Musicals for Artists

A few days ago, I lumbered out to a faded red storage shed and began sifting through several art prints that traveled with me from my last move. The bland upstairs walls of my office and bedroom needed some color and life to inspire stories and ... living. The shift involves both resignation and hope; I'm resigned to the fact that my parents need the help I can give them only by staying with them, and I hope that the Old Testament command of God to honor my parents will, indeed, lead to “a long, full life in the land” also given by the LORD (Exodus 20:12).

At the same time, I don't know how to live this life—really live it. Most days I struggle out of bed at 9:30, do a set of practiced stretches to a few favorite CDs, eat breakfast cereal and a banana, and feed my dog. Then, amidst the drone of an oxygen machine, I avoid the haphazardly parked walkers and stray phone calls. I rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, grab water and kibble for the barncats, and add another layer of compost to the outdoor pile. Then, either doctor's appointments constrain my parents and I to the car for a trip to town—and to the friendly, local cafe—or it's time to put together a low-sugar lunch. Some days involve a change ... of sheets, clothing and laundry loads! So, while I dump the trash, sort the bills from the junk-mail, and steamclean over the latest “accident,” I try to keep in mind Brother Lawrence peeling potatoes or Saint Julian of Norwich holding a hazelnut—or even Wonder Woman wearing neon-red boots. Give me inspiration!

I easily see time stretching out before me like an ocean of undulating wheelchairs and oxygen bottles, or a desert of wheezing snores and two-dimensional TV ads. But, where is the fullness? Where is the deepening spirituality of Henri Nouwen or Mother Teresa of Calcutta? Where is the call to adventure so popularized by self-help gurus and scriptwriting handbooks? I feel perpetually harried, tense, overwrought and underwhelmed—not like a heroine or saint, at all; I'm so busy with what has to be done that I'm only dimly aware of W/who I'm doing it for. Lately, I scribble in my journal no more than twice a month, and this is the first film article I've written since (gulp) late 2004. Yet, it's in stripping the packing tape and bubble-wrap from my gilded artwork that I hear the whisper of God, ... urging me to dust off beauty and seek art in the everyday.

The scenes of my favorite artists are most often of common places: a garden, a breakfast nook, a porch, a staircase. It's not the subject matter that mesmerizes me, but the colors, the folds of fabric, the emotions of each piece; and it's all held together by one thing. The frame. As Frederick Buechner writes, “the frame sets it [that is, art] off from everything else that distracts us. That is the nature and purpose of frames. The frame does not change the moment, but it changes our way of perceiving the moment” (Beyond Words, pgs 26-27). Books, paintings, pieces of music—all art forms use frames. And the musical uses layers of these. First, there is the frame of film—itself composed of story, movement and sound; then, the frame of music. There are three musicals I can watch repeatedly, and these musicals are particularly for artists: Anything But Love, Bride & Prejudice, and Once.


Anything But Love

Robert Cary with Isabel Rose, Cameron Bancroft and Andrew McCarthy 102 minutes, 2002

“The greatest good you can do for another is not just share your riches, but to reveal to him, his own.” Benjamin Disraeli

I first discovered this movie in the local library—and renewed it time and again until I bought my own DVD. Filmed in “new” Technicolor and celebrating the style and show tunes of Old Hollywood (hence the project's title), it's just plain fun! Wide-eyed leading lady Isabel Rose, newcomer to the Big Screen, plays red-haired dreamer Billie Golden—who can't find a note-worthy piano teacher, not to mention romantic partner! Meanwhile, Andrew McCarthy, 80s heartthrob from such brat-pack standbys as St. Elmo's Fire and Pretty in Pink—himself proof that someone of my generation can age very well—fights for Billie's talents, not merely her affections. There's even a cameo from Eartha Kitt, the definitive voice behind “Santa Baby” and Yzma in The Emperor's New Groove (2000); here she performs her gritty “A Voice Full of Yes.” Though I'm a writer, not a singer, I relate to the situations in this film; the lower income from such pursuits, the incessant advice to “be realistic,” the creative job that falls through. I empathize with Billie, despite her 50s-inspired outfits, because of her artistic aspirations—and the pains she goes through to follow them.

For the namesake of singer Billie Holiday, being a waitress “beats singing on a street corner with a hat out.” (Sorry, Once.) But, only because it allows her time to headline at the Skylark Lounge, a few exits from JFK Airport! From TJ (Billie's piano player) to Marcy (a fellow singer-who-waits-tables), Billie is smack in the middle of a city bustling with activity and other wanna-bes. Fortunately, her middle-class friends understand her desire to pursue what she loves—and how she'd love to also make a living—since they're performing artists, too. On the flip side, Billie lives with her down-trodden mother who takes pains to remind her of her responsibilities. Her motherly advice ranges from Billie's latest horoscope (which Billie sees as “mumbo-jumbo”) to, “There's an opening at Joey's Salon for a receptionist.” How many artists have heard something similar from their disinterested parents? In a sharper twist, Billie's mother is a one-time singer—betrayed by her own musical ambitions. Now her daughter's harshest critic, she avoids Billie's shows, adding alcohol to her tea; life is simply too bitter.

The pivotal scene for me is when Billie asks Elliot Shephard, a sarcastic piano-player with a soft spot for dreamers, why he plays the piano. “From the second I started to play I realized that there wasn't anything I lived or thought or felt that I couldn't put into my music. You know what I mean?” And Billie, hesitantly, nods. A teenager who's suddenly without a father. A waitress who doesn't see how to pay the next month's rent. A woman faced with her mother's alcoholism. A single searching for that someone who “hears the same music.” All of life is fodder for art. As Elliot says, “That's what separates the goods from the greats.” Artistically and spiritually. Those people we resonate with, who are honest and real and substantial; those people that we trust. Those people who look at our flaws (as individuals, and as humans) and still see our best self, when even we can't see it. These are the people who know who they are—or who admit they're in the midst of learning—even if noone else recognizes them.

“Sometimes people avoid the art of the soul,” artist Joy Sawyer writes, “because they think they're going to have to clean themselves up before they come to the canvas.... Wherever you're at today, you can create—and live—right in that very space. Even if it feels empty, lonely, cramped, dark” (The Art of the Soul, pgs 76-77). Can the suffering be part of the art? The weariness? Even the boredom? I hope so; if not for my sake, then for others. I want to support people in their talents—even when I'm feeling discouraged myself. And I don't believe God is wasteful. Repetitive, yes—often extravagant. Never wasteful. Difficulty, joy, wretching pain; God shapes us through it all. We can't change the health of our loved ones. We can't make decisions for our friends. We can't simply say “I think we understand each other... ,” and make it so. But, like Billie, we can go to the doctor's appointments, send a note or make a phone call to a friend (whether they're struggling or we are), and listen—especially when we disagree with those whom we expect to know us best.


Bride and Prejudice

Gurinder Chadha with Aishwarya Rai and Martin Henderson 112 minutes, 2004

“Anger often reveals how you feel and think about yourself and how important you have made your own ideas and insight.” Henri Nouwen

I can't remember why I was initially drawn to this film. Perhaps because—like various Hollywood black-and-white versions, colorized BBC adaptations, a 2003 LDS rendering, and even Bridget Jones's Diary—it's a remake of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Or, maybe it's because, like chai, Tikka Masala and naan, I crave Indian culture—including films! Like Anything But Love, this production revels in elaborate musical numbers and lavish color. Also like that project, dreams highlight the heroine's emotional landscape, and both Cary and Chadha “tip their caps” to old-fashioned musicals (like Singin' in the Rain and Grease). Unlike the first movie, however, Chadha also reveals Bollywood influences. Further, the story's focus is on national cultures more than social classes, and art is explicitly a cultural expression. At the same time, this production is about family foibles, a global village of both small towns and grand cities, and how to marry well—despite a mother who “[doesn't] say anything too intelligent!” For all these reasons, each time I watch it, I savor it more.

“India's most bankable star in Hollywood”—according to Forbes and RealBollywood.com—Aishwarya Rai shines, brilliantly, as 2nd-oldest daughter Lalita Bakshi (aka Elizabeth Bennet). Having graced magazine covers from the US to the Middle East and across Eurasia, her beauty has obvious cross-cultural appeal. Her acting is disorienting, too. For his part, New Zealander Martin Henderson does a passable William Darcy—cool, privileged and unapproachable. Still, the supporting actor from The Ring and Windtalkers is rivaled here by “Lost”'s Naveen Andrews. As Balraj (aka Bingley), Will's loyal but misguided friend, Andrews is ultra-hip. His character is even referred to as “the Indian MC Hammer.” Good thing Will is such a good guy; in spite of his cultural and social faux pas, I can't help but want to see him make the right moves—and find the best dance partner! Paradoxically, it's not in the choreography but in Lalita's interactions with others where I notice the most false steps.

Lalita is a woman with high standards—for others and for herself. She consistently watches her step, in her moral convictions and in the life-choices that spring from them. Yet, whether involving her best friend, her sisters or her possible love interests, she forgets to step back for perspective on the larger situation. Independent and strong-willed, Lalita too often makes assumptions and then gives her opinion without seeking clarification. She always faces her responsibilities; however, she evades certain people, like Mr. Kohli and Darcy, because she's been too quick to judge their actions—or even their motivations. Too often, I'm like Lalita. Particularly with my parents, I'm quicker to talk than to be quiet and listen. Most of all, I get angry—not only at injustice, prejudice and slander, those circumstances at which all of us should feel fierce. But resentful of the past, of misunderstandings, of things that never change; of my parent's cankerous relationship. And soon I'm angry most of the time, with an ire that eludes my love. And that makes me out of step—with God and with myself.

In this dance called life with its demanding routine—sometimes erratic, yet often reflexive—I find it difficult to achieve balance. When I move back to follow, no one steps up to lead; and, when I maneuver to the front, someone else (humanly speaking) is already there! My parents have had to relinquish control of so many things—driving, grocery shopping, bathing independently, even breathing without aid; so, I step in. There's a lot to maneuver around, including egos and old habits. Lately, I'm repeatedly complaining to God that, while other friends and family members have a partner, I have noone to help me. Then I realize what I'm saying! Scripture speaks consistently of the Spirit as our Helper; it also speaks to self-control, which (whether we are male or female) comes from submitting to the Spirit. When old habits lull us into a “spiritual slouch,” we must become alert to a new, healthy posture. Otherwise, like Lalita, the things we criticize—being “rude, arrogant, intolerant, insensitive”—are those very things we do.


Once

John Carney with Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova 86 minutes, 2007

“Friends do not live in harmony merely, as some say, but in melody.” Henry David Thoreau

On the recommendation of a friend, against my usual caution, I added this movie to my collection “sight unseen.” Like the other productions, it's neither afraid of color nor of introducing a distinct musical variant. Also, like the preceding films, an almost tangible role is held by dreams. On the other hand, Carney's segue into a documentary style lends to a spontaneous feel—distinctly unlike the two previous projects. Both of the leads are musicians first, not actors; and Carney and the creative team made it a point to keep the film low-budget, including (according to IMdB.com) a mere 17-day shoot. In fact, Glen Hansard's mother plays a cameo as a party singer, and “flashback” footage of Guy's old flame is actually shots of the director's girlfriend (ibid). It shows—smartly! The sense from the dialogue is that you're eves-dropping; and the music is so heart-felt that it's like a sharp intake of breath—raw and shattering.

Though also a film about art and artists, unlike Anything But Love it isn't focused on Drama; nor, as with Bride and Prejudice, is it a reshaping of a literary classic. Instead, Once delves into music—lyric and melody. This movie is about the creative process, making art in a wider community, and balancing dreams and day-to-day living. It's about a girl making time over her lunch hour to visit the local piano store, where she's convinced the owner to let her use the merchandise. It's about the demo tape a guy wants to produce, for which he still doesn't have enough funds. It's about the importance of art and family and choices and timing—and the connection between it all. It's about how different people inspire and shape varying melodies in a life; how the music shapes itself. It's about knowing what to sacrifice, and when. In a refreshing change from the other two musicals, this film isn't about finding the right person—it's about being that person.

An immigrant girl, with a mother and daughter in tow, has just been asked by a local, Irish busker to write lyrics for his melodies. As the baby falls asleep, after picking up the house, she grabs the portable CD player; she then pillages for batteries to make the drained player function. Apologetically raiding her daughter's piggy bank, with newfound energy she jogs to the corner convenience store. The batteries are slid in place; the melancholy, even dissonant music begins—using an Eastern scale, of seven notes (like a Western scale), but with more intervals between. And her words: “Are you really here, or am I dreaming? I can't tell a dream from the truth. It's been so long since I have seen you. I can hardly remember your face anymore.” The girl from Chezh sings of being estranged—but, is it from her husband ... or her soul? Her dreams have become dusty and tarnished like her employers' tables and silver; the truth she is living is regular and necessary—and incomplete.

I resonate with the practical, responsible girl—the one who advises another to pursue his dreams—who is “letting myself down, while I'm satisfying you.” The girl who pauses before the recording studio's Baby Grand, and sings, haltingly: “I wish I didn't have to make all those mistakes. But, you can't say I'm not trying.” I hear her because this is the same girl who is both losing and finding herself in the creative journey. In her struggle, she reaches out, drawing another to do the same. As with both life and music, when we hear a good composition, we know. It moves us, because it's both like and above everything else. More than talent, and deeper than heart, it has an intensity that makes us smile (or cry) to ourself. Such it is with her life; because of her challenge—to do not what is easy, but what is right—a guy finds meaning is layered like chords on staff paper, and life is arranged into something greater than itself. As he describes, “You have suffered enough and warred with yourself. It's time that you won.” Such a gift—someone who struggles with us, and rejoices when we succeed!


In my dream, it seems a long path from the faded, red storage shed to the house. Stepping over the barncats, through the kitchen, and around the walkers. Humming up the stairs as I ... trip on the landing! Clasping my bum foot, I realize there's so much to learn before I can smoothly sing and dance! Still, as I glance to the framed prints that now line the walls of my office and bedroom, I'm again reminded of Buechner's words: “Literature, painting, music—the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives...” (Beyond Words, pg 26). Perhaps this is why, for me, film is so powerful. Because, at one time or another, all of us need to be reminded how to live. How to balance everyday concerns with the stuff of imagination, and high standards with a posture toward others. How to be true to the soul God shapes in us. How to be honest and vulnerable. How to look into the lives of others—and really see them; to see myself.

Mother Teresa writes of God speaking to her: “You don't need to change to believe in my love, for it is your belief in my love that will change you. You forget me, and yet I am seeking you every moment of the day...” (I Thirst for You in Bread and Wine, pg 188). The LORD seeks me through musicals, through the lives I see there—and the tensions or harmonies I hear within my own life. As an artist, God moves me in the connection between life and art, Spirit and time: “Music both asks us and also enables us to listen to certain qualities of time—to the grandeur of time, says Bach, to the poignance of time, says Mozart, to the swing and shimmer of time, says Debussy.... We learn from music how to listen to the music of our own time—one moment of our lives following another moment the way the violin passage follows the flute...” (Buechner, Beyond Words, pg 266).

Some readers may think this article isn't widely applicable. After all, we're not all artists! Then consider these words: “Is it too much to say that to stop, look, and listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us?... If we are to love God, we must first stop, look, and listen for him in what is happening around us and inside us. If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors.... Here it is love that is the frame we see them in” (ibid, pgs 26-27). In this way, all those who follow Christ are artists. At least, we can attempt to be such, and not merely art critics; even when all we can contribute is an understatement, like “Wow. That was nice.”