Creativity: The David O. Selznick Theory

GWTW Publicity:  Leigh, Gable, Mitchell, Selznick, De Havilland

David O. Selznick.  Producer in “old” Hollywood.  Said to have added the middle initial for flourish and musicality.  In many ways, the master mind behind 1939’s groundbreaking Gone with the Wind (GWTW).

He was also a man who got invested in the seemingly unimportant details like lace trim on petticoats and pantolettes.  Items that didn’t particularly matter to a movie audience.  One of the actresses playing Scarlett’s sisters recounted a story in the documentary about making GWTW.  She basically pulled Mr. Selznick aside and told him he was wasting a ton of money and time including this level of workmanship on their costumes.  In almost any shot, no one would even know it was there.

“You’ll know it’s there,” he reportedly said.  “Now finish getting fitted.”

Mammy helping Scarlett dress

The creative mind knows more than it shows.  There is always a backstage we don’t get to see from the audience.  The producer believes in nuance that is layered.  Ready to be peeled away if the right moment comes (i.e. a telling scene between Scarlett and Mammy).

I was chatting with a coworker the other day, and she also happens to believe writing is important to sanity.  Editing, we agreed, is both the bane and blessing of every writer.  Sometimes we edit even before the words make it onto the page.  Hours of research may yield only a paragraph.  We may know the full case history of every character before we ever introduce them to someone else.  I’d call it all a calculated risk.

It’s like sewing lace on an antebellum petticoat, the whole time asking yourself if anyone will ever even know.  The labor?  The love?

It’s an intimate process, but it must be done.

Somewhere out there, someone is asking “why?”  Because if you’re going to commit to this act of creativity, you have to COMMIT.  You have to pull a Selznick and have your characters wear fine lace undergarments while you schedule a huge fire.

Yes, a fire.

First of all, you have to schedule a fire is because you have to clear the way for new production.  In GWTW, there’s a huge sequence around the burning of Atlanta.  In the 1930s, however, CG was not as sophisticated as we’ve grown accustomed to.  Based on the lace anecdote, you shouldn’t be surprised when I tell you that Selznick wasn’t going to be fine and dandy with some miniatures being burned or an artistic rendering of faux flames at work.  Instead, the solution was burning down sets of previous films, creating nearly 2 hours of footage for the famous scenes.

That was different twist on “out with the old and in with the new.”  Or as (arguably) Faulkner said, “Kill your darlings.”  No previous labor should stand so powerful in your mental landscape that you can’t set fire to it for the sake of building something new.  As one of my mentors would say, “cling loosely” to those darlings.

A word of warning however:  don’t expect to get off scot-free.  You may lose something in setting fire to the old stuff.  That little fire stunt cost the GWTW project roughly $25k.  And residents in surrounding areas were calling the fire department in genuine worry; they didn’t know it was a planned burn.  In essence, stripping away the old doesn’t come without a price or misunderstanding bystanders.

The second reason for that enormous fire is as a backdrop for new action.  A beneficial corollary of burning down old movie sets was that Selznick’s crew could then build new sets for the rest of the film.

Consider it Gestalt in action.  The fire and lace interludes become a part of the producer.  If nothing else, it is added to his repertoire as something completed in the past and therefore possible in the future.  Even better, it leads his imagination toward a blank slate.  A freshly installed playground for …

Matte paintings.  Interior sets on GWTW didn’t have ceilings; they were all matte paintings.  This allowed Selznick to propagate the embarrassingly elegant (to Margaret Mitchell) vibe.  He was going for visual extremes.  Realism wasn’t a priority unless he wanted it to be.  What producer would claim any different?

Tenuous, step-by-step on the wire is the life of a producer.  Let's get real:  creator.  By most accounts, Selznick never flourished again quite like he did in the furnace of GWTW.  If we’re honest, we can only guess why.  It doesn’t matter though.  Most of those subsequent films are inconsequential to the average person.  And so I will leave you with one thought:  if you were only remembered for one thing you did, would that be enough?

Think about it.

Selznick with Leigh at the Academy Awards

Name, Rank & Serial Number

Kids have the greatest knack for being literal, causing you to question how you communicate, explain, teach.  A couple of the absolutely brilliant boys I mentor heard me say a phrase one night, and all of a sudden, I was explaining something so much bigger than just the literal –and they were getting it.

The phrase was “name, rank, and serial number.”

For someone like me who grew up with ex-military around, the meaning is  as innate as the verb to be.  Not so for these 10-year-olds.  They have lived their years in San Francisco, probably with little exposure to military speak.  How to explain it then…?

I didn’t want to talk to them about Guantanamo Bay or ISIS/ISIL/Islamic State.  I didn’t want to talk in more terms they wouldn’t understand.  I didn’t want this to be a moment when their curious eyes glazed over because the boring adult couldn’t teach them.--  Oh, I knew what I didn’t want.

Deep breath.  And the briefest call to God as I dove in.

“Name, rank, and serial number?  It’s like when you’re a soldier and the enemy catches you.  Sometimes they want to find out stuff, so they ask you a bunch of questions.  But you’ve been trained to say the same thing over and over:  name, rank, and serial number.

“So if Satan comes and asks, ‘who do you think you are? You’re nobody,” you can say, ‘I’m M--.  I’m a son of the Most High God, and He has a plan for my life.’”  I turned to look at the other boy.  “And you can say, ‘I’m J--.  I’m a son of the Creator of everything that ever was.  He made me in His image, and I’ve been chosen to show you who He is.’”

Even as I write this, it seems like a lot for a kid to comprehend.  But in reality, they can handle more spiritual meat than we give them credit for.  These growing guys got it.  The conversations we’ve had since then show that they get it.  So regardless of whether someone tells them they’re not cool or not good enough or whatever, they’re learning that because God’s word is always true, they don’t have to worry about the lies.  They’re memorizing their identity in Christ.  They’re letting Him etch it into their hearts and memories.  Each day, they’re learning what it means to know who they are.

I could do with a little refresher myself sometimes.  “I am Valonna, daughter of the King, Who brought me out of misery to bring me into joy” (Deut. 6:23).

Hope Rising

This poem was featured in an multimedia art gallery for the 2013 Christmas Celebration at Glad Tidings Church.

Deep night

On a voyage just begun.

She looks down at her baby’s face…

A journey to a new town for a labor she’d never expected.

Strangers all around them:  nameless shepherds and anonymous nobles.

They were here to worship her Son.

She couldn’t have imagined this night.

She sensed there was more to unfold.

It would explode like a star in the sky

                                                           Tomorrow?

                                                                              Years from now?

She could only wonder, and so she

                                        Treasured

                                                                               these things in her heart.

* * *

She walked toward the garden

Clutching spices in her hands.

She fought the heaviness,

The sickening numbness that engulfed her heart.

She still couldn’t believe He was gone.

She didn’t know that His eyes were trained on her approach.

How He loved her, this frail human in His repairing grasp.

His eyes warmed as He thought how she would

Live and

               Love and

                               Speak of His heart to others.

She stumbled closer to the tomb,

And He remembered how He’d

                                   Treasured

                                                                           them all

             —all the unlovely and unlovable ones—

      as He stumbled under that cumbersome cross.

It wasn’t on the pain He focused

—that was only a fickle torment.

No, He lingered on the plans His Father had for their future.

He

    Treasured

                          those plans as though they were for Him.

She looked up into His face and gasped, seeing a stranger.

She didn’t know Him yet.

But then, the world had only begun to know Him. 

Hope had risen like a beacon star in the night sky.

Classified: Personal

Ever go people watching and make up an entire backstory for someone?  One random Friday night, my friend and I went to a restaurant in the city and had such fun watching the waitor and apparent manager of a restaurant, we created an entire story for them.

Daniel:

Loves fishing, making pottery, going to art galleries, playing checkers on weekends with grandpa.
Rides vintage clunkery Vespa.
Co-owns biz because he loves Theresa.
Afraid of color (wears black all the time).
French derivation; immigrated young, so he has a little bit of accent.
Secret talent: juggling.
Great laugh, self-deprecating.
Impatient but always running late.
Careless with money.
Quit smoking 2 yrs ago.
Horrible dancer.

Theresa:

Loves to read, jazz, old movies, bittersweet chocolate, hot pink roses.
Bicycles everywhere.
Hates pants.
Has eyebrows done every 2 weeks.
Hates the color green; used to be CPA.
Lets emotions get bottled up inside.
Looks forward to tutoring students every Monday afternoon.
Never wears sandals (child ballerina, has neglected feet since).
More than social drinker but has decreased frequency and quantity.
Secret talent: macarena.
Adores her cat, Charlie; she volunteers at humane society.

"The names have been changed to protect my fiction."

Bob, Nora, and Ella

I know this may come as a shock to some, but I love to watch babies and little kids experience the world.  They are blatantly curious; they don't bother to hide when they're investigating--unless you've already told them not to investigate something.  I love their guilelessness (Wow, that word looks ugly; let's say lack of guile instead.).  Regardless of word choice though, children are such charming sleuths.

One day I was riding the bus home from running some errands, and there was a man sitting in the seat diagonally in front of me.  His ears were gauged and pierced, and he had a short mohawk.  The sunlight glinted on his blond armhair and accentuated his tatoo sleeves.  His expression could at best be termed neutral, though some might have dubbed it scary.  I'm going to name this man Bob . . . because I can.

A few stops later, a youngish mother boarded, carrying her daughter in one arm, cell phone held to her ear with the other.  The conversation didn't sound fun for the mother; she was venting to the person on the other end of the line.  Most everyone on the bus heard her words too, as she took her seat in front of me, across the aisle from Bob.  I'm going to name the mother Nora and the little girl Ella, just because I want to.

It didn't take long for Nora to make a negative impression on practically everyone present.  She was vocal about how jerky the ride was, how crowded it was, etc.  Ella, however, seemed pretty unphased.  She was busy checking out Bob.  Full-on staring.  Well, she was about 16 months old, and she hadn't caught on to the anti-staring policy yet.  While Nora seemed oblivious to everything except her phone, Ella was perfectly happy to go exploring while held in the confines of her mother's arms.  So she reached out and touched the hair on Bob's arm, big round eyes trained on his face to see his reaction.

Bob appeared pretty detached from the scene to this point.  He was a well-seasoned passenger, but when Mr. Neutral Expression turned to look at Ella, he was wearing the most beatific smile.  She didn't smile back though.  Instead, she retrieved her hand to her mother's supporting arm in preparation for her next mission.  This time, she reached out and rested the full length of her chubby hand on Bob's tattooed arm.  His expression was no different this time:  smile directed right into Ella's beautiful brown eyes.

Ella was delighted.

But Nora was still preoccupied with haranguing the bus driver and tossing out diatribes against everyone she knew.

Within a few more stops, it was time for Nora and Ella to disembark.  Ella was contentedly silent the entire ride, but Nora cursed the driver even as she marched off the bus.  And it made me sad.  Does she realize what her daughter sees and hears?  Does she spend time in the night planning her daughter's life?  How long before Ella adopts a similar attitude and aborts her current demeanor?  How long do we have with the guileless investigator before she potentially transforms into a fault-finder?

Hugs: A Call to Arms

Here's to kamikaze hugs.  To hugs from women who go find you the last piece of cheesecake.  And hugs from women who've never been told they're prodigiously awesome.  Here's to hugs from women who squeeze the breath from you as they comfort you--as if their lives depend on that embrace.  Here's to women who hug with no premeditation, no guile, no agenda.  Here's to hugs from women who know the hug is not fully appreciated when they give it.  To hugs that crack the taut facade of a woman in control, that leave her shaking and clinging to the person cradling her.  Here's to hugs from women we haven't seen in so very long, and hugs from women we saw earlier today.

Here's to hugs that come in a "thank you" or a "you're welcome" or a "you rock."  Here's to hugs that involve no touch, but a helping hand in tough moments.  When someone drops everything to come be with you when you've been fired (and feel jubilant about it), or friends who leave the party early and bring you cupcakes when you're crying and don't know why.  Here's to hugs in the form of silly jokes to distract you from your problems, since you can't change circumstances anyway.  Here's to hugs that come with truths difficult to accept about ourselves.

Here's to embracing our own ability to affirm life in others.  Here's to making that our mission.  Applauding someone's success with no thought of "why not me?" or "when's my turn?"  Giving someone a "you rock" without expecting a "you too" in return.  Here's to genuinely complimenting someone you loathe.  Looking for new things to compliment in everyone, and telling them to their face--and even behind their backs.

Here's to seeing, acknowledging, and reveling in our own worth.  Here's to dropping our baggage long enough to give and receive hugs.  If we could really know how awe-inspiring we truly are, the angels would weep and Satan would turn tail and furiously run back to Sheol.  And we wouldn't miss him.  Praise God for creating us in His image.  Here's to embracing this truth:  you are not an accident.  Repeat after me:  You are not a creationary afterthought.  Your existence is on purpose for a purpose.

Here's to hugging that to our hearts.  Let's live up to it, and live it up.  When we embrace who we really are, we go forth as originally intended.  Inhaling and exhaling life with every breath.  Then, as we hug someone else--whichever form we use--they are encouraged to embrace that same spirit of life.  This is not a call to wrap your arms indiscriminately around every person you meet.  Rather, it is a call to arms.  You know that love we so desperately wish was shown to us?  It will never be borne if we don't give birth to it ourselves.

Here's to giving away a bit of yourself.  Here's to running toward someone and lifting them off the ground in a hug (kamikaze hugs).  Here's to hugging as though your life depends on it.  Here's to encouraging that person you can't stand.  Here's to looking in the mirror in the morning and not judging yourself but thinking, "I am the only one who can be me."