In the Belly of the Beast

Maybe I’m just a grump, but I hate to be entertained. Sit me in front of the big screen, show me a typical Hollywood action film, and I soon begin to feel trapped, subjected to this endless barrage of sensory stimulation, all of it beyond my control. FWIW, I feel the same way about roller coasters.

Some of my favorite movies are those in which almost nothing happens. I remember trudging down to the Art Institute one cold winter night to watch a documentary about the Northern Lights. For the first half of the movie, we followed the crew as they travelled north, past Churchill, Canada, to set up their cameras. Then we watched the Northern Lights, pretty much in silence, other than for the ambient sounds in the background, for close to 45 minutes. I was enthralled during most of it, partly by the visuals of the light show, but at least partly by the sheer simplicity of it all, of setting aside this space in our lives where nothing had to happen, where we could just watch something beautiful unfold of its own accord.

Ever since I was teenager in L.A., roaming the streets for something interesting to do, I have thought of “entertainment,” at least the kind of entertainment that a large corporate entity has created for our viewing pleasure, as something for people who were too old or lazy to get off their duffs and create their own fun. And while, in my creeping middle age, I have lightened up on this stance, I still suspect that “entertainment,” in the Hollywood sense, is for people who don’t mind being bamboozled.

Sure, there are now some evenings where I like nothing more than to pour myself a rye on the rocks and settle in to the next installment of “Game of Thrones.” Subcontracting out my fun is one of the perks of a busy life that I have granted myself. But I still don’t want to be entertained during every waking moment that I have to spare. Sometimes it’s nice to be entirely free from that sort of thing. And as a sidebar, let me note that both my thoughts and my life tend to be a lot more interesting on those increasingly rare intervals when I have successfully avoided plugging in to the idiot box.

With this prejudice against entertainment in mind, I attended a scriptwriters workshop this past weekend. Danny, the host of the workshop, established the parameters early on: “Entertain me!” he declared, exhorting us to put moral or thematic revelations in the back of our creative toolbox, the artistic equivalent of grape shears. And in a practical sense, I see the function of this kind of advice. If you want to escape the narrow confines of your own pretension, a focus on plot, character, and the reaction of your audience is probably a good place to start. But then what?

I believe the accomplished storyteller has an obligation, both to his audience and to his own story, to at least try to put the ghost back into the machine, to infuse some depth and resonance into all the plot twists. And at least the pretense of meaning is a subtext of almost all story. We, as a sentient species concerned with our place in the world, both individually and collectively, intuitively insist upon it.  

The “entertainment industry” goes back to ancient Rome, where the patricians kept all the plebeians fat and happy by doling out a never-ending supply of bread and circuses. It is part of a hierarchical society to make the common man dependent on their master’s teat. If we are constantly entertained, maybe we won’t think too hard about our lives.

I say fuck that. Entertainment, in and of itself, is a form of victimization. There are thousands of great stories out there, and many of the most poignant ones are also fun as hell. I don’t consider myself elitist just because I don’t wanna always fall for the lowest common denominator. Stanley Kubrick, David Lynch, Terrence Malick, Ingmar Bergman: These are my celluloid friends.

I admit that film can be a superficial medium. I’ve always thought that music and maybe poetry were the least corruptible of the arts, the ones most in touch with the song of our true selves. And that architecture was the art form that had the most impact on our day-to-day lives. But we live in a highly visual culture and, like it or not, much of our story is being told on film. So I’ve ventured into the belly of the beast to tell my tales. Wish me luck.