Edward Norton

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On hate and the waste of it.

Published July 24, 2012 by mandileighbean

Yesterday, I wrote on the importance of love.  Following that train of thought, it is only logical to arrive at the conclusion that hate is unimportant, in the sense that it is senseless; there’s no point to it.  I’m not just talking about forgiving and forgetting those who wrong us, but also about the bigger issues, such as the prejudices and cruel assumptions that at times can plague society and thereby cripple the brotherhood of man.

Tonight, I watched the film “American History X,” starring Edward Norton and Edward Furlong, and directed by Tony Kaye.  It tells the story of a reformed neo-Nazi who does his best to keep his younger brother from making his mistakes.  It is incredibly powerful and moving, and offers up an important lesson that at one point or another, we all lose sight of.  If it were up to me, everyone would see this film.  While the language is obscene and some scenes are clearly disturbing, it is never gratuitous or manufactured.  The film is genuine and authentic, and that is where the power lies.  The characters are identifiable and thoroughly developed so there is an emotional investment, regardless of an audience’s personal politics.  Released in 1998, I did not note any antiquated aspects.  The film most definitely holds up some fourteen years later and is still, in my opinion, incredibly poignant and relevant.  The film exhibits art at its best; beautiful and educational.  The cinematography is perfectly juxtaposed against the story, which is penned remarkably well so that a lesson is learned without anything being too preachy or pretentious.  This film is honestly one in a million and were it not rated R, I believe a solid until on tolerance would couple the film with readings of Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison and Night by Elie Wiesel.  Honestly, if it were up to me, everyone would view this film at least once.  Love is the greatest gift we have and the strongest bond we can form amongst ourselves.  Anything that would belittle or try to destroy that compassion and companionship, such as hate, has no place in our lives.  I understand that sentiment is easier said than executed and may, unfortunately, be idealistic for the environment in which we live.  That does not mean that the sentiment is any less accurate and should not still be strived for daily.

PROMPT: A woman whose husband is killed during a tour of duty overseas decides to turn her home into a boarding house.

PIECE: Diane sat on the edge of her bed, breathing slowly.  She allowed her lungs to fill and she felt the expansion in her chest.  Then, she deflated her lungs and felt her whole body kind of relax and smooth.  Her high-heeled shoes rested firmly upon the wooden floor of the bedroom with strong ankles that did not cave one way or the other.  Her knees came together not only because she was wearing a dress, but because she was terribly knock-kneed.  Her hands, which had finally stopped shaking about a month ago, rested on her lap in a professional and detached kind of way, calmly folded.  Her back was ramrod straight and she was mindful to keep her shoulders lowered from her ears so that the vultures named anxiety and grief would have nowhere to perch; at least not for today.

Beside Diane was the expertly and lovingly folded American flag she had been handed at her husband’s funeral by a white gloved Marine.  She had been unable to without it since the funeral.  It had been a year since and as the flag became a near constant companion, the bedroom had become a stranger.  She had not slept in the bedroom since Nathan had left for Afghanistan and had abandoned it for good when she learned Nathan was never coming home.  Like a ghost, she had traversed the halls of the home silent and numb.  The house was quiet and empty in a way that was rather unsettling.  For three hundred and sixty five days, Diane ate a small breakfast and small dinner at the counter in the kitchen.  The time in between was filled with a blaring television that she looked through rather than watched, prostrated upon the couch.  It was no way to live, but she couldn’t bear to leave the last space Nathan had occupied.  His life insurance allowed her to keep the home and live comfortably, but her father was already discussing the time when the money would run out, which it would eventually because she hadn’t been to work in a year and she had no intentions of returning.

As comforting – or rather, as familiar as it was to wallow in her grief, Diane knew it could not be a permanent state of being.  Nathan wouldn’t be pleased and if she were allowed to keep on living, it had to be for a reason.  Her broken heart hadn’t killed her yet, and as long as the organ continued to beat, she had to continue on.  Thus, she came to the decision she would turn the home she had shared with Nathan into a boarding house.  The silence she despised would be filled by happy travelers and their families.  Life would bustle through the halls once more.  She would be able tp keep her mind occupied and her hands busy with the upkeep on the place, just as the necessary renovations to the home had done.  Diane also realized she could hang Nathan’s picture and his medals near the front door, prompting the patrons to ask questions and allowing Diane to contribute to keeping her husband’s memory alive.  Everything was prepared and today, she was set to recieve her very first customers.

There was just the matter of the flag.  She turned her sorrowful, but gradually lightening, eyes to it.  When Diane left the house, the flag traveled with her, in the passenger seat of her car.  She had spent a solid three months cradling it like an infant.  Her father-in-law had mentioned something about letting go and moving on and to appease him and all those worried about her, she stopped carrying it around.  But wherever she was, so it was.  But she couldn’t have that now, couldn’t be seen carrying it from one room to the other, clutching to it like a drowning victim would a life preserver.  People would find it sad and creepy, and no one would want to stay there.  Diane had decided it was time to deal with the flag.  She had debated buying a case and placing it beside Nathan’s picture near the entrance, but thought such a shrine might be a little too morbid and bring the war too close for comfort to her wearied travelers.  Besides, Diane wanted to feel its cloth beneath her fingers whenever she wanted, as it reminded her of the way it felt to smooth Nathan’s uniform before he left the house.  It had to be discreet yet easily accessible.

She was going to leave it in the closet of the master bedroom but as she couldn’t stand to be in the room and was thereby renting it out, such an option was not logical.  Diane was going to place it somewhere in her bedroom but she feared she’d never leave the room, that she’d be prone to slipping back into her fugue state, simply sitting and stroking the flag, doing no more than wasting away.  Diane liked the tactile features of having the flag in the home, but it was time to move on.

Today, before the first boarders arrived, she would drive the flag over to Nathan’s mother and father.

On belonging to the cult of popular culture.

Published July 18, 2012 by mandileighbean

I really delved into my popular culture universe today. I started watching “Hearts in Atlantis,” which is a film based on the novel of the same name by my idol Stephen King, and it also stars Anthony Hopkins, David Morse and my new celebrity crush, Anton Yelchin. I got distracted by the pool and the incredibly – albeit dangerously – warm weather, so I’ll have to finish watching it sometime tomorrow. I read A LOT of To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee; it has to be the hundredth time that I am reading that glorious masterpiece of a novel. I watched “Weekend at Bernie’s,” solely because I will always love Andrew McCarthy, caught part of “The Fan” because Robert DeNiro is an absolute genius and debated who was the better actor with my sister: Leonardo DiCaprio or Edward Norton? It’s a total “Sophie’s Choice” because it’s nearly possible to claim one over the other. Also, I engaged in reality television with my mom and sister – some of it trashy, but mostly dealing with Gordon Ramsay and cooking. I also found out that the actor Christopher Meloni may return to “Law & Order: Special Victims Unit” as Detective Eliot Stabler, and the Backstreet Boys have reunited with all five members and are recording a new album (this is especially exciting because Kevin Richardson has returned and he has always been my favorite. He was a Backstreet MAN).

Why am I bothering to immortalize all of this in print on the internet? Am I not just really wasting space with trivial matters?

Maybe.

 

But I believe that popular culture can be an incredibly effective and easily manipulated tool. It is a great way for humans to relate to one another. To offer a specific example, in the classroom, I try to make the literature being studied and analyzed applicable to the popular culture of the students. If the material is made relevant to their culture, it not only offers a solid opportunity for emotional investment, but also highlights inter-media connections which employ higher-level thinking skills. I also believe that if a celebrity – be it an actor, an artist, a writer, a dancer, what have you – expresses interest in popular culture and remains a fan, it endears him or her to his or her own fans, and creates a more intimate relationship which can prove extremely valuable in a number of different ways. It could be a great public relations move, in my humble opinion.

Whenever my mind wanders – and it does so quite often – and I daydream, I think about being on Ellen DeGeneres’ talk show and being teased about my many, many celebrity crushes and dream that Ellen would bring out … let’s say Robert Pattinson, and I would be awkward yet charming and thereby endearing not only to Robert Pattinson, but to the audience. I’d be acting like a “normal” person meeting a celebrity rather than a celebrity meeting a celebrity; the population able to relate to the latter is frankly miniscule. I understand there is most certainly a flipside to such behavior (it could be misconstrued as unprofessional and immature and even embarrassing), but we’ve already discussed how life is a series of navigating fine lines.

This is why I can’t do math. My brain is filled with stuff like this – so much so, that there is simply no room for numbers or computations.

PROMPT: A man is given the ability to go back in time and change one event in his life.

PIECE:

“When you open your eyes,” a female voice, which was surprisingly stern, began, “you will be transported back in time to a moment of your choice.  Mr. Wallace, you are being given the ability to go back in time and change one moment in your life.  Choose wisely and do your best to anticipate all ramifications – some could be disastrous.  God speed, Mr. Wallace,” the voice concluded.

Lucas opened his eyes slowly, still totally bewildered by the wealth of just utterly bizarre information he was being forced to swallow.  If Lucas were to be absolutely honest, he would also have to confess that he was not even sure he could physically, emotionally, and/or intellectually accomplish such a daunting feat; he doubted doing so was even possible.  One moment, Lucas was stepping out of the shower and the next, everything went black and now, here he was ….

Where was that, exactly?  Heartbeat quickening, Lucas frantically turned his head from side to side as he was desperate for some context clues.  His eyes were taking in familiar surroundings, but they were surroundings that had not been familiar in about a decade.  He was in Maine, just outside of Ellsworth.  Lucas was surprised he even remembered the place because he had only been there for a week on vacation during college.  The place was significant not because it was a beautiful getaway location, but because it was where he had first met his wife.  He had been leaving the adorable, charmingly tiny motel and crossing the street to the roadside lobster stand that had the water at its back, and boasted an entire lobster dinner for only $15.00.  As he jogged across the primarily dormant two-lane highway, his future wife was just leaving, climbing into the back of a generic station wagon.  So impressed by her beauty and grace, Lucas made a slight correction in his navigation and arrived at her side just in time, just before she shut the door and drove back home with her parents.

What could he possibly want to change about that moment?

Lucas realized that technically, he was inside the cramped front lobby of the motel.  He had been signing something at the desk, making small conversation with the matronly owner and her young daughter.  They had just wandered off to tend to some business and he was getting ready to head out the door.  Lucas believed everything was right on schedule.  Why this moment?  He looked down at the desk and found his answer.  Upon the wooden laminate desktop was his grandfather’s fountain pen, given to Lucas just a month before he passed.  He had left it on the desk in the motel in Maine, and he had never seen it again.  Here was his chance to get it back!  Beaming, Lucas grabbed the pen and headed outside into the radiant sunshine.  It seemed like such a silly thing, but Lucas had always kicked himself in the ass for leaving the pen there.  The gravel of the parking lot crunched under his feet as he hurried towards the lobster stand across the highway, but his pace slowed considerably when he did not see a station wagon.

Had the moment of hesitation in grabbing the pen slammed shut the window of opportunity for meeting his wife?  Lucas felt very, very sick.

 

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