T HE PERSISTENCE OF V I S I O N
THE PERSISTENCE OF VISION
The Persistence of Vision A SHORT STORY by
JAMES NAKAMURA
T HE PERSISTENCE OF V I S I O N
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S
omeone was reviewing Stanley Gold’s reviews of films and it was a cheap gimmick if anyone asked him. These were reviews of his reviews. Unwarranted. Unmerited. For Stanley Gold was a famous, veteran film critic, and if anyone could get under his skin, it was another younger critic. At first, it began benignly, as posted comments on the online edition — simplistic remarks that contradicted his viewpoints. “Gold’s a coot!... Wrong again!... The Tin Man reviews a romcom!...” Then came the blog on wordpress, in which his language was critiqued for its persuasiveness. Then came the reviews that included pointless personal assessments as when Stanley panned a movie about a talking cat, the other reviewer ousted Stanley as a “dog lover”. All of this was fair enough — everyone had a right to post their opinions. It was the link on the Star Advertiser website, right below his column, that upset him. It was a Wednesday afternoon when he 5
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first came upon it. The dry vog hung heavily over Honolulu and he was sitting on his apartment lanai, eating a red lentil soup and toasted sliver of french bread. He had been reading his own article on online edition of TGIF on his antiquated Sony laptop — as it was a quiet pleasure to see his own work disseminated to the masses, be it in print or pixel form — and had noticed a link to another review just below his. In his review of the film concerning characters pondering the afterlife, he stated that the film’s”meandering tone, and trite yet earnest dialogue, made for an extended exercise in navel gazing. Death and the afterlife were everywhere, but where was life? I would have rather watched my dog ponder the skyline for two hours,” he wrote. The review of his review began “Stanley Gold does not believe in the afterlife. He does not believe in God. He doesn’t have the imagination for it.” An inset photo revealed the writer to be a younger, twenty year old with a mohawk and a weak jaw. He was tilting his head and squinting one eye as if his views were skewed and he had the edge on any matter. Who in the hell did this kid think he was? How would he know what Stanley believed in? Granted, the kid was right, but it was a fluke speculation from 6
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a disrespectful young brat. Perhaps he was a relative of the publisher. At least he was confined to the internet, where the column widths were free and he could drown with the rest of the nattering bloggers. To hell with him! From beside him, Herzog, a white Jack Russell with brown spots around his eyes and ears stepped out onto the lanai and whimpered. Quietly, Stanley closed his laptop and set it down. “Herzog,” he said. “You ready for that walk?” He struggled out of his chair. “Let’s off with us. The old man needs to get some air. The place wreaks of bullshit suddenly.” *** There was once a film maker who proclaimed that the world was filled with two types of people – creators and destroyers – and within that continuum, critics were indeed the destroyers. They felt entitled to excellence yet they lacked the talent to achieve it. They attached themselves to art forms and acted parasitically, inhibiting the joy derived in creation, killing it from within. In the online world, the neo-noosphere of information, most critics were just hacks. Many of them wrote without a system of rules and principles. Some lavished praise too 7
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easily, touting a film as among the best of the year on a weekly basis. Others derided films arbitrarily, without systematic criteria, as if being impossible to please were the qualities of a superior intellect and therefore good criticism. Mostly, the passionate yet unfocused masses were merely fans selectively reviewing films based on versions they had already imagined in their heads. These were peddlers of opinions, nothing more. Stanley Gold was not one of the those peddlers. Although he himself received a degree in journalism and not in film theory, his knowledge of film over the decades had grown encyclopedic. He had sat on the panels of thirty eight film festivals across the country, had curated the HIFF, had written numerous essays and published collections of them. He attended Cannes and Sundance yearly, sat and conversed with Scorcese, Lumet, Altman and Leigh among others, and was not among the cacophony of voices in the anonymous online democracy. His reviews were in print, and he was paid as one of the few genuine authorities in film. He was neither the “destroyer” nor the “creator” of that scornful and reductive philosophy, but a guardian. It was a priviledge he had worked twice as hard for as an outsider working his way in for over 30 years. A true critic could only be someone who cared deeply 8
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about films, about the state of films, about the state of the world that is reflected in films. So who the hell was this kid? He was a hack! Why bother being bothered? “Darwin Shaw,” the kid introduced himself one Thursday afternoon at the editors meeting at the Star Advertiser office. They were standing in the hallway, in front of a labyrinth of cubicle walls and hairlines when the kid, bigger than expected, turned to him and held his hand out. “Stan Gold. Nice to meet you,” said Stanley, clearing his throat. He straightened his back but the kid towered over him by half a foot. “Are you in one of my classes?” “No no. I’m actually new on staff. I write for the weekend section. I do a critic’s column. Like you.” “So, you’re a critic.” “That’s right.” “Food critic.” “No. Actually. I comment on your work.” “That critic?” Stanley nodded and appraised him. The mohawk was gone and his head was clean shaven. Stanley stiffened and took a single side step away from him. “The tapeworm,” he concluded. The kid fidgeted, “I wouldn’t put it that... Well, I just want to say, I admire—” 9
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“You work... here?” asked Stanley, pointing to the floor on which he stood, his lip curled, barely concealing his disgust. “Yup. Right here,” said Darwin. The elevator door opened and Stanley angrily brushed past the extended hand. As more people poured in, Stanley stood aside and held the door open. “It’s one thing to have your head up your own ass. It’s quite another, to have it firmly rooted up someone else’s. Good luck, Shaw,” he said mockingly and let the doors close. *** More critics, just what the world needed! More people entitled to the best of everything. People hated critics. Industries hated critics. Film producers, writers, directors, painters, musicians, comedians, actors and actresses, they all hated them. Once at a screening at Mann’s Chinese Theatre, a famous actress had approached Stanley. The woman, taller and more beautiful and imposing in person shook his hand and said, “I just want to thank you, Mr. Gold. For everything you do.” Stanley was not one to be star struck. He rarely sought the company of the rich and the famous who’s performances he scrutinized so closely while 10
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on the silver screen, but he was star struck then. “Thank you,” he muttered. Ms. Burstyn smiled, flashing her brilliant white teeth and tilted her head. “You know, it takes a lot of people and a lot of time to make a film. No one ever sets out to make a bad film. There are no film meetings where producers say, ‘let’s ruin this one’. Everyone involved, from the cast to the crew, from the star to the caterer, they invest everything they have into a film. You’ve watched the credits roll, you know how many are involved. For years, they work on this one thing, and they hope that it works. They may disagree, argue, make bad choices, but no onewants to make a bad movie. No one sets out to offend your sensibilities, Mr. Gold. But from it’s premiere, it takes a column of about 500 words to condemn a film and send it quietly on its way to obscurity. It’s as bad as actually standing in front of a theatre, waving a sign that says ‘DON’T SEE THIS MOVIE’. It’s actually worse. Because people read the reviews. It affects sales. And all of those hard workers, well, some may not find it as easy to find a job afterward.” Stanley held Ms. Burstyn’s palm in his clammy hand and adjusted his tie. “I, well. I am...” he stammered. “A big fan...” he said, “of your other works,” he added, then excused himself. 11
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People hated critics. Creatives hated critics. Stanley hated critics. But it was his duty, and his passion, to review each film objectively, championing his standards for a better tomorrow. A good film could reduce him to tears. It could show him something new about the world. He expected no less because it hurt to see such a powerful medium abused and so he railed against it. And, what was wrong with that? Shaw. What an asshole. What did he think he was, the people’s critic? The revenge critic? Was turning the tables on another critic by critiquing his critiques supposed to be clever? He was an asshole indeed. *** On Friday, Stanley had 2 film reviews printed in the TGIF insert. He had driven home from the dog park in Kapiolani, unleashed Herzog in the apartment and sat back in his recliner. Before settling in and starting on the new book about the Dogme Collective, he decided to look over his reviews. The first was a film about an odd couple who were randomly paired together on a road trip. He called the film’s comic sensibilities “Misguided... There were moments when these characters stopped 12
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trying to be funny, and began trying to be offensive. The fatal flaw therein, that they tried at all.” In his second review about a group of middle aged men taking a vacation to the Bahamas to regain their wild bohemian youths, Stanley wrote “The film works. I laughed. I laughed hard. This is a very, very funny film.” Stanley chuckled to himself as he conjured a scene where 4 men were stuck in a hot tub together, and the sole woman had somehow disappeared within the entanglement. He was about to fold the newsprint and set it onto the back end table when he saw a name in print. It was written in Times Roman, and was thus consecrated. Darwin Shaw had made the pilgrimmage from the blogosphere to newsprint! “Mother Fucker,” said Stanley, firming up the paper. The review was titled The Gold Standard, and began “If you feel that Stanley Gold’s reviews of this week’s films seem contradictory, you are not alone. In one, he decries the slapstick mentality of the plot. In the second, he praises the very same mechanics. He laughs. He takes joy in it. Note the sudden flurry of visual details in relaying the hot tub scene. It’s a standard scene. I’ve seen it. It is not funny. Yet he laughs fondly. Why? He is not laughing at the actors, 13
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or at the director’s staging of the sequence, or at the beats in the script. He is laughing at himself. And once again, he reveals a bit of who he is for us readers and fans. Let me tell you how. It happened in a jacuzzi not quite like the one on screen. It was 1972. It was summer....” The review went on in detail, describing that long lost summer day on his 22nd birthday in which he and a girl and three other friends tried to get into a jacuzzi. The girl’s name was Haven. She was 25. Stanley was in love with her. She was an aspiring poet, as he was. They had all just seen the premiere of The Godfather and he was awestruck and aglow with inspiration. He had told everyone he suddenly wanted to become a film maker, and if he could produce a film half as good as Coppola’s, he would have been happy. His enthusiasm was infectious. They drank beer and joked and laughed, not minding the small, cramped quarters. She kissed him in that awkward and crowded space, it was something that he would not forget. “You see, for him the scene evokes nostalgia,” wrote Shaw. “You can see it in the way he caresses the scenery and catalogues every detail. It’s a lapse in professional conduct — a film review should never have anything to do with yourself — but it’s a minor trespass. We’re all human. In taking 14
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such pleasure and creating such a reverie linked to such a cliched scene, you may have wondered, what’s come over Stanley Gold? Well, now you know.” “Jesus,” growled Stanley. He crumbled the newspaper and threw it across the room. Herzog ran after it and returned with the crumpled tabloid hanging wet from his maw. “Herzog!” cried Stanley. “Trash!” The dog walked over to the white trash can in the corner and clumsily lowered the paper into it. “Good dog! God dammit,” he stammered. Shaw was precisely right. But how had he known this? Stanley got up out of his chair and fetched the leash. “Shaw. I’m gonna have you fired... By god. Easy as you please, you’ll be shit-canned. Herzog. How’s about another walk?“ *** The editor of the TGIF section didn’t back down. Shaw was now a full time member of the staff, and among his many contributions, “The Gold Standard” as the column had become to be known, was among the more popular articles. “It was the blog format,” explained Mitch Dostevsky, the editor. “He had about 4,000,000 followers. Can you believe that? I mean, that’s a hefty number. I don’t think the entire cast of Glee has that many followers on twitter. Not 15
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that I follow them.” Stanley scowled, “Glee?” He shrugged. What the hell was that? They were sitting outside the Starbucks on Bishop Street late in the afternoon. “Where does he get off? What’s with the fixation? Did I pan some distant cousin’s buddy cop movie?” “No, nothing like that,” said Mitch. “It’s just some new media thing. He pitched it, it was an interesting hook, and he had the readers. It’s good for our numbers. That’s it.” “This is insipid. You know this,” said Stanley, tearing a napkin in half. “The state of film criticism has reached an all time low. Brainwashed by Hollywood. All of ‘em fanboys of the highest degree. Do they even know what real criticism is?” “It’s a puff piece. The kid’s a fan. This isn’t hard news, it’s entertainment.” “It’s supposed to be critiqued. It’s supposed to show and reveal what most wouldn’t see. All we have now are consumer reports of commodities. And don’t even mention the thumbs up system!” “It’s in the interest of the people.” “It seems the entire paper is one big human interest story...” “That’s why you’re still here, buddy. Hawaii’s own beloved, venerable, craggy, crusty, grizzly film critic.” 16
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Stanley glared at Mitch, took a sip of his coffee and crumpled up his napkin. He looked more and more like a Sylvain Chomet illustration. All fine lines and exaggerated angles. “Go see a Pauly Shore movie,” he growled. “You’re not bothered by this? You went from News A to the entertainment section. Our National news is laid out like some Top Ten List as if it makes it more palatable. This is basically tabloid fare.” Mitch waved his hand in dismissal. “Just another new animal shored up by these strange, new tides. Come on. Lighten up. At least they kept us on board after the buy out. We could have been on skid row. I mean, you would have been fine, what with your book deals and lectures. No kids. Healthy. But I would have been sunk! Don’t rock the boat on this, I won’t be able to back you.” Stanley thought about this. He was alone, then. A young woman walked by wearing a pair of gym shorts and Stanley’s eyes obediently trailed her down the sidewalk. He fetched his memories of lost loves. Old friends long gone and wondered aloud, “Shaw — how’s he know so much about me?” “Come on, Stan. It’s not supernatural. Nor serendipitous. He’s a gifted reporter. He’s done the research. There’s a wealth of autobiographical material sitting at the library. Native Books. Borders. 16
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All by you.” “Maybe he came from the Rupert Murdoch School of Journalism,” said Stanley, air-quoting journalism. “Could be.” “I wonder,” said Stanley. “If he’s somehow attached to my past?” “What past? You haven’t even dated a girl after Havanah left you. That was what, thirty years ago?” “Ah, Haven. Maybe she’s had a kid after all.” “You keep harping on about her. Why don’t you move on? You need someone.” “Aw. I was never good at dating. She was the last. Explain this, how do you suppose Shaw knew about the incident with the hot tub?” Mitch sighed as he normally did when the topic moved to Havanah. “Research. You can’t keep your pen cap on. It’s in one of your two collections. I read it myself.” “Maybe he interviewed her.” “Stan,” said Mitch crumpling his paper cup. “He didn’t need to. You dwell, and divulge. Don’t get sentimental on me. Nostalgia is a killer. It’ll stop you dead in your tracks.” *** 15
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The reviews continued. Shaw’s reviews of Gold’s reviews had shifted over the months. At first, they deconstructed his writing techniques, his sentence structures as if he were combing through stanzas of poetry. Then they began to cross reference his previous writings on cinema, comparing and contrasting minor points from one of his earlier collections of essays. Then slowly, they became more caustic, and revealed personal aspects about his life. They drew on his associations and critiqued his social circles in an attempt to explain his viewpoints. Through it all, Gold refused to comment on any of those reviews. He had nothing more to prove. This was no pieta, no usurping of authority, nor a critical coup. This was simply another form of critic, and now he knew how the auteur’s felt. When Stanley published his review of an animated tale featuring inanimate objects speaking to each other whenever humans weren’t around, he asked “Will kids like this? Is there any mystery here? A light switch speaks through a lightbulb. An oven heats up when angry. Will kids get the domestic satire? Where has all the wild, unfettered play gone? The open spaces? Asylums from adults? What we have is child’s play curated and controlled by corporations and their commodities. This is a sad 14
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state of affairs for children.” When it was published, he read it at his desk while eating a spread of sky flakes with homemade guava jelly, and black tea. With resignation, he read his review and then turned the page to The Gold Standard, by Darwin Shaw. The review was titled Farewell to Childhood, and it began “Stanley, oh Stanley. You’ve never had kids. Havanah and yourself, nor you and anyone else, for that matter. Havanah left you because you were lacking in empathy. You show a curious lack of empathy for any case of anthropomorphics. Curiously immune. You showed a lack of empathy for Pinocchio when it was remastered and rereleased because, well, if a thing isn’t real, it isn’t human. Bambi was a deer, how could he feel human emotions? And therefore, how could we? you asked. Robots and toys suffer the same fate under your scrutiny. You were once a child, don’t you know that to draw eyes on an object is to make it real? You would have understood, had you a few children on your own.” Quietly, gently, Stanley folded the newspaper and set it aside. This was not how he had envisioned the twilight of his career. If he had spent a lifetime antagonizing the work of others, well here it was coming back to him on his own turf, in his own home, is his own life. They say you should separate 13
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the work from the artist. They say artists should never take criticism personally. But what of this new animal? Did Shaw expect a rebuttle? A comeback? Some sparring? Well, he wasn’t bolstered for it – not at this stage in the game. If this were the state of criticism, he wanted no part of it. He bent over, scratched Herzog behind his ears, rose out of his leather chair, then walked to the kitchen. He picked up the phone and dialed in Mitch’s number. In a resolute voice, he grumbled into the phone. “Hey. It’s me. Just wanted to jump on to let you know that this week’s review will be my last,” then he hung up. *** The year passed by quietly. Stanley continued his lectures at Hawaii Pacific University. He taught classes at the University of Hawaii School of Digital Media. He encouraged students to take risks – to create from the gut. He critiqued their works fairly, and refrained from making any of the harsher judgements he had employed in his published articles. He tried again at writing screenplays but failed to complete any of them. He wrote essays on the Pacific Rim movement. He published his fourth and final compilation of reviews. He started a food 12
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blog, and ate out alone regularly. Meanwhile, Darwin Shaw had grown irrelevant. With no reviews to review, his articles focused on other topics, like the Sun Noodle factory, or the different types of poke. It became clear that Darwin Shaw was a talentless sensationalist, perhaps with some connections in high places, and in Gold’s absence was struggling to find new and meaningful subjects. Stanley was afraid that Darwin would find another avenue through which to antagonize him but he never did. This was a relief, as Stanley hadn’t the energy for it. Out on his lanai at nights, stroking Herzog’s back, he would gaze out at the city. The little pecker was out there somewhere. He would see the red wing tips of a plane and hope that Shaw was on it. Oahu remained as beautiful, and frail as ever. Despite the flawed planning in infrastructure, and the eclectic architecture and design of the city, it grew more and more luminous each day. Walking Herzog around Kapiolani Park on a Sunday afternoon right after a matinee, soaking in the heat of the sun after freezing in the air conditioning on the theatres, exiting the dark and entering the light – a bustling sidewalk, a park filled with families, a beach worked over by young runners and surfers — he could then turn a corner and come upon a dilapidated structure, 11
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a forgotten pocket of refuse, filth and grime. On the weekends, he took Herzog to the beaches and parks along the south shores. They walked along crowded parks near Diamond Head and Waikiki. They sat at the pavilions along Kakaako. Herzog, growing old and tiring easily, gave it his best, but as time passed, they found more contentment in sitting along the more quieter fringes of town. Then, one Saturday, a letter arrived in the mail. He didn’t recognize the handwriting and it appeared to be an invitation, perhaps to a wedding. When he got back to his study, he took a closer look and realized it was from Darwin Shaw. His heart began beating arrythmically and he quickly took to his seat. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “What do you want?” Slowly, he opened the envelope and extracted the letter.
It read: Dear Mr. Gold, As you know, I have been a big fan of yours and have been following your work since I was a child. It’s been a year since your last film review and I must say that the absence of your voice is felt deeply throughout the industry. I’d just like to clarify my position. Although 10
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it may seem that I had been unfairly attacking you, that couldn’t be further from the truth. Would you say that you hated film? No. Your criticism comes out of respect and love for the craft. Likewise, my reviews of your reviews. Film criticism is an artform. Anyone can criticize. It takes a true master to critique. And in your critiques, you have shown all of us that you have a deep understanding of film, life, and of people. Sometimes, your review of a film and its characters is so perceptive that it makes me wonder whether or not you were simply projecting – that the film wasn’t as good as you had written. Frequently, I would have rather read a review than see the film. In that way you’ve become an artist. And for any artist of any new craft, there will be critics. I took up that watch. It’s been a pleasure. As you have retired from film criticism, I too have been forced to find another career path. I am now a writer and director. I have just completed my first film. It wouldn’t be a surprise to say that it is a film about you and your life story. You may be wondering how I got the film green lit in the first place. Well it was easy, you are well regarded in the industry, and I wrote a great script. The film debuts at Dole Cannery 9
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Theatres on Thursday at 7. I know that it would be a breach of conduct for you to review it, but I hope that you will attend. Sincerely, Darwin Shaw. *** Stanley showed up to the screening with the sole intent of berating the flick. He would come out of retirement, break the rules of conduct and review the film under extreme bias. The lobby bustled with old colleagues he hadn’t seen in years, old friends and a roll call of his students. He felt underdressed, wearing a pair of khaki’s and a blue Lahaina Sailor Spooner shirt. Above the concession stand, a plasma screen looped a trailer and the title “The Gold Standard” flashed every 2 minutes. When Darwin saw that Stanley had arrived, he ran over and thanked him profusely for attending. “An honor, seriously,” he said. “This is a tribute to you.” He checked his watch every ten seconds, and repeatedly glanced at the theatre’s doors. “I really hope you enjoy this,” he said, lingering. “This is nerve racking.” Stanley looked around. The promotional 8
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materials were elaborate, 3 dimensional cardboard diaramas of movie theatres, complete with rows of red chairs, a red curtain and a movie screen made of lenticular paper with images that danced as you moved by. “How did you secure the budget for all of this?” he asked. “You weren’t in the pictures before this were you?” Shaw smiled and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. “No, well. My father invested in the film...” “Ah. Nuff said,” said Stanley, checking his own watch. A crowd of old acquaintances gathered around and shook his hand. They began speculating on which scenes they were going to see. “Maybe a fight scene, maybe at that bar back in those days when you were a hard drinking son of a bitch.” “Maybe so,” said Stanley. He was beginning to enjoy himself and the attention. “Who would have ever thought a film be made of a critic.” “Are you going to review the film?” asked one of his students, a younger redheaded girl in her early twenties. “That wouldn’t be appropriate, but I’ll give you my personal opinion in class on Monday,” he smiled and winked. Her reaction was timid and it made everyone feel awkward. He wasn’t sure why 7
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he had winked at all, as it was incongruous to his answer. Perhaps it was all of the attention. He winked and winced a few more times, feigning a nervous tic. “Well,” he turned to Darwin and patted him on the shoulder. “See you in the movies,” he said and made his way to the concession stand. *** When the film began with a single spermatozoid being shot into pink amniotic fluid, swimming toward an egg, Stanley’s face lit up with delight. The movie was about to be one of the worst in recent history! The egg developed into a fetus, and over a short montage of fetal development, the first shot of Stanley flashed across the screen. He was a screaming newborn, and a close up of his eyes revealed the superimposed image of film reels rolling along his irises. The wagnerian music swelled and the title flashed across the screen. The Gold Standard! “Hmmckkh!” Stanley could not contain himself. He let out a snort and caught a few curious glances. He caught his old editor glaring at him and shrugged. Mitch shrugged in return and turned back to the screen. On screen, his childhood unfolded episodically, almost like clips of Leave it to Beaver 6
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episodes. The dialogue was stiff and wooden. “Aww Ma! Can I go outside to play?” “Now now, dear, finish your soup,” said the actress playing his mother. She was astonishingly close in resemblance to his real mother, but her delivery was horrible. By the time his father had made his first appearance, accidentally hitting his shoulder against the threshold of a doorway, shaking the entire fake set, causing the microphone boom to dip into the scene over his head, Stanley was in stitches. He was snickering so hard his popcorn had fallen all over his lap. A nervous wave of laughter bubbled from the front row to the back and Stanley made an attempt to compose himself. This was a tribute after all. In terms of a biopic, the film was spot on in measuring equal amounts of drama with actual events. To it’s credit, it didn’t play for obvious collegiate comedy when he was at Berkeley, stoned most of the time and homesick, trying to make his way back to Hawaii for spring break by selling more weed. It didn’t ramp up the quirkiness with it’s portrayal of his parents as two bohemians living on Maui. It avoided the usual pitfalls of condescending to eccentric characters and instead portrayed them fairly as people struggling to get by, proud of their 5
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only son, prideful of the fact that they could send him there. The film avoided sentimentalizing Hawaii and shirked from showing the usual postcardperfect landscapes, and showed poverty for what it was. The recreation of his childhood home was just right. There was the constantly broken water heater that emitted smoke from a chimney so black it swallowed the neighboring houses. There was the garage his father had driven through in the Datsun, that remained on a tilted axis like a parallelogram until he left home. There was the failing roof, the plywood walls, the rusted bicycle he had received as a hand down for a birthday. But the acting and the pacing was horrendous. His mother read her lines as if by teleprompter. His father struggled to avoid eye contact with the camera and made strange deliveries such as “I love you son?” And that child actor! The boy that played him resembled him so acutely it was a shock to hear him attempting to conceal a southern drawl. And Haven, or Havanah. The actress that portrayed her was so remarkably her yet so bad an actress, she was a jarring distraction. Her diction desecrated every memory of her. Yet there were those quiet scenes in the later years, in which Stanley — a failed screenwriter, and 4
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poet — tells her that he wants to become a film critic. The lighting in their shabby Los Angeles apartment was so pitch perfect it was almost the actual memory. The terrible acting gave way to a moment of serenity, as when Stanley explained his reasoning. “There’s so much to admire when it comes to cinema,” he said to Havanah as they lay on the floor mattress. He picked up a Henry James novel, and began scribbling in its lower corners. He then turned the pages toward her and began flipping through them. The soft pulse of air roused her fine auburn hair as she watched. In the corner, a ball bounced back and forth, back and forth. Haven laughed. “Is that a bouncing ball?” she asked. “Well, I’m no artist,” said Stan. “I accept that. But just look at this,” he flipped the pages again, and again her hair danced. “In the film books they call this the persistence of vision. The way our minds work, we can only process images so fast. Even though they’re just pages flipping, it looks like real movement. Now add to that layers. Dialogue. Music. Have it all come together just so, and we get something like Citizen Kane. I’m no auteur, but I know art. I wanna know everything about it.” An hourglass twirled within a spiral, signifying the passage of time, and Stanley was covering his mouth with his napkin again. A map of the Pacific filled the screen and red dotted line 4
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began in California and made its way toward Hawaii, signifying the period in which Haven and Stanley moved to Honolulu. Stanley’s shoulders were visibly trembling as he doubled over in attempt to conceal his laughter. Was the travel montage necessary? More nervous laugher bubbled up in the front rows. A few people glanced back. He could see Darwin Shaw sliding down in his seat. Hula dancers graced the scene out of what may have been straight out of a Jack London story. Strangely, the Waikiki of the 1970’s resembled the Waikiki of the 40’s. Thatched huts and hula dancers. A priest strolled the beach as group of locals brought in an outrigger canoe. When the boat reached shore, dragging a dead shark just as an added detail, Stanley realized that he was in b-movie bliss. This was heaven. He began eating his popcorn. He was ready to truly enjoy the debacle, for it’s failure surely had nothing to do with him. But then there was Haven, through it all, she was there. The early years. The optimistic couple. Her many manuscripts sent out to publishers who then rejected her. Her growing passion for watercolor. Her first sold painting. Her first gallery showing. Then there was the miscarriage. The dissolution of his marriage. The messy divorce. All of it was handled mutedly. He would even go as far 3
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as to say, sensitively. This was not something he wanted to relive, but it was all there — strangely, almost telepathically researched by Shaw. By the time Haven had packed up her bags, leaving Stanley with a puppy named Herzog, he was in tears. “Damn it, how do you comment on such a thing?” he whispered to himself as the credits rolled. The woman sitting next to him handed him a napkin. He took it, and shakily pressed it into his eyes. What a life – a quiet life, sitting in the dark, eyes wide open, taking in the dreams of others and reveling in them. When Haven was at her lowest point, sleeping away most of the days, he had often walked out to see a matinee for a bucket of popcorn and a window into another life. Often, he wondered if things would have turned out better if he had been more attentive. But he was wounded and angry, for she had shut him out as well. Outside, members of the audience lingered. His students walked, bleary-eyed, to the doorway and to their cars. A few stragglers patted him on the back as they headed toward the restrooms, “Good stuff, Stan. Really moving. But, kinda weird.” they said. Darwin was nowhere to be found. He had slipped out of the theatre ten minutes before the credits rolled and was gone. The film was profoundly 2
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bad, the worst he had ever seen, yet it was sincere. Stanley would write a balanced, gracious article for the Advertiser and would send Darwin a letter of thanks. What had become of Haven? Last he heard, she had remarried a doctor. Or a musician. The truth was his string of contacts had all fallen out of place over the years and whatever he heard had trickled through a fragmented game of chinese whispers. Wherever she was he hoped that she was happy. He walked out of the lobby and toward the escalators. As he rose above above the incoming groups waiting in line to purchase their tickets, he thought of that one scene. What a strange time — a formative time — Haven and himself, laying in the bed in that bare apartment, young and broke, watching a flipbook for entertainment — the pages flipping, the eyes and mind too slow to see the gaps, the ball bouncing back and forth, back and forth, page by page, until before they knew it, the pages were closed, and they had to bend them back, reversing time, to play it all again.
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