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

Reflection: In the Mirror

Maybe none of you have these moments, but I do...

The ones where you look in the mirror and see something completely different and separate from reality...

Since the beginning of the year, I've lost about 2 sizes, which isn't a huge amount.  The more remarkable part for me is that I still sometimes look at my reflection in shock.  I'll put on a tried and true shirt, look at my reflection and exclaim, "What happened?"  There's real consternation there.  I think I enjoy the idea of "shrinking."  I even have goals in the back of my mind of shrinking further.  But truly, there's a disconnect somewhere.

I think it happens a lot for us girls, where we get accustomed to being overweight or of sub-optimal beauty, and we look for that in the mirror.  When we see something else staring back at us, we're surprised.  Even if it's good.  Even if it's real.  It reminds me of what a dear friend astutely said once:  "Someday, someone's going to tell you who you are, and you won't be shocked . . . ."

So I got a bit of money for my birthday, with strict instructions to buy myself some new clothes that don't fall off.  To Goodwill I went with my astute friend, shopping for new jeans and maybe a top or two.  I took 2 pairs of jeans into the fitting room, and seriously doubted my eyes when it didn't look like my butt was sagging.  The pants looked good.

What?

Friend confirmed the jeans were winners.  Now to search out shirts . . .  and again I enter the fitting room, expecting lackluster or even bad results.  But no, Friend assures me both options are great.  "It doesn't make me look dumpy?"  I ask.  "No," she answers with an eye roll.

Foiled again by ye olde self-image.  I went into that fitting room expecting to see a girl who didn't fit the clothes.  Yeah, the old self is supposedly dying.  Daily.  But I really think this thing gets resurrected daily--if not momentarily.  In short, I'm losing weight, but I'm keeping it on the inside.  Might as well keep only funhouse mirrors around, for all the good real ones do me.

How utterly ridiculous.  Counter-intuitive.  Counter-productive.  Counter to reality.  Someone (another astute person in my life) asked once, "Isn't it wonderful when our experience aligns with reality?"  Wouldn't it be great if the girl in the mirror were the same girl we saw there?  It's still something on the horizon, and it is my hope that your self gets reflected on the outside, undistorted.

I remember (from my brother's tutelage) in the DC universe that Bizarro is the distorted clone of Superman.  His skin is gray, and his "S" emblem is backwards.  He uses Tarzan English, and he's usually depicted as more than a little dense.  He is Superman's less than mirror image.  You name it, Bizarro is less than the epitome that Superman represents. . . .  This should be sounding familliar to you.  Don't take the metaphor too far, but sometimes we see ourselves as Bizarro when our loved ones see Superman.  We are our own worst critics, right?

Booooooooooo.

Now for a startling maneuver:   we look in the mirror, saying, "I am beautiful.  I am lovely" (If a Man Answers, 1962).  Shocking, I know.  We might start to believe it.  Our blind spots might shift from their current locations.  We might see loveliness even in bad lighting and unflattering angles.  It's just shocking enough to turn our reflected world on its ear.  And that's really all we're trying to do:  make our reflections match reality.

In Perfection

Perfectionism is the mother of all things unfinished.

George Lucas is quoted as saying that films are never finished, merely abandoned--an echo of Beethoven's thoughts on composing music.  I cannot speak for everyone, but I can speak for myself and a handful of beautiful people mired in their own plans when I say this:  failing to complete is the very devil in us.

Fear of completion
Fear of failure
Fear of success
Fear of imperfection
Fear of judgement

They all lead to the same thing:  the failure to act.  The goal is not just unmet; it is unmade.  As sure a sign of juvenility as an unmade bed.  But you see we still have to lie in that bed, whether we made it this morning or not.  Rather than always trying and sometimes failing, we have decided never to try and always succeed at failing.

Counterproductive.  Yet the cycle continues.

Perfection does not exist on Earth.  But do we really want it?  Greta Garbo's face is said to have been aesthetically perfect; all the measurements and symmetry were there.  She is seldom called one of the greatest faces of all time, however.  That is more often affixed to the likes of the enigmatic Mona Lisa, whose eyes are too close together and whose mouth is too small.  Her face fascinates us, draws us closer, until she's in danger of fading in the blitzing flashes of tourist cameras.

So, instead of trying to ward off horrible writing, fearing imperfection in my blog posts, I offer this one up.  Virtually slapdash, a literary crime of passion.  The passion for words is what drives me on when the perfectionistic fears swell.  Passion is what began this affair, and I can't let thoughts of failure squelch it.

Eleanor and Cardboard

"Do one thing everyday that scares you." -Eleanor Roosevelt

I was having dinner at a friend's house, and I saw the quote on a refrigerator magnet.  What would happen if you did do one thing everyday that scared you?  What would happen if you did something even once a week?  We both agreed that soon you would either be afraid of nothing . . . or dead.

So avoiding death, and consequently ruling out skydiving without a parachute, how do you pursue this?  What does it mean for you?  A million common fears probably come to mind.  Public speaking, flying, clowns, snakes, dancing when someone else is in the room.  Anyone cringing yet?  Eating alone in a restaurant, voicing an opinion, getting a tattoo, lacking a boyfriend/girlfriend, spiders, cutting/coloring your hair.  How about now?  Revealing a secret talent or skill, relinquishing control, heights, vanilla ice cream and peanut butter.  Getting the picture?

Where snakes are an unusual texture to one person, and peanut butter is a natural complement for vanilla ice cream to another, the same individuals face serious hurdles with dancing and solo-restaurant-going.  In those pursuits, the person suddenly suffers bouts of anxiety.  Maybe, just maybe, fear of failure is the prime motivator in what scares us, and the rest of the time our fears are rooted in the unknown.

Because as we're all aware, the known universe does not extend beyond ourselves, and when we don't meet our expectations of success, that universe self-destructs.--Oh, wait, that's just our misconceptions evaporating.

Imagine a documentary as narrated by an alien from the galaxy of Andromeda:

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Earth, where humans consciously and unconsciously place themselves and all others inside cardboard boxes.  They put the lid on the box but don't seal it with so much force as scotch tape, poke a few air holes in the top to provide some token ventilation, and call it good.  Never mind the fact that cardboard smells atrocious as soon as the rain comes.  Never mind the fact that they can break cardboard down easily enough.  No, they squat in their little cardboard boxes, afraid to step, crawl, jump out and do the little thing that scares them.  Because smelly as it is in there, it's home, and it's known.  'I know this universe,' they say to themselves, as they peek through the airholes at their fellow prisoners.

"Occasionally, they grow curious or jealous of others' cardboard prisons and abandon their original domicile in search of larger, more commodious confines.  Only to find the stench is only slightly altered by the higher quality corrugation. . . .  Back they trudge to their boxes, toting a sandwich board enscribed with their failure.  It reads, 'Attempted to break free of Box Theory.  Panic and fear administered in high dosage.  All systems equalizing.'

"Back they go.  Lid slides back into place.  They are home.  They are defined by closing themselves into what they will not do, will not try, and consequently will not fail.  They are not afraid because they are where they know they're known.  They are comfortable again, and others are theoretically comfortable with them here where they are known.  Others are not scared, and supposedly neither are they. . . ."

What then is this thrumming beat in our chests, this constricting sickness to our stomachs?  It is the curiosity that won't go away, no matter how much fear and panic is administered.  It is the desire to dance like nobody's watching, sing like nobody's listening, speak like nobody's judging.  It is the desire to be who we're meant to be, who we want to be.  In short, it is the desire to do the thing that scares us.

Ladies and gentlemen, we may step out of the box.  The lid was removed some time ago.  The damp boxes will collapse and self-destruct without you to support them from the inside.  Come on, you can do it.  Get the tattoo if it's what you really want it.  Cut your hair; 99% of the time it grows back.  Let go of the reins for a moment.  Don't be afraid to be alone.  Maybe enjoy a flavor you haven't tried yet.

Do the thing that scares you.

Balancing Act

Life's not fair, and life's not easy.  And do you want to know why?  Because it's all a balancing act.

Standing on stable ground versus juggling on a highwire.
Ambition versus aggression.
Enjoying food versus overindulging.
Turning the other cheek versus being a doormat.
Frugal versus spendthrift.
Being a leader versus being a despot.

Where to fall on the extremist spectrum?  Or perhaps to settle in the extreme edges on a spectrum of mediocrity?  How do I achieve balance in myself as people around me strive to achieve their own?  How do we balance each other, equalize one another?

Tact versus little white lies.
Healthy confidence versus inflated ego.
Letting people live their own lives versus standing by while their lives derail.
Fundamentalist versus noncommittalist.
Cautious versus killjoy.

I took a theatre arts class once called simply "Movement."  One of the warm-up exercises we did at the beginning of each session was a deceptively simple one.  Stand with feet and legs pressed close together, arms down at your sides.  Now, rise up on your tiptoes, as high as you can go.  Don't waver; stay steady.  When Mark the professor walks through the ranks of his students and softly nudges the small of your back, don't lose your balance.  Don't step forward or raise your arms.  Make the most imperceptible shift in balance so that you can maintain the stance indefinitely.  We could never predict when we'd put our heels back on the floor.

Impetuous versus carpe diem.
Curiosity versus nosiness.
Assuaging curiosity versus TMI.
Living versus existing.

Waste of Time and (Blog) Space

Why is it so very easy to waste time?

I can waste time window shopping, looking up words, spying on everyone’s Facebook and myspace, checking out new books, movies, music. I can wander the annals of emails new and old. I can research something to wear to the international Christmas musical.

What I should be doing is something else altogether.

This is usually laundry, my chore-room for the week, fixing lunch for the next day at work. I could really benefit from some time reading the Bible, kicking it with God, myself, or nature. I might also call a friend I haven’t spoken to in what seems like forever. I should write more frequently than I do also.

These are all infinitely better uses of my time, better than wasting it doing who knows what. Does this produce any extra productivity on my part? Not really. Guilt moves in for a play at superiority, but even that emotion doesn’t get much air time when it comes to my play time. And that’s what it is: play time. I want quite greedily to play and be irresponsible. Being responsible has garnered limited benefits in the past, so why should the present be any different?

And yet, a part of me recognizes that responsibility may take a while to incur any cool fringe benefits. That’s what everyone in high school/college is working toward, right? And all the entry level peons? Yes, they’re usually working toward a specific goal, and their eyes are on the prize. Maybe I should select a prize to give myself for not wasting so much time. Then, window shopping might take a back seat to more important pursuits.

Fighting Getting a Big Head

Lately, I’ve been told several times by different people that I’ve lost weight or that I happen to look especially nice that day (implicitly saying I usually look nice). To which I say this: thank you. Now there are a few theories at work here, one being that I look better because I am in process of shrinking; the appearance is collateral to weight loss. The other major theory is that I am mid-self-actualization, developing more self-esteem, which in turn leads to coincidental glow and shedding my disguise; the weight loss is collateral to the self-realization.

Yeah, I said collateral.

This is not a negative thing here, and I sure as heck don’t mean to take out any loans. But I wouldn’t be Valonna if I didn’t tweak words to my whim. And I admit that my money’s on the second theory. Whether it’s hopeful thinking or simple factoid, I think part of the work God’s done on me this year includes rendering my disguise (read: weight) a superfluity. ‘Cause I’ve gotta say, I’m really not trying. Yeah, I happen to be eating less, partially due to budgetary crises, but I’ve never before gotten sick to my stomach just because I ate something sugary. And that’s happened a lot lately. Weird. We’re talking someone whose sweet tooth can normally put other people into diabetic comas.

Something strange is happening to me. Basically, I’m coming to the realization that there will still be sweets tomorrow if I have none today. There will still be Haagen-Dazs even if I don’t buy the pint of peanut butter chocolate. Needless to say, this is not a cognitive epiphany I’ve reached but rather a psychological—or, for the more spiritually inclined, spiritual—one. Put bluntly, I simply don’t need that kind of sustenance. Instead, God sustains me through Himself, friends he provides for me, and good ol’ piece of mind.

Now, I promised myself not to exceed a page; therefore, to be continued.

Rain on Grieg's and God's Parades

It rained for the first time in a long while in the city last night. Of course, this is the only occasion in 5 months when I haven’t had an umbrella with me at all times. But it wasn’t a dire circumstance, because true to Bay Area precipitation, the “rain” was really more like a heavy drizzle.

It was lovely.

Don’t ask me how, but this gave me the biggest yin to take a bath, just chill out with some awesome music. (At which point, I realized some of my absolute favorite classical music was at a friend’s house.) So, I ran a bath, grabbed my laptop and a good Grieg CD, and settled down to live it up. My plan was simple: listen to the wind blow the rain over the above skylight and get pruny while faceless musicians hammered out Grieg’s piano concerto. . . .

Then the first five minutes was gone, and I made the second unhappy discovery of the evening. I was having trouble doing nothing and not rushing to get one thing done as I advanced to the next. Had my life, my work, my friends—my self—become so constantly kinetic that I couldn’t simply be in the current moment? I, who had always prided myself on being able to sit still and revel in my own imagination, found myself hard-pressed not to run forward to the next thing.

This called for discipline. This called for a Psalm 46:10 exercise. So, I needed to be very still and start listing off some of the ways that God was, well, God. I needed to exalt Him. In my ignorance, in my fears, in my expectations, in my doubts, in all the ways I hoped He’d come through for me and mine. I needed to think about all those ways in which my life had changed in the past year (fun and unfun), and exalt His hand in those, too. . . .

Did I do that?

No. I managed to concentrate on the task for a little while, but just like so many of us self-deprecatingly admit, I failed to fully invest my time with God for more than a brief moment. Then, it dawned on me that the water was getting cold, the concerto was nearly finished, and I still hadn’t washed my hair. I had to laugh—silently, so as not to wake my roomies—and remember that I can indeed do all things through Him who strengthens me. So, even though I’d failed yet again, there’s always the next time I humbly approach God for a little of His quality time.

Once Upon a Time . . .

I just finished reading The Time Traveler's Wife, by Audrey Niffenegger. Rarely have I been so enchanted by fictional characters. The title gives a bit away of course, and I don't believe in offering spoilers, but please consider reading it. Henry time travels; it's in his genes, and he has next to no control over it. Clare is his wife, and she's known Henry since she was 6; she waits for Henry to arrive, waits for him while he's away. This is a story that dwells almost exclusively between two perspectives, yet it's an incredibly rich narrative. You see, Henry and Clare's story is not bound by traditional chronology. What may be past memory for Clare is still to happen in Henry's future. They are completely entertwined, almost codependent.

I know. You're wondering what about this book makes it such a good read. Sure, it might be that I was stressed out and needed some escapism to relieve that. Maybe I'm a sucker for time travel. Or it could be because it raises so many marvelous questions. Time's a pretzel...the past, present, future are occuring simultaneously...how do you keep a secret about your past for your loved one's future? Even though it's not in the mystery genre, I found myself reading closely, combing through the lines, dates, memories for clues. I love that. By the end of the book, I was deeply invested in Henry's and Clare's fates, turning each page, and willing things to turn out my way. As if the future had not already happened.

"That which has been is that which will be, And that which has been done is that which will be done.So there is nothing new under the sun."-Ecc. 1:8-10 (NASB)

"Unbelievable, that old Biff could have chosen that particular date. It could mean that, that point in time inherently contains some sort of cosmic significance. Almost as if it were the junction point for the entire space-time continuum. On the other hand, it could just be an amazing coincidence."-Doc, Back to the Future, Part II

"It is no more crazy than a dog finding a rainbow. Dogs are colourblind, Gretchen. They don't see colour. Just like we don't see time. We can feel it, we can feel it passing, but we can't see it. It's just like a blur. It's like we're riding in a supersonic train and the world is just blowing by, but imagine if we could stop that train, eh, Gretchen? Imagine if we could stop that train, get out, look around, and see time for what it really is? A universe, a world, a thing as unimaginable as colour to a dog, and as real, as tangible as that chair you're sitting in. Now if we could see it like that, really look at it, then maybe we could see the flaws as well as the form. And that's it; it's that simple. That's all I discovered. I'm just a... a guy who saw a crack in a chair that no one else could see. I'm that dog who saw a rainbow, only none of the other dogs believed me."-Stuart, Kate and Leopold

I used to sit in front of digital clocks, waiting to see the numbers change as the minutes passed. It fascinated me to "watch" time pass.

Countless people remark how time goes slowly, yet all too quickly.

When I was in junior high, I learned that the second is a measurement of vibrations made by the cesium atom.

Last New Year's Eve, I called my family in Missouri at 10 pm Pacific to wish them a Happy New Year. We were both "here and now," but it was 2007 there and still 2006 here. I marvel at this on one level and find it mundane on another.

Things to think on when you have the time . . .