Month: November 2018

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A Dickens of a Tale

Standing in the dark on Friday night, I listened to the buzz of the audience.

A noisy crowd before the curtain is an actor’s favorite fuel, and this one kept building … and building … and building. The entire stage seemed to resonate, ready to light the cast up like a Christmas tree. One step, and the most unstoppable chain reaction since Trinity would be underway.

Not for a world premiere. Not for a screaming-hot “Hamilton” or a Disney-powered “Lion King.” But for the Longmont Theatre Company performing one of the most familiar stories in the Christmas canon.

Mr. Scrooge, you’ve still got it.

***

If there’s anyone who doesn’t know “A Christmas Carol” by now, welcome to Earth, and I hope the trip from Alpha Centauri was pleasant. For the rest of us, the basic plot has become part of our cultural DNA. Even on TV sitcoms, if a character makes the mistake of falling asleep on Christmas Eve after a grouchy day, we know to expect three spirits, a moral lesson, and maybe even a chorus of “God bless us, everyone!” as hearts warm and the audience applauds.

It’s a reflex. A tradition. And after 175 years, it still has power.

Why?

It’d be easy to say it’s just one more stock story. Easy to turn it into predictable melodrama. Easy to just say the familiar words and go through the motions.

But when it’s at its best, “A Christmas Carol” goes through the emotions instead.

This is somewhere we’ve all been.

Scrooge is faced with missed opportunities. With old wounds that become fresh again. With the fear of leaving the world unnoticed and unmourned, having spent a lifetime pursuing the wrong things, until the things are all that remain.

Those regrets still hit home today.

More than that, Charles Dickens gave us a tale of reaching out and truly seeing the people around you. Scrooge’s nephew Fred is joyous because he can see people opening their hearts to each other as the holiday approaches, and he can’t wait to share it himself. The Cratchits overflow with warmth and love because they constantly reach out to each other, turning even the most meager situation into a chance to be a family. Scrooge himself begins as a lonely youth who reaches out for love – and then loses sight of it, and himself, and the rest of the human race.

It’s not about a man who hates Christmas. It’s about a man who’s become closed off and needs to be reminded that other people matter, and that he can matter to them. That the rest of the world isn’t just “surplus population,” but neighbors with faces and names and needs that can be met.

And most of all, it’s about hope. That what you’ve been doesn’t have to be who you are. That while there’s life, there’s a chance to become something new.

Not without effort. Not without pain and reflection. But the best presents are the ones you work for. And this is one that all of us have needed, then and now.

It doesn’t take three ghosts and a visit from Jacob Marley (though a good night’s sleep never hurts). But it does take empathy. Self-awareness. Self-transformation. And it all leads to a perspective that opens doors and tears down walls … not least, the walls within ourselves.

So we revisit the story. We relight the hope.

And maybe, just maybe, we awaken a Christmas spirit that’s all our own.

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Another Story

Everyone leaves, sooner or later. But I’d always kind of hoped William Goldman would be an exception.

If you watched movies at all, you know who William Goldman is. Heck, you’ve probably quoted him a hundred times without thinking about it.

If you’ve ever read about an investigation of political corruption and thought “Follow the money,” you’re quoting Goldman.

If you’re a Wild West fan who’s ever seen characters in a desperate situation and remembered “The fall’ll probably kill ya!”, you’re quoting Goldman.

And of course, if you’ve ever seen the actor Mandy Patinkin anywhere – on stage, on screen, in an airport – and immediately felt yourself saying “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die,” you’re quoting Goldman. (And you’re in a very long line.)

His words and ideas gave life to a hundred stories. He put a crack in the myth that the screenwriter is the most powerless person in Hollywood – something that gives heart to every writer out there, including me –  while also enduring his own frustrations with the movie machine, such as the 14 years it took to bring his favorite of his novels, The Princess Bride, to the screen. And then he made it awesome anyway.

In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m a fan. In fact, Missy and I had just read The Princess Bride as our bedtime book a few weeks ago. So when Goldman died on Friday, it was a little like losing a favorite teacher.

And his best lesson was that there is always a story behind the story.

Plenty of writers create a compelling story. The best  create stories where the characters have depth, where they’re more than just a pair of steely eyes, a favorite weapon, and a cunning quip.

But where Goldman excelled was in looking at the assumptions of a story itself, and then pulling back the screen.

A master swordsman who’s quested 20 years in pursuit of his father’s killer? Great! But he’s also working for a boss he hates to pay the bills, because revenge isn’t a terribly marketable skill.

A pair of Western outlaws staying one step ahead of the authorities with fast draws and faster minds? Sure, we know that one – or we think we do, until we see that they’re in a West that’s going away, too late to stay frontier outlaws and too soon to be gangsters.

Hard-nosed reporters on the trail of the cover-up of the century? Sure, it’s faithfully told – including the fact that no one showed Woodward and Bernstein the script in advance, so that they have to listen to what isn’t said, stumble through trying to call a Spanish-language source, and even manage to screw up their big story on the front page on the way to nailing everything down.

It’s a good lesson, in writing and in life. Look at the assumptions. Consider the real-life consequences. Ask why you’ve seen a particular story a hundred times before, and you’ll see what gives it its power. And then see how to truly make it your own.

And if you still get in the killer quip , so much the better.

Stories are powerful. Stories frame how we see the world, even as the stories we tell – whether on the page or in our lives – influence the thinking of others. The more conscious we are of that, and the more we think about the unexpected turns those stories might take, the more we can make it a story worth living for all of us.

So thank you, Mr. Goldman. For the lessons in writing. And the lessons in life.

Wherever you are, “Have fun storming the castle.”

And if you’re also giving someone a peek at what lies behind the drawbridge, I won’t be surprised at all.

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In Living Memory

OK, quiz time. Which of the following comes next when you hear “Remember, remember…”?

A) “… to turn your clocks back one hour to end Daylight Saving Time.”

B) “…what you came into the room to get five minutes ago.”

C) “…a time in September, when life was slow, and oh, so mellow.”

D) “… the fifth of November, the gunpowder treason and plot.”

If you answered D, there are decent odds that you either have English relatives, or you’re a fan of  the movie or comic “V For Vendetta” … or that you know how a columnist’s mind works on questions like this. (We’re a little predictable.)  The chant, of course, is a traditional one for Guy Fawkes Day in England on Nov. 5, and a catchy one at that. Some of you may have even finished the next words: “I know of no reason why the gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”

Now comes the harder part. Why? Why remember?

Those who remember anything at all might recall that Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament. But the details of why, or who he was, or what century it happened in, or that the observance was once an occasion for virulent anti-Catholic fervor … that tends to be fuzzier for most people. Most of the time, what gets remembered is the admonition to “remember, remember” and not much else.

Which brings me to Veterans Day.

Each year on Nov. 11, we get our own call to remember.  – specifically, to remember and thank the veterans of our armed services, especially those who have served during wartime. Cities offer parades. Restaurants offer meals. We hear their stories, shake their hands, maybe put out the flag for the day or the weekend.

But how often do we think about why? Do we think about why?

Or are we just remembering to remember?

I wonder. I really do.

It began as a remembrance of horror and a pledge of peace – the Armistice Day, when the relentless and pointless four-year slaughter of World War I finally came to an end.

In this country, it continued because of a Kansas man named Alvin King, a man who repaired shoes and felt that the sacrifices of the still-recent World War II veterans and those who came after them should be honored as well.

Two ideas. Two kinds of memory.

One, the memory of things past. Of a portion of life given at the country’s call. A recognition that some were willing to risk pain and fear and death and despair in order to serve a land they loved. Some came back to thanks and parades. Some returned quietly, as though knocking off work at the end of the day. Some, instead of welcome, drew recriminations.

It’s a story that most of us cannot truly know or share. One unique to those who have served. And so we remember.

But we also need a second memory. A memory that looks forward. A memory that remembers that the struggles are not always in the past, that our veterans are not just a story to be told and a hand to be shaken once a year. That we have an obligation to meet their needs, to heal their wounds, to help them as they once helped us.

And most of all, we need to remember the price. And the ancient commitment to our veterans, so often broken, to create no more of their number. To seek peace in a world of war.

It is an imposing memory. A demanding one, even. But essential.

Remember, remember.

And then make the memory real.

I know of no reason why this veterans’ season should ever be forgot.

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A Simple Act

Breathe deep. You’ve almost made it again.

After Tuesday, the ads are over. The junk mail can stop. The robocalls and surveys can find another topic for a while (and surely will). And with Daylight Savings over, you’ve even got your lost sleep back so you can recover your bearings.

But first, there’s a small job to left to do.

And small as it is, a lot of us won’t do it.

Every couple of years, a lot of time and money gets spent on “Get Out the Vote” campaigns. And every couple of years, the effect is … variable, if you want to say it kindly. In a good year, 60 percent of us may show up to the polls. In a bad year, even 40 percent may look like an impossible dream.

And in a midterm election, when there’s no presidential candidate at the top of the ticket, the bad years can be very bad indeed.

Everyone with a cause or a candidate wants to change that, of course – at least, for the folks who support THEM or who haven’t decided yet. And so, a lot of tactics get tried:

 

Eat Your Spinach – “Voting is good for you! It’s your duty! And you’re not leaving this dinner table until you’re done!”

Ooh, Shiny! – “Who wouldn’t want this cool sticker of the American flag? It’s the perfect accent to every outfit!”

What About Those Guys? – “If you don’t, (fill in least favorite person) will – and you know what he’s like!”

Buy Now! – “It couldn’t be easier! We’ll bring the ballot right to you! You drop it in the mail! Or even bring it to the curb! Heck, we’ll even throw in this lovely set of steak knives ABSOLUTELY FREE!” (Disclaimer: there are no steak knives.)

Be Emotional  – “People died to give you this vote. And you want to throw it away? I bet you shot Bambi’s mom, too.”

Be Practical – “These are the elections that count. No electoral college hoo-hah getting in the way, just your voice and mine. You wanna complain? Here’s your ticket.”

Be Really Practical – “You know those phone calls and doorbell ringers you’re sick of? You vote, and they magically go away. It’s like something out of Harry Potter.”

 

As I said, the results are mixed. Some tactics may help (especially clearing away the logistical barriers), but none is a magic bullet cure-all. And the reason is simple.

At its heart, voting is an act of caring.

It’s a small act of caring, true. Voting is to civic engagement what a wedding is to a good marriage – a first step on the road that’s often mistaken for the end of the race. It’s a commitment that says what kind of society you want to live in.  What issues and people are important to you. Who gets helped and who gets hurt.

It’s not just an abstract number shuffle. It’s a decision that changes more lives than the lottery and for a longer period. Sometimes the results can seem prosaic – jobs created or lost, standards created or repealed, projects begun or abandoned. But at the root are faces –a decision of who will be seen as a neighbor and who as a stranger, who will be greeted with open arms and who with doubled fists.

A single step. A first step. Even an easy one.

And if the caring isn’t there, even the easy step is too hard. It gets forgotten. Or cynically bypassed. Or maybe worst of all, done without any thought at all, just a tick of the box to get it over with. Boosting the turnout numbers, yes, but adding nothing to the decision.

Would you want an employee or a co-worker who approaches their job that way?

It can be good that everyone votes. But it’s vital that everyone who votes, cares.

Take the time. Spend the thought. Invest the heart.

Once again, there’s a small job left to do.

Do it right. Do it well.