Creative Writing Assignment: Plot-Driven Narrative: "Condition"

 The time has come to consider the many problems faced by a young man named Zachary.  Truly, there was never an individual so rolled up and tossed aside by the system and fate itself as Zachary has been, and I am sure you will agree.
 Examine, first, his family; or perhaps the lack thereof.  Before Zachary had a chance to be able to comprehend the meaning of the famous one-fingered solute he had come to feel all people and situations left him with, he was the unsuspecting, unborn recipient of it from his father.  Left with a single mother and a younger sister, Zachary grew up in an apartment and fed at the hand of federal dependency programs.
 Worse things were to come for our tragic hero.  Much of Zachary's life was dictated by the many chronic physical and mental conditions he was unrighteously cursed with.  The first he was made aware of was ADHD, which he was diagnosed with in kindergarten.  Details of the exact incident which provoked this diagnosis are shrouded in the mists of the past; however, Zachary will gladly regale you with what he knows of the story, most notably the part where he threw a stapler at his teacher's face in response to being told to “stop bothering the other children.”
 Thus fate landed unfortunate Zachary into the lifelong path of special education.  The various teachers, principles, deans and superintendents had what can only be characterized as a debilitating lack of understanding for his many problems.  A report card littered with C's and D's was testament to their poor work as educators.  Time was what he needed!  Time to allow for his crippling inability to focus on his studies, whether itwas at school or at home at night, so that he could also fit in his essential need to socialize and enjoy himself for some time while at home.
 While all his conditions were irreverently thrust upon him, not all of Zachary's diagnoses were.  Throughout highschool he was thoroughly depressed by his apparent lot in life, yet because this malady did not result in any blunt objects being thrown at his teachers, it did not result in a swift diagnosis by a school nurse as had been this case with his ADHD.  His diagnosis for major depressive disorder took more than a year of explaining himself to doctors and many negative results in mental status examinations to finally show them the effect on his mental state his many problems incurred.  Zachary faced the same problem in achieving a diagnosis for his hypothyroidism.  The doctors simply couldn't wrap their minds around his issue; ADHD medications were supposed to reduce his appetite, therefore an underactive thyroid was the only logical explanation for his significant girth.  It was only after visiting multiple doctors that Zachary was able to find a doctor that understood him; that understood his problems could not be written off by a negative blood test.
 So we find our tragic hero at his present state: twenty-three years old, living in a single apartment hidden behind a highly developed strip mall.  The time is 3:08 in the afternoon, which is an important time on this day as it means Zachary's alarm has been sounding for eight minutes and has provoked his neighbor to begin knocking at the door of his apartment.  The combined noises of the grating alarm of his phone, the rough knocking of his neighbor and frantic cries of his neighbor's baby are finally sufficient, and so Zachary begins the day.
 As quickly as he can, Zachary reaches out with his right arm to the bedside table his phone is on and, in spite of knocking a motley assortment of beer and soda cans on the floor, he manages to abate his alarm; he always has problems pressing only one button at a time on his phone's touch screen.  The end of the alarm also means the end of the knocking, and as the crying recedes down the hallway Zachary finally opens his eyes.  The brown stain above his couch seemed larger than usual.
 Shifting from a slumped position into an upright one in his seat causes an Xbox controller to slide down his ample front onto the floor below.  Waking up isn't the hardest part of waking up; rather, standing up is the major obstacle currently between Zachary and arriving at work on time at 3:30.  Rest assured, he is a valiant hero, and after a five minute internal battle of wills he is standing.  Next to his couch is a half empty case of Mountain Dew cans; a brilliant display of efficiency in Zachary's mind, just like his ingenious idea to rest in his work clothes so as to speed up his morning routine.  He always feels particularly chipper in the morning once he has had something to drink, and eat.  The last remaining donut in a box on the coffee table in front of him will suffice for this morning, though Zachary is sure the powdered sugar on this particular specimen is just a little more gray than white.  Over stained carpet and debris he travels, and into the bathroom and holy medicine cabinet.  The mirrored door of the cabinet calls to his attention the unkempt appearance of his dark mat of black hair, a mess which he is wont to remedy with utmost efficiency.  Seeing his image in the mirror, he gains firmer resolve to someday remedy his uncontrollable acne and the ever-growing dark stain on the chest of his dark blue work polo.
 On the highest shelf of the medicine cabinet are Zachary's holy grails; the divinely inspired substances without which he fervently claims he will surely go insane.  Perhaps he has been falling into insanity these past few weeks, since he has been taking his Cymbalta, Abilify and Focaline less frequently.  They make him feel dizzy and nauseous, and won't help him focus on his work, he'll claim.  Instead, he grabs the bottle of Prandin and thrusts it in the pocket of his khaki cargo shorts with his free hand, taking another bite of the slightly odd donut held in his other hand at the same time.  The other bottles of pills, along with a razer, toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant, could wait.  Dusting the powdered sugar off on the sides of his shorts, Zachary unlocks his phone to see that – yes, it's just as he expected, – he has only ten minutes to make it to work.
 Locating his wallet and keys is always an unreasonably lengthy task for Zachary.  It is always prolonged by the piling remains on his kitchen counter of last night's snacks – or is it last week's?  After checking under the empty Budweiser case at the end of the counter, behind the pile of dirty cereal bowls in the sink and next to the ever-growing pile of junk mail by the door, he manages to find them on the table next to where his phone had been; another ingeniously efficient move.  Zachary feels oddly focused this morning.
 Work is only a couple minutes' drive away.  Some of his coworkers walk from the same apartment complex Zachary lives at, but he is unable; the hand fate dealt him included a painful pair of knees, a condition which Zachary is lucky enough to have a handicap plate to accommodate, though he was forced to fight for that as much as any of his diagnoses.  There are many handicap spaces at the large department store he works at, the nearest available one of which he parks his car in.  His car always drives smoothly in the morning.  The dazzlingly bright sun high in the clear, ocean-blue sky bothers Zachary more than usual; something beyond the discomfort of the light in his eyes, the pain in his knees, the all-too-familiar taste of his last sip of mountain dew and the sweat beading on his forehead as he slowly makes his way into the air conditioned confines of the massive expanse of his workplace.
 Due to his many disabilities, Zachary only works a four hour shift on weekdays.  He spends his time there cashiering, a job which he has begun to take pride on his proficiency in.  The hours seem to rush past in the flurry of directing barcodes to the infrared scanner at his register, remembering PLU's for vegetables and fruits, price-matching other stores' advertisements, and constantly chanting, “Here's your receipt, have a nice day!”  Zachary gorges himself on the feeling of mastery over his realm of knowledge.
 “Mommy, why is he sweating?”  The question of a little girl in the front seat of a shopping cart to her mother is just enough to break Zachary out of his trance.  His phone on the counter next to the register's monitor indicates his shift is only a few minutes from being over.
 “He's working hard at his job, sweety.”  The mother doesn't seem phased by her daughter's question.  Her curt, gray business suit indicates an ability to answer questions quickly and correctly.
 “Is this like your job, mommy?”  Who could slight this genuine, young girl for not being able to differentiate between one job and another?
 “No it isn't, sweety.  Mommy works downtown.”  There is an apologetic look on the mother's face.
 “Here's your receipt, have a nice day!”  Zachary takes notice for once of the contents of the cart he had just scanned: cases of soda and above-average quality beer, chips, various dips, frozen appetizers, salad kits and a party tray.  He also notices the total on the receipt as he hands it over, a number exceeding his weekly paycheck nearly twice over.
 Shortly after, Zachary has run through the motions of closing his register and is standing in line at the sandwich shop inside the department store near the entrance.  A new girl is working there, and the veteran employee Zachary has always ordered his sandwich from is helping her on her first day.
 “New hire, Miranda?”  Zachary is genuinely interested; the atmosphere of that corner of the store always helps him open up.
 “Gettin' the usual, Zach?”  Miranda seems unimpressed by Zachary's interest.  Her lips are pursed and her arms are akimbo; it gives her a sarcastic, almost sassy look.  Her displeasure at seeing him is often the largest source of entertainment for Zachary.
 “Of course!  Aren't you happy to see me again?”  It's what Zachary says every day.  Miranda was already ignoring him, turning her head to the new girl to show her his order: herb and cheese bread, a double order of steak, extra american cheese, onions and jalapeno slices, toasted well-done with lots of mayo.  It is in the completion of this final step which gave the new hire pause.
 “Is this enough mayo?” she asks shyly, having put three lines on the sandwich from a squeeze bottle.  Zachary chuckles jovially, gesticulating wildly with his arms as he shouts,
 “No, put more on!  More!  More is always better!”  The look on the new girl's face stuck with him all the way home that night.
 Zachary's ratty old, gray Dodge Neon seems to creak more loudly than usual as he steps out into the late evening light in front of his apartment complex, a bag holding his unreasonably heavy sandwich in one hand, a large container of Diet Mountain Dew in the other.  The night bothers Zachary.  He can't fall asleep at the same time as other people do.  Is it because he stays up so late?  No, his depression medication worsens his insomnia.  Zachary shuffles into the lobby, stopping briefly to open his mailbox and retrieve a couple letters from within, knowing his disability check is due any day now.
 After a brief elevator ride, Zachary finds himself back in his apartment.  The brown stain on the ceiling looks even bigger now than it did in the morning; it disgusts him greatly.  Frustrated, he makes his way back to the couch, places the cup next to so many like it on the table in front of him and sets the sandwich bag to his side on the couch amidst a heap of empty chip bags and makeshift ashtrays.  There are three letters in his hand which he peruses slowly.  The first is a paystub for $158.90, his paycheck from last week.  The second is his monthly disability check which, upon inspection, has increased slightly from last month to $852.00.  Zachary doesn't smile.
 The third letter belongs in the junk mail pile.  It is a brochure for a community college that has a location just a few miles from the strip mall.  Today, though, Zachary has decided it does not belong in the junk mail pile.  Instead, he digs his laptop out from under a jumble of empty beer cans on his bedside table, opens the third letter, and decides he ought to take out the trash.
 Considering the many problems faced by Zachary, I think it's safe to say he will prevail over the system which has tried so hard to take advantage of his poor fate.

Creative Writing Assignment: Setting-Driven Narrative, "Humor"

 The prospect of visiting one's grandparents' house is somewhat inflated at a young age.  It can be difficult to say why; perhaps merely because it a departs from normalcy should the aforementioned grandparents live far away.  Similarly, it is possible that certain grandparents are simply nice to be around compared to more strict parents.  The house could be an interesting place, if a family has roots on a farm and its members have branched out to plant seeds in more urban soil.
 All these qualities highly influenced young Timothy's excitement to visit his grandparents.  As can be the case, very young children, mostly before the age of seven, have little concept of the idea that one's parents had parents.  In fact, to Timothy, his grandparents were just exceptionally nice people his father and mother just so happened to be acquainted with.  This acquaintance was very convenient for the child, because as can be inferred from his view of his grandparents being exceptionally nice, he was very excited to visit.
 It could be said that Timothy often thought of his parents' SUV as a military vehicle or a tank, and, in order that we may humor him, there are many similarities that can be drawn from his point of view.  First and foremost is the olive green color of the vehicle.  When light shone directly on the side of the vehicle and not on the far side, it gave a two-tone effect that Timothy interpreted as being similar to camouflage.  Furthermore, the sides were made of metal which, to a child, seemed nigh impenetrable.  His father was a bit of an aggressive driver, which in this instance simultaneously frightened his mother and thrilled Timothy; the way the car seemed to careen around corners and fly uphill past other cars gave Timothy a sense of urgency and purpose as if his presence on the battlefield were of vital importance to the mission.  The engine roared like a lion and the tires crunched the gravel like the wild bones of prey under its unforgiving wheels as they drove along the driveway of grandma and grandpa's house.  The inside of the car could be said to be fit for a lion, though this was lost on Timothy; the booster seat under him had plastic arms which dug into his skin uncomfortably on long drives such as this one.  This discomfort caused Timothy to think the car was much more like a tank, since tanks are vehicles of war and not of luxury.  Timothy may not have realized, though, that in order for him to consider the car a tank his father would have to be the commander.
 In the hills of northern Kentucky driveways have a tendency to be long, and Timothy's grandparents' house was no exception.  A long, winding hill led up from the road, surrounded by dense trees and vegetation, up to an open plateau on its peak looking down into a bowl with a large farmhouse at its center, surrounded by tall, golden grass that glimmered in the evening light.  The whole image was very much like a grandiose scene of a castle surrounded by a sea of glittering gold with dark, menacing mountains in the background, since the bowl was surrounded by woods.  The SUV charged down the slope toward the unguarded keep with many a cry of “slow down!” and “you're going to fast!” from Timothy's mother, which coaxed a chuckle from his father and a loud guffaw from Timothy.  Ah, if only his mother knew his mission, she would humor him, too.
 The SUV slowed to a stop in front of the closed doors of a small red barn with white trim.  Timothy knew what was inside; hay bales, a small tool shop where grandpa works on his truck, and a loft with nothing on it.  With some assistance from his mother, Timothy was able to dismount his steed, or perhaps to escape the confines of the behemoth tank.  It came immediately to his attention that in the green square of grass surrounding the house there was a gigantic cylindrical bale of hay which Timothy correctly reasoned would be a good outpost for enemy sharpshooters.  In order to make sure his parents weren't attacked by a rogue enemy sniper, Timothy very slowly approached the hay bale, making sure that someone on the other side would have no chance of seeing his advance.  When he reasoned he was close enough to ambush, he rushed to the other side with a very sudden motion, loudly exclaiming “Aha!” to the patch of clovers and bluegrass waiting to accost his unwitting parents.
 “Hurry up, Timmy, you're going to delay dinner!”  Timothy was upset to hear his mother yell all the way from the doorstep, totally unwary of the abject danger she and his father were in, running out in front of a hostile fortification as they had just done.  Timothy relented, though, because that is the sort of focused child he is; he was on a mission, and the goal of that mission laid inside his grandparents' house.
 Having already knocked and gained entry into the main keep, Timothy's parents were beginning niceties with the king and queen thereof (or the captain and sergeant; at this point, Timothy is equally captivated by both medieval and modern warfare), and so Timothy marched in behind them warily.  Diplomacy was not his objective.  Instead, Timothy was there to perform a very thorough search of the treasure trove located at the top of the modest farmhouse:  the attic.  Smells from the kitchen indicated a celebratory meal had already been prepared for Timothy's victorious arrival.  Surely his grandparents will humor him!
 Upon his entrance, Timothy's grandma gave a loud exclamation of disbelief and embraced him, explaining to him, “I can barely believe how big you are, you've got to be twice as tall as the last time I saw you!”  Like any good soldier in the deepest enemy territory, Timothy was appalled by such a display of affection.  He is such a directed and motivated child.  He barely had any time to pay attention to the exchange his parents were having with his grandparents; it was necessary to get to the attic quickly at all costs.
 The welcoming blues and grays of the front room faded into the warm, comforting yellows and whites of the kitchen.  Laden on the table were a heaping bowl of lush green beans, a plate stacked high with steaming corn-on-the-cob with an accompanying dish with a stick of softened butter upon it, an overflowing bowl of mashed potatoes, which Timothy noted had been mashed with the skin still on them just the way he liked, and around the table were five spots set with grandma and grandpa's fine china and crystal.  Timothy felt out of place there in the heart of the home; it was no place for a soldier such as he.
 After passing the altar of the feast, Timothy proceeded out a framed doorway into the foyer.  This was a very big step for him to take in the unknown territory of the foe, because the lights in the foyer were off.  A few steps later and he was facing the stairs, looking upward into a dark abyss, each step a varying degree darkness due to the light from the kitchen being dully reflected from the kitchen so that the sides of the steps were illuminated and the tops left to the imagination.  The hardwood foyer creaked under Timothy's footfalls eerily and he feared detection from his grandparents.  This fear was, however, not well justified, as when he set his right foot on the first step it groaned like a gargantuan monster disturbed from it slumber, provoking a call from Timothy's mother.
 “Don't wander, Timmy, we're going to sit down to dinner in just a minute!”  Timothy found this warning entirely preposterous; he was not wandering but, instead, he was accomplishing the very purpose of his being there in the first place.  
 His priorities reaffirmed, Timothy set his left foot on the second step.  The stairs towered above him like the gaping mouth of an upward abyss, daring any hero brave enough to explore its secreted depths by virtue of its concealing shadows.  Heroic and foolhardy, Timothy continued to set foot after foot on the sentry serpent's back, and it hissed and its bones creaked in angry response to his conquering footfall.  Alas, the subdued snake had raised an alarm in its dying throes, and a pursuer had begun the climb behind our valiant conqueror!
 Determined to lay claim to the valuables laying in wait in the treasure room of the attic, Timothy leapt up the final few stairs and, thus finishing his ascent, wheeled to the right and sprinted down the shadowy corridor.  A window on the left of the hallway cast rays of sunlight in the shape of the panes of glass on the opposite wall, and Timothy dashed through them, convinced a searchlight had been directed at the window to direct his enemy's eyes to his daring mission to obtain the plunder at the other end of the hall.  There it was!  The goal of his mission reposed at the end of the hallway: a narrow portal unopened for who knew how many years, behind it laying the long-forgotten jewels and golden reserves of an ancient civilization.  If only someone would humor him, riches the likes of which no one had ever seen would be within Timothy's grasp!
 Angry footsteps echoed around and past Timothy, warning him to not and yet simultaneously daring him to reach for the door handle and pull outward.  They grew closer and closer, the advance of the unknown sentinel advanced on Timothy's every sense, beating step by step the peril of his situation into his head and through the door handle into his hand and up his arm, reverberating throughout his being as he yanked once on the door.  Twice!  It budged slightly, and on the third he was sure he would gain entrance and solace from his pursuer.
 But alas!  The icy hand of capture and death had him by the shoulder, gripping him with all the power and malice of an ancient warden of an even more ancient fortune.  Heroic Timothy, even with failure and murder breathing down his neck, could still taste his prize.  With one final tug, he had the door open and with a noble and fearless cry he leapt into the murky blackness, the unlit void of the treasure room, his only hope!
 Poor, unfortunate Timothy had jumped from the capture of the guarding sentinel to the awaiting arms of a beast guarding the treasure!  His noble battlecry was reduced to a frightened scream as he was encompassed by the monster's cold, menacing arms and it swallowed him whole!  Is this nameless beast the only creature in all the whole, wide world that will humor poor Timothy?
 Light abruptly penetrated the enveloping bowels of the unseen monstrosity which had devoured Timothy.  The impossible, Deus Ex Machina, had occurred, and he was pulled from the belly of the beast.
 There Timothy's mother stood, humorless, holding poor Timothy above a cardboard box filled with winter clothes, surrounded by the dust-covered remnants of her parents' past.  Her glare was enough to express what her words could not.  Why hadn't Timothy gone straight to the front door of his grandparents' house?  Why hadn't he stood quietly by his parents until they sat down at dinner?  I think we are the only ones who will humor him, I am afraid.
 At the table, Timothy's chalice of victory had been emptied and refilled with shame.  He hung his head in defeat over his plate of roast turkey, green beans, corn and mashed potatoes, completely disinterested now that his victory feast had been replaced by one of defeat and humiliation.  The triumphant party around him bandied words he knew not what.
 Timothy's mother, upset from her son's escapade, explained to his grandparents, “his kindergarten teacher and nurse are both upset with his conduct in class.  They've suggested we put him on Adderall.”  His grandfather was disinterested, his grandmother looked concerned, and Timothy's father said nothing.

Poetry - A Question of Essence

Poetry is something which should be taken seriously, but not too seriously at the same time. Obviously, one cannot slap words into a meter and call it a poem. A lawyer cannot write his case in dactyls and outdo Homer; no, a poem is a conscious effort to describe beauty through language - to wed formal beauty (in the Platonic sense) with material form (in the linguistic sense). It combines left-brain meter, rhyme schemes, and vocabulary with right-brain wit, ingenuity, and wonder. The poet takes the subjective experience he has of beauty, and crafts it into an object, making the subjective objective. For a poem to be good, then, its form must accurately incarnate its content - the indescribable beauty of the subject must be realized within the definite confines of the object. This is not possible without a certain gravity - the poet must seriously apply himself to the rhythm of his words, and unite himself to their flow. However, he cannot even begin to describe the beauty he sees if he is incapable of seeing beauty, which requires enough levity and self-detachment to actually see something worth writing a poem about.

The subject in view is always beauty (or potentially the lack thereof). If a poem sought to describe truth, it would be philosophy; if it sought to convince, it would be rhetoric; and if it sought to simply describe, it would be physics. The point of a poem about a flower is not the flower itself, although the flower is a necessary component. The point of a floral poem is the irreplaceable beauty which the flower brings into material existence. The poem points to a glory and wonder which, without such flowers to incarnate it, would remain eternally unreachable in metaphysical reality, without reaching those of us bound to a physical plane. A poem which simply lists the material aspects of the flower, counting pollen and petals and seeds, would miss the point of both the flower and the poetry. At the same time, however, the poem is not a place to preach about essence, nature, God, or beauty. Words which talked about how beautiful a flower was, how important that beauty was for us humans, and how wonderful it is that we have flowers, would be more suitable to a pulpit than a poem. The poet conveys his experience of beauty to his reading audience dynamically by allowing them a glimpse of what he sees, physically and metaphysically.

Poetry, then, is less of a lump of words, a description, or a linguistic form for displaying emotion, but a delicate balance between the physical medium used and the metaphysical reality expressed. The poet has encountered a metaphysical reality through something physical, and, in order to communicate this experience, he sets it to words. The poem follows the same form as the experience - just as the poet encountered beauty through matter, he expresses beauty through words. The great poet is the one who most successfully allows his reader to see the wonder he himself witnessed; the one who can see the glory of the face of God, and share that vision, allowing others to see just as he sees. The great poet is the one who selflessly points beyond himself toward a radical encounter with beauty itself. The great poet is the one who, when asked why he writes poetry, can simply say, "look and see for yourself."

Reflections on a Novelist

I don't have anything else to post, and I feel like posting something. I wrote this for English class.

Many negative book reviews in publications such as The National Catholic Register share the same error. The reviewers assume that a novelist cannot be Catholic because the morals he presents are too loose, the lives he portrays too pagan, or the universe he describes too full of despair. These reviewers mistake a novel for something else. Those who require a picture of perfection, ideals, or moral uprightness should not look to a writer, but to a preacher; to a homily, not to a novel. “The writer uses his eyes on what he happens to be facing,” states Flannery O'Conner in a discussion of the Catholic novelist, “... He does not decide what would be good for the Christian body and proceed to deliver it.” It is the preacher's job to deliver a wholesome meal to the faithful, whereas the writer merely attempts to portray human existence. An in-depth comparison of these two roles, preacher and writer, perhaps will help determine what a Catholic writer really is.

The confusion between preacher and novelist is understandable. After all, both men seek to put the truth into words. They must follow the limitations of their linguistic art form. Further, both the Catholic novelist and the priest are, in fact, Catholic. Their world views should be very similar, if not the same. To be truly Catholic means to start every action, especially writing and teaching, from Christ and His will. So the Catholic novelist and the Catholic homilist both start from the same place, and use the same tool – language – to accomplish their task.

However, the things they make are very different. A homily and a novel are two separate literary forms, with different purposes and rulebooks. The priest, before he pens his sermon, must first focus on what his flock needs to hear – the homily's basic purpose is to nourish. He then begins his role as an exegete, expanding upon and explaining Scripture to improve the spiritual health of his parishoners. He does not create, and he does not explore uncharted territory – he merely helps those who listen to understand what is already there. The priest is also responsible for the moral edification of the faithful. He needs to tell them what they should do. He deals with the ought – the moral right – not necessarily with the is.

The novelist, on the other hand, is supremely and fundamentally focused on what is in front of him. In his writing, he attempts to show nature accurately to those who read. The moral question of what ought to be done is not quite so relevant to him as to the pastor; what a specific character would do in a given situation is the novelist's focus, not what that character should do. The right and the wrong, as well as the good and the bad are laid open for observation, exploration, and internalization without any forced message. In a truly unique role, the novelist can almost create life for his readers to watch, marveling along with the author at its intricacy. In a novel, the utilitarian function of a homily – the need to nourish the faithful ear – fades as human experience, perhaps even life itself, becomes the focus. As proof, the novel is appreciable by any reader, independent of his circumstances, but the homily must be tailored to its audience.

A novelist, then, serves as a prophet of sorts. He stands in front of all of mankind, not with a convincing, heartbreaking moral, nor with a fabulous picture of eternity, but with a mirror. He shows humanity to itself in all of its sin, in all of its despair, in all of its pagan hedonism, and in all of its hidden jewels. The novelist who is truly Catholic, then, is not the one who produces a good, nourishing feeling, but the one who makes us think, for one moment, about who we really are.

Acting, art, and immitation.

After coming out of a theater, we'll often say "that was an awesome movie", or "that movie was awful!" or something similar. We make a judgement on these movies based on some idea of good or bad, but how can we truly discuss the worth of a movie - what standard is there to hold a film up to?

First, we have to understand movies as an art form, and what an art is. An art is to "see something that is good/true, and to portray it." (paraphrasing my English/Art teacher). Two things are necessary in creating something that is good art - first to see something that is true. You can't draw lines about nothing, even if it is good-looking. You have to see something for it to be art. Secondly, you have to portray it through a medium, and portray it well. No matter how well I see the true in my head, if the clay I'm sculpting comes out to a lump, it isn't art.

So, with that in mind, and knowing that films are an artform, and should be judged that, here are some criteria for calling films (and plays) "good" or "bad".

1. Is it true? Is there some truth behind what is shown on screen, or is a mere excitement drawn from flashing explosions and physically impossible fight scenes hooking our attention and adrenaline? For example, the movie Valkyrie displayed very little in the way of explosions and fight scenes. There was one brief shoot out, at the end, and few explosions. It had no sex scenes, one kiss. In short, it had very little in the way of visually and physically attracting the viewer. However, the truth it contained - the statement it made about human nature, right and wrong, and the German people (view my post on it earlier - LINK) - gave it more value as a movie.

2. Visual presentation. Does it look good? Part of the art is the portrayal. It could have the most wonderful truth behind it, but if the movie itself looks awful, with horrid acting, CGI effects that look like they're from the twenties, and a soundtrack that drives you crazy, then no one could possibly say it is a work of art.

A movie (or play) needs both of these elements in order for it to be good. Therefore, a good movie will portray truth, and at the same time look good. Judging by only one element, though is deceiving yourself.

~Ambrose

Scott Adams is a prophet -- with an addition

The proof: a 2000 Dilbert strip predicting in shocking detail the events of our present day.


Of course, everyone who's been reading Dilbert noticed his prophetic tendencies years ago.

Update: just two years later, yet more insight into the future?

Or is it just that the media is six+ years behind him in actually showing the public this nonsense? (Knowing the media...)

Valkyrie

This movie received such bad reviews from many different places.

"“The film just isn’t a thriller at all” said one “Valkyrie” viewer. “It’s a bunch of white guys in Nazi uniforms. It’s too bad. And Tom doesn’t speak with a German accent — though they did add a voiceover of him speaking German to the beginning of the film. Still, it’s as if he could say ‘I complete you’ at any time. This is not his Oscar moment.” " [msnbc.com]

"McCarthy also has some kind words for Singer, but concludes: "Allowing for the need to compress and streamline events, the scribes have hewed pretty closely to the facts but haven't injected sufficient sizzle into the dialogue or individuality into the characters." He surmises that Valkyrie "looks destined for just so-so commercial returns." [FOXnews.com]

Today, I went and watched the movie myself. I'm somewhat of a history buff, and from what I could tell the movie was almost dead-on correct. On that front, I think the movie does an excellent job portraying the event that took place. When I watch a movie based on a historical event, that is one of the topmost things in my priority list of things to do right. You're telling the story of something that actually happened. Get it right.

This movie, despite the reviews, was one of the best movies I have seen in a very long time. I am not a movie person, and I don't get out and watch every new picture, so perhaps I missed something. But from what I can see, this movie enters deeper levels of thought and reality than most I've seen in a while.

Perhaps the reason it's getting such bad reviews is because it was advertised as a thriller. I was thrilled. Even through there was only one scene in which guns were actually fired (very brief gun fight at the very end), I was in absolute suspense the whole movie. I even knew how it was going to end, yet I was captivated. The exposition and filmography were perfect. I enjoyed every minute of this film, just as much as other thrillers like Mission Impossible. However, it's not quite the same style. This movie does things that other thrillers don't, and perhaps can't, do. It messes with your mind. Maybe if the reviewers at Fox and MSNBC stopped thinking about actors and movies and payed attention to stories and people in them, then they would see the true beauty of this movie.

I am not the sort of person who cries at movies. To date, I've cried at three: Fellowship of the Ring, when Boromir died (honestly, the most heroic death scene ever); Return of the King, when Sam gives the famous "I can't carry it for you" line (more heroism); and at the end of Valkyrie, when the conspirators are being executed. If the last two movies were because of heroism, then it stands to reason this one would be also. I'm not moved by petty romantic moments staged between to actors, or when some long-lost friend is dying. I'm moved when something truly heroic takes place. In Valkyrie, the heroism is plain to see.

Col. Stauffenberg and his co-conspirators endure the utmost risk in order to do what they know is right. Even though themselves and their families will probably be killed, they attempt an unreasonably difficult attack on Hitler, and nearly succeed with ending the Nazi regime. Ending the Nazi regime is heroic enough, especially at such odds. However, the film's heroism does not end here.

Why they attempt this is shown in several small quotes. "We have to show the world that we are not all like [Hitler]." In todays world, the first words that pop into a person's mind when Germany is mentioned are "Hitler" and "Nazi". Germans are all Jew-hating Nazis who want to conquer the world. As a man of German descent, this has always bothered me. Whe exactly is the entire race of Germans branded with this evil stigma just because of one man and one regime? Isn't this racism? Not all Germans are like that.

"Long Live Sacred Germany!" shouts Col. Stauffenberg as he dies before the firing squad. Stauffenberg, unlike some others in the army, sees immediately that what Hitler is doing is horribly wrong and is injuring Germany. He knows that when the Allies come in a few, short months, and Hitler is killed, Germany will be branded with an eternal mark of shame. This is against his every principle. Stauffenberg is a true patriot. Chesterton says that a true patriot will love his country so much that he will be willing to do anything for it - even throw it into chaos. This is definitely Stauffenberg's love of country. He does not attach this love to the regime of Hitler, like some of the Germans did.

Movies are classics because they apply to our lives timelessly. Even though Hitler died in 1945, human nature has not changed. We still have difficulty with patriotism. America is in a similar position. We are not at all patriotic. Granted, not for the same reasons as the Germans who followed Hitler. We don't love our government, thinking we are loving our country. We have simply thrown patriotism out the window. What is America? What does it mean to be an American? The first words that come to the mind of most people are liberty or freedom. But as our freedoms are slowly slipping away, people don't seem to notice - unpatriotically so. If our nation is losing its identity - which should be the reason we love it - then we ought to be moved to action. Like Col. Stauffenberg says, "There have to be actions, and there have to be effects."

This movie is definitely one of the best movies I've seen in a while, not just because it entertained me, but because it caused me to think about what I'm doing for my country. Movies aren't great because of their acting and cinematography. Those things can make a movie good, and Valkyrie certainly had them. A movie is great when it takes what you know and shows it to you, so clearly that inaction is impossible. Along with Wall-e, this is my choice for Best Picture of 2008.

~Ambrose

Clarification on Pleasing, Pleasure and Beauty

The difference, if I'm not mistaken, is that pleasure is the experience of enjoying something, whereas being pleased is the appreciation of something's goodness. Beauty, if you ask me, is the quality of showing forth goodness. Of course, we often mistake showing forth physical goodness for having goodness beyond the physical, and it's possible for appearances to "lie", but I'm pretty sure those don't negate the basic principle. Also, this explanation should show both why material beauty is so overrated and why spiritual beauty is so much better. See, material beauty is more apparent to those who tend to live (as in focus their life on) the material world. However, as spirit is a greater thing, it necessarily shows forth goodness more strongly and it is only our weak blindness that stops us from seeing it. So, with all that said, you may now go back to doing whatever you do when you're not arguing with me (unless you want to argue with me now, in which case expect me to be grumpy as I'm already stressed enough with finals about to be here).

Advent

"Coming".

The world likes to get hyped about Christmas coming. Hyped liked a dog at the sight and smell (smell especially, for most dogs) of an endless supply of fresh meat. Hyped like that little guy in Over the Hedge who dashes around at blinding speed and can hardly settle himself enough to say anything important. In fact, that's just the problem with getting hyped.

A few gifted souls out there look, see and think best when they're worked up. The rest of us, not so much so. True, we get things done better while worked up. Meaning, though, usually has to be taken for granted in such states.

So when Red Cardigan at And Sometimes Tea posted on the whole "Holiday" thing, I knew I would be linking it about today.

Red Cardigan points out that not only is the world refusing to acknowledge the meaning of Christmas, but we as Christians and especially Catholics are losing our traditional period of preparation to look at that meaning.

Advent.

If something meaningful is coming, say a wedding, you want to prepare for it. However, you want to prepare for it in far more important ways than just having the decorations up. If someone gets too stressed with those surface preparations to be prepared internally, say when a wedding is coming up, we alway remind them to step back, stop worrying the cake will be perfect and let themselves just think about that which the cake is for.

Let's not just try to retake Christmas. Let's retake Advent. If we retake Christmas from those who don't want to mention its name, that's great. If we don't have our fair chance to actually sit back and think about Christmas' meaning, it doesn't matter. Let's retake that time, those three to four weeks, for doing just that.

Now for an artistic defense.

NOTE: Please read this before continuing.

Beauty is that which according to its nature is directed towards pleasing. Is it better to have pleasure or to be pleased? Well, if one has pleasure but is displeased, one isn't happy. If one is pleased even without pleasure, one is fairly happy. So then, it shouldn't matter whether we find it enjoyable to do something as much as it matters whether that something is beautiful.

Now, which is more beautiful: the "Holiday" rush for superficial things or the serenity of sitting back and thinking about the meaning?

Duh.

Advent.

Artists unite!

Anti-classists beware! My sister-in-law has a blog for her artwork now!