, but that's because it's been copied so much since.)

Imagine you were going to make a movie of "Frankenstein." What are the first images that pop into your head? They are probably pretty style-less and cliched. Compare them with this drawing:

Bernie Wrighton, the artist, had his own personal take on the story. And it shows, whether you like his art or not. And that's key. Jackson was cowardly. If you pretty much stick to dull illustration, most people will pat you on the back. "You were faithful to the source," they will say. They may not be deeply deeply moved by your work, but they will praise you. If you take a risk and pour some of yourself into the film, some people may damn you for bastardizing the source. Jackson either wasn't willing to risk this, or he's so empty inside that he can't risk it.

His Sauron was horrible. That big flaming eye. In the books it's a big eye, so he makes it a big eye. But Sauron should be SCARY! I was never scared -- not once -- by Jackson's literal imagery. They only parts of the movie that got to me were the parts where some of the actors -- mostly the Hobbit actors -- transcended Jackson's work and made me FEEL. But good actors would have done this in anyone's version.

There was a moment in the last film where I ALMOST forgave Jackson everything. I thought he was going to make the bravest decision in the world. In the novel, Tolkien creates this beautiful (almost religious) structure in which he makes it clear that Frodo, Sam and Gollum are somehow mystically bound together -- that it will take the three of them to destroy the ring. But I didn't feel this at all in Jackson's film. Which isn't necessarily bad -- it's just different.

In any case, there was this moment when Frodo was standing on that ledge, above the crack of doom, and in a horrible move-cliche way he became EVIL (one of the worst bits of acting in the film). Sam BEGGED him to throw in the ring, but he wouldn't do it. Meanwhile, the power of the ring was making Frodo stronger and stronger. Soon, clearly he would be able to destroy Sam. So Sam had very little time to act. Since Jackson hadn't really set up the Frodo/Sam/Gollum trinity, and since (much more than in the books), Sam seemed to be the emotional center of the tale, I suddenly KNEW what was going to happen. And my heart broke.

I realized that Sam was going to have to do that only thing possible in order to save the world. I realized that he was going to rush his best friend, Frodo, and push him into the fire. He would sacrifice Frodo to save the world. How brave! How achingly sad!

Had Jackson been brave enough to let this happen, he would have been damned by Tolkien fans worldwide, but he would have come up with something truthful to HIS movie -- something noble. Something transcendent. But, of course, he didn't.

And then he lopped off the end of the novel. That part where they all go back and save The Shire. But cutting that out, he destroyed the point of the whole thing. "Lord of the Rings" has a classic, Joseph-Cambellesque structure: the hero leaves home, learns something, and they returns home to use what he has learned. You CAN'T just cut off the end of that structure. It makes no sense.

Of course, had let Sam kill Frodo, he COULD have ended it that way. But he was too unoriginal, cowardly and uninspired.

Here are some images that, to me, are more interpretive of Tolkein's world that merely illustrative. There's no point in illustrating. Tolkein's books vividly describe his world as is. Illustrations add nothing. They're redundant. A strong, personal visual take should go beyond just illustrating.)