Personhood, it seems, bestows protagonistic relevance in a feral world of lesser beasts. But this self-aggrandizement, which Field presents as almost pathological in its tenacity, gravely impacts human ability to engage with flora and fauna—and, more specifically, to behave compassionately toward them.
Sentence of the Day in Early September, 2021
From genius and beloved M.F.K Fisher’s “The Art of Eating:” It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.
National Theatre Live's R & J (on which I wrote many sentences)
Lucky Brits got to view the National Theatre’s Romeo and Juliet earlier in April. The rest of us had to wait until the Bard’s 457th birthday on April 23 to catch it on PBS’s Great Performances. This scrupulously edited but potent production was filmed last year during lockdown; here, the absence of an audience, as well as the theatre’s industrial-strength darkness, played key roles in the stagecraft of Shakespeare’s most enduring love story. I’ve long been a fan of National Theatre Live productions and scurry to my local theatre every time one comes near my tiny midwestern hamlet. The creative use of space and staging is sometimes distractingly brilliant, as we saw in the Cumberbatch/Miller swaparoony Frankenstein. During lockdown, I’ve watched Hiddleston’s Coriolanus five times just to binge on Josie Rourke’s exquisite use of the of the Donmar Warehouse and I’ve marveled at the NT Live presentation of the Young Vic’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof*. The first thing I did during lockdown was to subscribe to National Theatre’s NT @ Home and it was money well spent. Live theatre isn’t the same on a small screen or any screen. But Simon Godwin, director of the National Theatre’s “filmed” R & J, navigated the gap between live theatre and film, reminding me why I became a Bardolator in the first place.
What Worked
· The scene between Juliet (Jessie Buckley and her stern Irish dialect) and Lady Capulet (Tamsin Grieg and her sculptured face) from Act 3, scene 5 where Lady Capulet insists on Juliet’s impending marriage to Paris. Grieg’s intensity in that scene is all the more crafted because she never raises her voice. Staging that scene with a precise intimacy and quiet worked on film in ways it might not have in a larger theatrical setting.
· The kiss between Mercutio (Fisayo Akinade) and Benvolio (Shubham Saraf). Mercutio is often played as Queer, in some or all senses of that word. Once again in this staging, reminiscent of Harold Perrineau’s Mercutio from Luhrmann’s 1996 film version, Romeo’s best friend steals the show but this time, in the quiet embrace he and Benvolio enjoy before Mercutio curses both of their houses.
· Josh O’Connor nailed the fickle shift of Romeo’s brooding obsession with Rosaline to his sudden passion for Buckley’s budding Juliet. Neither of them smacked of the tortured teen angst that gave DiCaprio and Danes a special place in my heart as the star-crossed lovers. But the extra character in the play, as noted by Emily Burns, the brains behind this adaptation, is the SPACE these lovers inhabit. The light, the dance, the warehouse door of Romeo’s banishment, combined to produce a controlled and confined staging, pushing Shakespeare’s dynamic language of love, sex, and family dysfunction squarely center stage, which is precisely where it should be.
*Jack O’Connell’s Brick is the best Brick. Ever. Period. He is captivating in the role and if you ever have a chance to watch this 2018 NT Live staging of Tennessee Williams’ masterpiece, stop what you’re doing and admire the living shit out of Jack O’Connell (Little Fish, Unbroken, Seberg, and others).
From a work in progress: The Netflix Annotations →
A little piece I’m working on—from “The Netflix Annotations”
Read moreThings change--
That’s fairly obvious. Sometimes, it looks dire but then, miraculously, something shifts and the landscape adjusts. Life happens. And I’m grateful to the universe for a healthy marriage, wonderful kids, three spunky dogs and a crabby but loyal tabby cat. Personal blogs bore the snot out of me, so this one won’t go down that road.
The Day after Healing with a Mendicant's Heart
Revenge tragedies. I saw a beautiful student production at the U of I's Krannert Center yesterday of Mozart's Don Giovanni. Voices and performances and orchestra and the SET were simply sublime. And so was the deep river of vengeful feelings I'm experiencing in the midst of grief. When a loved one dies, we go through anger, denial, acceptance, bargaining, depression--in no particular order. I know--I'm still cycling through all of those in the nearly twenty years since my mother's tragic death. But when a long-term loved one rejects love, rejects the present and the future, anger isn't anger; it's revenge. Watching Donna Anna, Zerlina and Masetto, and the Commendatore seek revenge on Don Giovanni for his callous sins and delighting in watching their revenge play out in the swirl of Mozart's overwhelming music was, well, downright cathartic. Revenge lures us into fantasies and the delight of imagined strokes of genius as we plot out a nasty comeuppance for those who have betrayed us. It would be easy to exact revenge. And I want to.
But, as sensual as revenge is, gratitude and an open/begging heart must rule our individual cosmology. I know this. I'm trying to live it. But today, I may find some powerful versions of Don Giovanni to download on my newest Spotify playlist: Amy's Revenge Songs.
Healing with a Mendicant's Heart
When the little man from Assisi stripped naked in the public square in the late twelfth-century and denounced his father's lucrative cloth-trading business, he became, at that moment, a beggar. Our culture doesn't like beggars. We ignore them. We walk past the homeless and those asking for money for food, train tickets, gas, or medicine for their children. They wander the streets, begging for our help.
St. Francis of Assisi was a beggar, or more accurately and theologically savvy, one of the first to found a mendicant order. We like the term "mendicants." It sounds much better than "given to begging." But that's exactly what the earliest Franciscans (and Dominicans) were--beggars. They owned nothing. They relied solely on the open hearts and giving spirits of the people in Italy or Spain, or wherever their prophetic journeys took them.
In the last few weeks, I have found it is actually more healing to receive than to give. When in the midst of my own losses, of love and of the home life I had and hoped was secure, I felt stripped of everything I had known: my husband's love, my sense of security, my own life. But healing is happening because of the pure open hearts and giving spirits of friends who, without me even asking, have given me meals, gift cards for more meals, help, love, advice, wisdom, and genuine and deep friendship. I cannot imagine how I'd have gotten through these last months without friends like Tammy and Kim, Denise and Peg(s), the Carolyn(s), Traci, Lori, Paula, Deanna, Amber, Patti, RuthEllen, sweet Jane, Joel's crocheted critters, Angela, Jennifer, Jan, Barb and dozens of loving members of Forty Martyrs Catholic Church in Tuscola, Lisa, Tanya, and AnnaMaria, plus many others. Someone said that when you lose a love, a long-term relationship or marriage, people don't swoop in and help like they do when you lose someone to death. But I have found, with my begging and desperate heart, people do swoop in to help and love and feed, both spiritually and literally.
But we must be open up to be a mendicant--a beggar. We aren't always good at accepting help. Most people prefer to give it--to make that lasagna and deliver it to a family in need. Mendicancy is a treasure of the spiritual life and one we can count on in times of sorrow. We must be truly and deeply grateful for the salvific power of brokenness which can lead to new life if only we are willing to open our brokenness up to others and to receive their love.
Original Screenplays
They're uncommon. At least in feature film releases for those of us who don't live in "selected cities" (by which film companies mostly mean New York, L.A., and sometimes Chicago). But we lucked into being a selected city (by we I don't mean my hometown of Tuscola "sans movie theater" Illinois, but rather Champaign-Urbana, which is where you go to do anything if you live in Tuscola). But this year, I've seen two incredibly original screenplays. Not a story based on true events. Not a re-write after a re-write after a re-write of tired stories like Ben-Hur or the Magnificent Seven (I haven't seen those yet--but really, Hollywood, those needed to be remade?). But earlier this year, I was stunned by the originality of Bryan Sipe's script for Demolition, and yesterday, I was blown out of my seat by Taylor Sheridan's screenply for Hell or High Water. I hadn't heard of either writer, though I loved last year's Sicario, Sheridan's biggest film credit to date. What worked in these screenplays that stood out? Economy for Sheridan and outstanding creative idea-making from Sipe. Sheridan created rich and deep characters through short powerful lines of dialogue. So much so that even the annoying dude next to me rattling his SweetTarts wrapper stopped to listen to Chris Pine and Ben Foster portray two troubled Texans looking for a better future. Economy of language, but plenty of punchy lines for veteran Jeff Bridges, a shoe-in for this year's Supporting Actor nominations. Giles Nuttgens camera work is stunning. The film is flawless. Bryan Sipe's Demolition script has heart-stopping emotion buried inside an intriguing story about a recent widower who demolishes his life to see if he can put it back together (the demolition is literal and figurative). And if Demolition's star Jake Gyllenhaal is overlooked again this year, well, I'm not saying what I'll do, but it won't be pretty. Not to be forgotten this year so far is also Yorgos Lanthimus and Efthymis Filippou's quirky fantasy The Lobster. I'm starting to have hope that Hollywood (but really the indie filmmakers we've been seeing carry the ball lately) will at least give me some real stories without relying on tired plots, explosions, car chases, and sad adaptations of books because no one will take a risk on a story written directly for the screen. Hell or High Water is getting oodles of buzz and that is nothing but a good thing for film and for original screenplays and the people who love them.
Dissatisfaction with unexamined life
Thomas Merton's journals have guided my contemplative journey since their publication between 1995-1998. The seven volume set guides me, and all contemplatives, through his early conversion and joy, to mid-life angst and doubt in his vow of obedience, and into his later fecund spiritual awakening before his untimely death in 1968. This political season, with its focus on anger, petty bickering, disdain for the Other, and alpha male partisan gamesmanship, especially in reference to the SCOTUS nomination process, has garnered attention for the unexamined life in ways Merton may never have dreamed of. Our culture's worship of ignorance and its disdain for educated leaders will be our ultimate downfall. If we are to "win" the wars we fight (against ISIS, terrorism, hatred, bigotry), we must be wise and thoughtful, examining our public discourse and pronouncing our repudiation for men and women who advocate torture, hatred, and violence against enemies and Others. I find it difficult to stay in the moment, especially the public moment, when I'd rather retreat to a hermitage and ignore the public square. But that's not what Merton taught. Engagement is a must, even when those with whom we must engage are enmeshed in what can only be called the behavior and attitudes of the anti-Christ.
I do not refer to the anti-Christ in the same way my Fundamentalist brothers and sisters may inherit; rather, look at political candidates' revelry in popularity, poll numbers, wealth, exclusionary rhetoric, and suspicion of the Other. Does it match Jesus of Nazareth's beatitudes: blessed are the meek, the humble, the mourners, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, and the persecuted? If you are preaching success, money, and power, can you be a follower of the One who denied the efficacy of all of those?
From a work in progress, Midwestern Reserve
Michelle was dying when I met her. She was changing baby #4’’s diaper when baby #3 kicked her in the breast. Not in a mean way; she was tickling him while changing the baby’s diapers. It hurt when baby #3 kicked her. Hurt worse than the normal kick in the tit from your preschooler. She went to the doctor because it swelled up. The specialists called her lump a Stage IV lump. Michelle called it Bob.
Bob took Michelle places. She went to Chicago and Indianapolis and St. Louis in an effort to encourage Bob to live less aggressively in her boob. But Bob’s friends moved in; they moved in to her spine and her lungs and hung out in several organs. Bob and his friends are stupid because killing the host generally results in certain death. Death wasn’t on Michelle’s to-do list. No time for death.
Juggling work and kids and cancer happens every day, just off the interstate in Outlet Mall Town. While meth and illegals and Wal-Mart goods pass by on the interstate, cancer and state football championships keep us grounded. Living with cancer, its life-sucking roller coaster ride to hell and back, is not your grandmother’s living, unless your grandmother also had breast cancer, which is highly likely since, Science reminds us, it’s genetic, except when it’s not because it’s environmental, except when it’s not. Despite the contaminated waiting for hospitals and insurance and nurses and doctors and cancer cells to stop multiplying, there amidst the trials and experimental meds and exhausting rounds of chemo, Michelle attended every baseball game and every school concert for all four of her boys, cell phone in hand, the hand-held device delivering Treatment times and test results.
Michelle’s husband couldn’t be home and wasn’t always the one to take Michelle to Treatment. He drives one of the twenty trains a day that pass us by in Outlet Mall Town. He did, however, slow the train down just enough when he knew one of his boys was at a baseball game at the park. He’d slow down and pull the train whistle five times, four for the boys, and one for Michelle. He did not honk for Bob. When they could all be at the park watching their kids grow faster than the weeds by the railroad tracks, they kept their sense of humor. He and Michelle were always sniping at each other in fun--marital schtick. That snarky schtick kept the family together during Treatment. In public, they never got mad at Bob. They reserved their rage for the health insurance industry, an industry that does not like to pay for Treatment for Stage IV women. Michelle was young. Young means cancer’s more aggressive. Young means it eats your hormones. Eating hormones is expensive. Insurance companies don’t like expensive.
