Carry That Wait

In “The Princess Bride,” there’s a moment where the beyond-master fencer Inigo Montoya stands at the top of a cliff, watching his opponent-to-be slowly climb the rock toward him. The cliff is steep. The climb is slow. And Inigo just wants the fight to begin.

“I hate waiting,” he mutters.

Lately, Heather and I have felt a certain kinship with Señor Montoya. Because waiting, it seems, is the most difficult battle of all.

Sometimes it’s the Parent/Guardian Standby, waiting for a Missy tantrum to blow out so that we can get back to what we’re supposed to be doing.

Sometimes it’s the Chronic Illness Blitz, where Heather is trying to outlast the pain of a sudden surge in her chronic conditions (lately the MS) and both of us have nothing to do but wait in anguish.

And of course, sometimes it’s waiting on a larger reality. Like the pandemic. Or the wildfires. Or the other thousand unnatural shocks that 2020 is heir to.

Which means, right now, we’re all Inigo. We want something visible to fight, something to do. But any progress made is almost invisible. And waiting – whether in pain, in endurance, in impatience or desperation – is exhausting business.

Sometimes it’s necessary. Sometimes there’s literally nothing you can do but bide your time and wait for a better change of season. All of us hate acknowledging that – we want to be not just the protagonist of our story, but the author – but it is a lesson that needs to be learned, over and over.

Sometimes … well, sometimes there is something to do. It may not be much. It may be completely ineffective. But if it doesn’t hurt someone else – or better yet HELPS someone else – then it may also be worth trying.

The small bit of comfort offered in a time of pain.

The attempt to redirect a tantrum-generator onto something else.

The basic courtesies and protections that make it possible to live life at all when viruses fly and the skies turn orange.

Here, too, we’ve got a role model. Inigo hates waiting … so he offers to throw his opponent a rope and swears on the soul of his father he will reach the top alive. In the short term, that leads to his defeat. (To be fair, he was the only one not wearing a mask). But in the long run – and after a VERY long period of waiting – he finds a new partnership and a greater goal, one that allows him to rise above being a petty clock-punching henchman and become the hero he was meant to be.

Consideration for others. Keeping commitments. Becoming aware of the bigger picture. No, those aren’t bad lessons to learn at all.

I still hate waiting. I still want something to draw my sword on, even if I know I’ll lose. But with an eye for kindness and a drive for compassion, it doesn’t have to be empty waiting. `We can be there for each other. And in being there, we make ourselves better.

Maybe that’s enough. I suppose it has to be.

If nothing else, it makes the wait of the world a little lighter.

The Princess Riot

The roar of indignation echoed across the internet.

“What do you MEAN, they’re remaking ‘The Princess Bride?’ ”

To be fair to Hollywood – probably not. The whole mess started with an off-hand comment by a Sony CEO that some “very famous people” wanted to take another crack at the 1987 family favorite. There’s been no official announcement since. Indeed, the only word of any kind since then seems to have been an unnamed USA Today source confirming that Sony has no plans to touch the film.

No surprise. If Sony meant to test the waters, the studio quickly found them full of Screaming Eels. In a world where we seem to grow ever more divided, EVERYBODY from ordinary fans to stars of the film to prominent political figures closed ranks to defend the movie. And since ‘The Princess Bride’ is one of the most quotable movies ever made, everyone had a chance to tweet one of their favorite lines as part of the resistance:

 

“There’s a shortage of perfect movies in this world. It would be a pity to damage this one.” – Cary Elwes

 

“NOOOOOOOO!!!!!! Sonny, The Princess Bride is the greatest thing, in the world—except for a nice MLT, mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich, where the mutton is nice and lean and the tomato is ripe. They’re so perky, I love that. DON’T MESS WITH PERFECTION.” – Sen. Ted Cruz

 

“INCONCEIVABLE!!” – Half the internet, simultaneously

 

The only thing missing was Inigo Montoya drawing his sword and making his famous introduction … oops, no wait, there it is in a meme. We’re good.

It’s heartwarming, of course, to see people defending a story, especially this one. This was William Goldman’s favorite novel and screenplay, one that made it to the screen against tremendous odds. It spent over a decade in “development hell,” with many studios convinced it was unfilmable. Its initial release came and went with barely a ripple, since the marketing department didn’t know what to do with it – was it a romance, a fantasy, a comedy, what?

Home video saved it and made it an icon. Small wonder. A fairy tale that both celebrated and mocked its own roots, a story with swashbuckling action and tongue-in-cheek wit, a movie that could wholeheartedly embrace true love (or is it “twoo wuv?) while also quoting “Life is pain, princess; anyone who says differently is selling you something” – what’s not to like?

Or more to the point, what’s to remake?

Hollywood, of course, loves the remake and the reboot. It’s the safe choice, with a built-in audience. And it works more often than we think. “The Wizard of Oz” with Judy Garland was the second feature film on the subject. So was Charlton Heston’s “Ben-Hur.” “The Magnificent Seven” was a resetting of “The Seven Samurai,” while the comedy “Airplane!” took the script of “Zero Hour!” almost word-for-word.

But in each of those cases, there was something new to be brought to the mix. A different tone or  genre, or a new take by an actor or director, or new technology to better capture the story. If all you’re doing is retreading the same ground, you might as well just re-release the film and have done with it. You’re not going to take it anywhere new – and you might well make it worse.

You don’t have to be Hollywood to understand that. Most of us know what it’s like. We get in ruts. We make the same decisions over and over. Sometimes they’re good decisions that became merely comfortable ones. Sometimes they’re Charlie Brown’s football, promising over and over again that THIS time it will work.

Deep down, we know we have to explore and grow. That’s why our best stories take someone beyond the comfortable and force them to change. The reckless and rootless Huckleberry Finn learns maturity and the worth of a man. The stay-at-home Bilbo Baggins learns confidence and an appreciation of the wider world.

And yes, the farm boy Westley remakes himself into the hero his love needs him to be – and learns that even the most competent hero can’t do it alone.

Remaking movies can be tedium. But remaking lives is essential. What lives, grows.

Anything else is simply inconceivable.

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.