"Mumford" and learning to pay attention

I CAN'T TELL you how happy I was to see "Mumford." After a summer of gimmicky thrill rides and farces, it was such a relief to enter into the quiet rhythms of dialogue written by Lawrence Kasdan ("The Big Chill," "Grand Canyon"), and hilarious performances from Jason Lee, Martin Short, Ted Danson, and David Paymer, among others. This smart, funny movie takes place in a small town where Dr. Mumford (Loren Dean) has established a thriving psychology practice a scant four months after arriving. The secret behind his success is simply this: he listens, and he cares.

I'm sure that real psychologists would take offense at the notion that their years of schooling and research cannot help people better than simple listening. They're probably right. But the movie isn't trying to slam psychology as much as it is encouraging people to listen to each other -- to really pay attention -- and perhaps even care enough to help each other improve.

I've always been a pretty good listener, not so much through any virtue of mine but probably because I'm kind of shy and quiet around people I don't know too well. I've noticed that people are apt to trust me with their stories and their secrets, and that's something I treasure. Openness and vulnerability are hugely important in our increasingly fragmented lives. In his book Telling Secrets, Frederick Buechner puts it this way: "It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing."

In my deepest friendships we share secrets, and yet there is a second component that really cements that friendship beyond moods, distance, time, or disagreements. My best friends are those who not only listen to who I truly and fully am but also care about helping me become who I truly and fully want to be. A pivotal moment in my life was the night that Kent Straith and I took a walk up and down the street I lived on, told each other the secrets closest to our hearts, and shared our advice for each other. We'd been friends for years before that night, but after that we were best friends, friends who made an investment to help each other improve. We still refer to that night as "The Walk," and every so often when I get a chance to drive back to Michigan and visit him in person, we take a "Walk" (we call it that even if we're sitting in the living room, like last time) where we share our most private selves.

I asked my wife, Amanda, on our first date after a similar occurrence. We'd been friends for several months, but I still wasn't sure if I wanted to ask her out because love just seemed too hard to even try for after 20 years of failure. We'd had a lot of good conversations together about our spiritual lives, and I knew that we were good at listening to each other. Then one day Amanda gave me a photocopied article by Henri Nouwen talking about a lot of the issues I was struggling with. In the margins Amanda made both funny comments and empathetic comments that encouraged me to become who I wanted. After that, I knew that our relationship was so special that I had to take a chance on love. (The rest, as they say, is history.)

So, in many ways, "Mumford" was telling me something that I already knew. And I do know it mentally; I know it from experience; this should be part of my very blood by now. But I've found that truly paying attention to others is a constant battle that must be fought daily, not in some once-for-all event. Juggling work, this website, my freelance writing career, church activities, etc., etc., often gets my mind racing on one project or another and I find it too easy to tune out what Amanda's telling me. Every time I do that I feel awful; I have to work hard to make a change, because life never gets less busy. A recent Newsweek article said that what kids really want from their parents is not more time with them, but for them to be fully present in the time that they are together. I have to learn to fight the distractions, to clear my mind and be fully present in the moment. My mind is often preoccupied with doing things for God, not being in the moment where he's put me.

Take for example yesterday morning, when I was quieting my spirit for worship by reading a Frederick Buechner book before church, and one of the church leaders came up to me and asked what I was reading. I told him, and he asked if Buechner was a contemplative, like Henri Nouwen. Yes, that's right -- I was about to tell him how both Buechner and Nouwen have had a profound impact on my life, as you have probably surmised from this article. Then he told me he knew then that he probably wouldn't like the book much. And my first reaction was: Well, I wasn't sitting here reading this book in hopes of making you read it! And then, right on top of that: What are you, some kind of spiritual baby, not to enjoy anything contemplative? -- because, of course, my spiritual temperament is contemplative. I went back to my book, but before long I was deeply ashamed. First of all, I thought I'd been preparing my spirit for worship, but at a moment's notice I was full of defensiveness, indignation, and wrath. I got a sense of how broken I truly am. But secondly I was ashamed because I didn't act like Dr. Mumford; I didn't listen to him. I should have turned the conversation around and asked him what books he did enjoy. I could have used the opportunity to learn more about this guy I haven't taken the time to know well. I should have remembered Gary Thomas' book "Sacred Pathways," which I read only three months ago, that describes at least nine different spiritual temperaments of Christians.

I was ashamed because I do not practice what I preach. On this website, I talk about how we should listen to one another's opinions about movies in hopes of learning something about who they are and what they value, rather than just arguing about the movie itself. But given the chance to do something similar with Christian authors, I froze up. I suspect that this website is as much for me as it is for you. I think I need this site to train myself to act the way I want to, to make listening part of who I am, to make it flow much more effortlessly than it does now. "Mumford" certainly isn't the only movie that encourages listening, but as you have witnessed, the heart forgets. It was a joy for me to see the film because it made the old maxim resonate again.

"The Sixth Sense," "Stir of Echoes," and finding what you're looking for in movies

INITIALLY, I HAD no interest in going to see "The Sixth Sense." I kept getting it confused with "Mercury Rising," that other Bruce-Willis-and-a-kid movie that I never saw. And I thought that the film's trailer, where the kid says all his lines in a loud whisper, was sort of gimmicky. Anything sounds scary and ominous if you say it in a loud whisper. Go ahead, try it:

"I hate Butter Pecan ice cream."

"The Power Rangers come on at three in the afternoon."

"You're supposed to stop at red lights."

But I digress. The reason I eventually went to see it wasn't because the movie was becoming one of the biggest smash-hits of all time (though that didn't hurt), but because I was reading an article in Image, a religious arts magazine, about the resurgence of religion in independent film in the '90s. The author, Richard Alleva, citing films including "The Apostle," "Dead Man Walking," "Breaking the Waves," "The Addiction," "Priest," and "Black Robe," says, "But note what these films, divergent in substance and story, have in common: since they all treat religious natures as unusual, and all deal with religious responses exclusively in moments of crises, they cannot portray religion the way pre-1970 Hollywood portrayed it -- as part of the everyday life of non-neurotic, non-anguished people. ... (I understand that "Wide Awake," which I haven't seen, is an exception.)"

"Wide Awake" is the previous effort from "Sixth Sense" writer-director M. Night Shyamalan, and although I hadn't seen either one, I thought it might be worth checking them both out to see what elements of faith are in Shyamalan's films. The pair of movies makes an interesting counterpoint to each other: "Wide Awake" is about a young boy in a Catholic family who is desperate to peer into the spiritual realm and see God. "The Sixth Sense" is about a young boy who would give anything not to see the spiritual realm, since he is haunted by ghosts who roam around with unfinished business in the material life. Both movies show Catholicism as part of everyday life, and the spirit world as something very real and powerful.

Both movies also left me with questions about Shyamalan's motives. I searched the internet trying to find an interview with him in which he addressed religion, but so far I haven't been able to find one. (If you know of one, use the form below to send me the URL. Thanks.) So I'm left to my own guesses about what his movies are trying to say. In some ways, I find it very admirable to show religion as part of the everyday, for ultimately that's where our character and faith are shaped. Using the apostle Paul's metaphor of the church as Christ's bride, Kathleen Norris punctuates the truth in this passage from "The Quotidian Mysteries": "St. Paul is speaking not of romantic love, but of the love that endures long after the initial ardor of courtship has cooled. For just as lovers become brides, brides become spouses, and that is where the specter of the daily appears. ... Marriage is eternal, but it's also daily, as daily and unromantic as housekeeping."

The trouble is, I can't be sure if that's what Shyamalan was attempting. Because although his characters inhabit a religious world, religion isn't a very strong force in their lives. The kid in "Wide Awake" asks nuns, priests, schoolmates, and parents for answers to how he can know God, but everyone seems to treat his quest as if it's unimportant, that it's something a little boy shouldn't be worrying about. Nobody instructs him as to how God actually reveals himself to us, so he keeps pursuing a physical encounter with God. "The Sixth Sense" could have a dubious message as well. The kid uses figures of Mary and Jesus to try (unsuccessfully) to ward off the spirits; in some respects religion is merely a talisman, and not a very good one at that.

So do these movies deliver a positive or negative portrayal of religion? I don't know. But on the other hand, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe what matters more than what the filmmaker intended is what we, as audience members, do with it. If either of these films makes us more aware of the spiritual world, if they give us courage to live out the mystery of faith within everyday life, if they give us the courage to talk about our religion with someone who has seen the film, then great. Let us use it in that way. If not, then maybe another film will encourage us in that way, like "The Matrix" and "Mumford" have done for me this year.

Personally, I found "The Sixth Sense" to be a pretty typical scary movie, which is to say that it didn't scare me as much as it merely startled me. You know the routine -- really tense music that crescendos as someone walks into an empty room and then all of a sudden someone jumps out of nowhere. And I was also annoyed by the fact that the movie breaks a lot of its own rules just to make the surprise ending work. I was much more scared by "The Blair Witch Project," which doesn't have a single startling moment, just an hour of uninterrupted dread of what might happen. But I understand that "The Sixth Sense" has the advantage of being, ultimately, a redemptive film -- something very rare in the genre of scary movies -- and, perhaps, should be prized.

Which might explain why "Stir of Echoes" flopped. "Echoes" is very close to "The Sixth Sense" in terms of plot (a little boy sees ghosts in his house), but doesn't have much to set it apart from the conventional horror movie. It has Kevin Bacon, whom I've always found captivating to watch, and Katherine Erbe, one of our most underrated actresses. The best parts of the movie are their scenes together, trying to heal their tortured marriage and restore love. But beyond that it's pretty ordinary -- it works harder to startle you than to scare you, it wraps everything up too neatly, and it pares down Richard Mattheson's book to the bone, so that every seemingly random thing that happens in the film provides obvious clues to the story's mystery.

I think the most powerful thing I took from these two movies, which concern themselves with the dead, was how much I do ignore the dead. I'm not sure that dead people wander around my house or anything, but I do think that there's so much to learn from those who have come before us. Like many 20th-century Americans, I tend to consider my own time and my own country as the only important setting. I was never very good in history class, where memorizing the dynasties and conquerors didn't appeal to me that much. It wasn't until I was out of college that I recognized that history is really just made up of millions of people's individual lives, and I began to get interested in those lives. I like to read about people from different times and places in particular, because I know that what truly makes us human has to be something that survives wherever and whenever we might exist. Focusing on our similarities helps me cut to the core of who others truly are and who I truly am. I even like reading fictional accounts of people's lives from beginning to end, which explains why I'm such a fan of Orson Scott Card's and John Irving's.

But I confess that I don't do this as often as I would like. I am apt to forget the dead, to focus only on the living. Maybe it has something to do with being raised Protestant, where we not only refrain from praying to the saints but we don't even learn who they are. I mistakenly believe that those who are dead no longer influence those who are living; in discovering who I am I have been very lazy in discovering who those people are who helped shape me. Now, that would be a pretty boring ghost story indeed, for someone to show up and tell the story of his or her life. (Actually, that sounds like a pretty good ghost-story parody.) But our entertainment is only supposed to take us so far. Looking deeper, even movies that we only half-enjoyed can serve as springboards for more personal revelations.

"The Muse:" surviving the creative process

I ALWAYS FEEL hesitant to recommend Albert Brooks' movies to people, because I understand that his brand of humor is an acquired taste, the same way Woody Allen's movies are (who I've never acquired a taste for). If you're new to Brooks, I'd actually recommend checking out his 1996 film "Mother" before this one, since that's my favorite. But the great thing about all Brooks' movies is that even when the comedy is a little rusty, there are great themes and ideas to delve into. In "Defending Your Life," Brooks toyed with what happens to people in the afterlife; in "Mother," he asked how families could be so close and so fractured at the same time; in "The Muse" he asks where creativity comes from and why. In all his films he seems to be searching for answers, and while he never gives you answers, he opens up all the interesting questions for you to think about yourself.

Albert Brooks plays down-on-his-luck screenwriter Steven Phillips, who asks a successful friend of his (Jeff Bridges) how he stays on top of his game. His friend confides that he's got his own personal muse, a fresh-and-blood daughter of Zeus. Sarah (Sharon Stone) is, for all practical purposes, creativity personified. And she is, as any artist can tell you, finicky, domineering, moody, and sheer genius. Sarah takes Steven on as her next client, and before long he's getting calls in the middle of the night to find a Waldorf salad and take it to her at her suite in the Four Seasons (which he's paying for) and then finding out she doesn't want it anymore when he gets there. The only reason he puts up with this abuse is because her magic is working -- he's finally getting an idea for a script. It's his idea for a script that is my only serious criticism of the film; he's dreaming up a summer comedy for Jim Carrey that will find Carrey inheriting an old run-down aquarium. Now, is that supposed to be ironic or not? The movie idea isn't dreadful, like "Chubby Rain" in "Bowfinger"; it actually sounds like it might work for one of those huge, dumb summer-movie hits like "Big Daddy." But at the same time, are we really supposed to root for this guy who keeps talking about how he wants to win an Oscar when he's writing a silly summer movie that will net him a huge amount of money? It's never clear whether Brooks' screenwriter is saving his artistic soul or losing it.

The reason the question matters to me is because if "The Muse" is just a satire of Hollywood, then it's kind of a dime-a-dozen film. (See "Bowfinger" last month, the TV show "Action" next month.) But if it's a playful examination of the creative process, then it's something that resonates with me.

I know how frustrating and how amazing the muse can be. Sometimes I won't be able to buy an idea; other times I'll have them popping up so fast I won't be able to write them all down. I've tried to cajole myself into being creative, but the ideas always flow when they want to. I just try to write them down and hope they'll last me through the dry spells. There are plenty of times when I feel like Steven serving Sarah, investing so much time and energy into making her comfortable and happy, and I just get sick of it and want to go become a bricklayer instead, where the job is simply straightforward.

There are two positive things I have learned from my frustration with the muse, or, to personify it less, with creativity. These are lessons that I have mostly learned in my head; I imagine it will take years of training to work them into my thought process and mental reflexes. The first lesson is to use the periods where inspiration has left as practice for the other dry spells in life -- when God seems distant, when children are uncommunicative, when life seems repetitive, when entertainment is bland. The lesson is to treat the dryness as part of the natural ebb and flow of life, believing and hoping that things will get better. This sentiment is well-expressed in this passage from poet Kathleen Norris' "The Quotidian Mysteries," where she talks about the struggle she had with fearing the muse would leave her:

"Having invested my psychic and emotional energies in a romantic notion of 'inspiration,' I would panic whenever the ability to write seemed to leave me. Now, rather than succumb to despair during my dry spells, I generally employ a prairie metaphor and think of it as a lifesaver, a dying down to the roots during a drought. Although the grasses look dead, they are merely dormant, and the slightest bit of moisture will occasion a change."

The second lesson is that I am no one special. Sometimes I think of myself like Steven, who has to compete for Sarah's attention with James Cameron, Martin Scorcese, Wolfgang Puck, and Rob Reiner, not to mention his wife. I think of God himself as my muse, since he is the Creator, and being creative is the best way I can think of to reflect him and glorify him. And sometimes I get to think of myself as pretty important, and wonder why God doesn't give me a little extra dollop of inspiration, more than some Hollywood writer. After all, I'm in God's family; I'm serving him with my talents! This is when I'm reminded, quite painfully sometimes, that God loves all people the same. I might be a crisp, framed $5 bill and those Hollywood types might be a rumpled and dirty $5 bill, but we're both worth five bucks at the bank of God. I like how Jeffrey Overstreet put it at his site, Green Lake Reflections: "This page may celebrate works by artists who are not believers in Christ. That's how generous God is; he gives revelations of his glory to everyone." I need this reminder from time to time, that I'm perhaps not quite as important as I think I am, and that I perhaps do not love my fellow human beings as I love myself yet.

So maybe the muse isn't as finicky, domineering, and moody as she seems to artists. Maybe there are just different lessons to be taught at different times. Maybe there's just "a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak" (Ecclesiastes 3:6-7). For everything there is a season.