Of horses and money

Last night, and this morning, I watched Robert Redford's The Horse Whisperer (1998).

What a powerful picture.

It's haunted me all day.

Redford compels, right from the top.  His Tom Booker character tells Annie MacLean that he doesn't help people with horse problems -- he helps horses with people problems.  This is a teacher who understands his students.

The cinematography was effective.  The sparse dialogue felt utterly genuine, yet trapped a powerful subtext of human conflict.  There are long scenes with no dialogue at all.

Redford, who directed this film, certainly seems to understand horses.  And Scarlett Johansson plays a powerful role -- still in her early teens.

There was one very powerful moment where cinematography and story came together in powerful synchronicity. 

At the end of the film, Booker has gotten Pilgrim, the horse, to face up to the horror caused by facing down the semi-truck during the original accident.  It is a horrific moment we witness within minutes of the film's beginning. 

Now the horse lies patiently on the ground in the corral, waiting while the girl rubs his coat, sitting on top of him.  She is still frightened.  The memories linger.

Finally, the girl gets into the saddle, putting her feet back into the stirrups.  Booker lets the horse have its head.  

And as the monstrous horse slowly gets to his feet, thrusting the girl towards the sky, you realize you are once again watching the horse's fall during the accident -- only this time, in reverse.

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I just finished reading Saving Miss Oliver's by Stephen Davenport.  Teachers of private schools -- and especially administrative leaders -- will enjoy this book.

The book takes you inside the minds of the main characters.  Honestly, I cannot recall reading another story set in a school -- in which the protagonist is the administrator.  Usually, it's a rebel teacher.

Okay, I take that back.  There's Lean on Me, shown mostly from the principal's perspective, Morgan Freeman, but in that case, he's the rebel -- fighting with the school community against the forces of evil. 

In this story, the school leader and the board take on the school community.  The center of good is reversed.  So this book turns the education genre on its head.

Here's the story:

Fred Kindler, the newly hired male head of Miss Oliver's School for Girls, who has taken over for the first head's position -- after she was fired by the board of the school she founded -- finds what it's like to be hated by the alumnae, the students, and the parents (that covers about everyone) as he struggles to save them from bankruptcy;

Francis Plummer, the senior teacher of Miss Oliver's School, finds himself in constant conflict with the new head, and he fails horribly in his attempt to deal with the changes that new leadership brings;

Meanwhile, Peggy Plummer, the librarian of the school, is caught between her belief in the school's new leader, and her natural loyalty for her husband.  Worse, she begins to realize that her marriage and her job are inextricably linked in an unhealthy manner.

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I sat down at 6 PM over dinner last night at a restaurant, intending to get a good start on the book.  I left the place (that's a lot of coffee) after midnight, having finished the book. 

The book is a compelling read.

I disagree with some of the stylistic choices made by author Stephen Davenport.  His use of verb tense -- and his apparent hesitancy to trust the power of his dialogue -- keeps the reader at arm's length from the story.  The omniscient narrator also seems compelled to explain every nuance of every character's thought.

But the power of the story itself kept me sucking down coffee and turning pages.  The culture of this prestigious institution, which I suspect owes its genesis to Miss Porter's School, was fascinating.

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Take this passage, for example, found at the end of the book (280).  Nan, the admissions director, confronts Plummer, an English and math teacher, for his failure to support the new head. 

"Why didn't you get behind Fred Kindler in the beginning?" Nan stares at him.  "It was all up to you, and you didn't do a thing."

And before he can answer, she says:  "If you're thinking of telling me it's complicated, don't."

Francis checks himself again.  He's not going to waste his time by giving into his anger; he's going to write the letter; just do his job.  He starts to stand up.  "That's right," Nan says.  "Go write that letter.  Bring it back to me, and I'll correct it."

"Correct it!"

"Yes.  Correct it."

On his way out, Francis closes the door gently behind himself.

Later it will occur to him that checking your feelings, holding them inside where they burn, is what a leader has to do.  Every day.

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I didn't realize until now why this story feel so familiar.

In August of 1990, I was hired to teach at a private Catholic school in the heart of the Ohio Valley:  Steubenville Catholic Central High School. 

The principal, Kenneth Voss, who hired me, was new himself.  He followed a popular leader.  He faced a situation similar to the one Fred Kindler faces at Miss Oliver's School:  the institution was facing a deep deficit, and he had been hired to bring the budget under control, increase enrollment, and save the school.

Mr. Voss won, and the school survived.

Today, when I think back on the two years I spent there teaching English and advising the yearbook, I realize what I was learning from Mr. Voss.  He shaped me into a professional.

For that, I honor him.

Bill Moyers on Bill Coffin

I never knew Bill Coffin.  But I've decided to share some excerpts from a powerful piece delivered at his funeral by a man who has fundamentally changed the way I think about life and death and the world and the afterlife.

A friend of mine sent it to me. 

I was moved.

          *     *     *

Remembering Bill Coffin

By Bill Moyers

April 21, 2006

The following remarks were delivered by Bill Moyers at the funeral service for William Sloan Coffin on Thursday, April 20, at Riverside Memorial Church in New York City.

 

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[Bill Coffin] had the pastor’s heart but he heeded the prophet’s calling. There burned in his soul a sacred rage—that volatile mix of grief and anger and love that produced what his friend, the artist and writer Robert Shetterly, described as “a holy flame.” During my interview with him he said, “When you see uncaring people in high places, everybody should be mad as hell.”

... I once heard Lyndon Johnson urge Martin Luther King to hold off on his marching in the south to give the president time to neutralize the old guard in Congress and create a consensus for finally ending institutionalized racism in America. Martin Luther King listened, and then he answered (I paraphrase): “Mr. President, the gods of the South will never be appeased. They will never have a change of heart. They will never repent of their sins and come to the altar seeking forgiveness. The time has passed for consensus, the time has come to break the grip of history and change the course of America.”

When the discussion was over Dr. King had carried the day.

 

The president of the United States put a long arm on his shoulder and said, “Martin, you go on out there now and make it possible for me to do the right thing.”

... Like Martin Luther King, Bill Coffin also knew the heart of power is hard; knew it arranged the rules for its own advantage, knew that before justice could roll down like water and righteousness like a flowing river, the dam of oppression, deception and corruption had first to be broken, cracked open by the moral power of people aroused to demand that the right thing be done.

 

... When he came down from Vermont two years ago for that final interview, we talked about how democracy had reached a fork in the road—what Tony Kushner calls one of those moments in history when the fabric of everyday life unravels and there is this unstable dynamism that allows for incredible change in short period of time—when people and the world they are living in can be utterly transformed for good or bad.

Take one fork and the road leads to an America where military power serves empire rather than freedom; where we lose from within what we are trying to defend from without; where fundamentalism and the State scheme to write the rules and regulations; where true believers in the gods of the market turn the law of the jungle into the law of the land...

Take the other fork and the road leads to the America whose promise is “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” for all.

 

[Coffin] believed in democracy. There is no simpler way to put it. He believed democracy was the only way to assure that the rewards of a free society would be shared with everyone, and not just elites at the top.

 

That last time we talked, he told me how much he had liked the story he had heard Joseph Campbell tell me in our series on The Power of Myth — the story of the fellow who turns the corner and sees a brawl in the middle of the block. He runs right for it, shouting: “Is this a private fight, or can anyone get in it?”

 

... Someone sidled up to me the other night at another gathering where Bill’s death was discussed. This person said, “He was no saint, you know.” I wanted to answer: “You’re kidding?” We knew, alright. Saints flourish in a mythic world. Bill Coffin flourished here, in the cracked common clay of an earthly and earthy life. He liked it here.

 

Even as he was trying to cooperate gracefully with the inevitability of death, he was also coaching Paul Newman to play the preacher in the film version of Marilynn Robinson’s novel Gilead. He enjoyed nothing more than wine and song at his home with Randy and friends. And he never lost his conviction that a better world is possible if we fight hard enough.

 

... Faith, he once said, “is being seized by love.” Seized he was, in everlasting arms. “You know,” he told me in that interview, “I lost a son. And people will say, ‘Well, when you die, Bill, Alex will come forth and bring you through the pearly gates.’ Well, that’s a nice thought, and I welcome it. But I don’t need to believe that. All I need to know is, God will be there. And our lives go from God, in God, to God again. Hallelujah, you know? That should be enough.”

Well, he’s there now. But we are still here. I hear his voice in my heart: “Don’t tarry long in mourning. Organize.”

Out of the cave

That's a photo of Stoneman Lake, located about halfway between Phoenix and Flagstaff off Rt. 17.

Gorgeous place.  Found it last September when we were scouting.

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I'm listening to www.pandora.com.  What a great concept:  you plug in your favorite songs, and they find commonalities.

Then they choose music that fits your style.

Based on what you've told us so far, we're playing this track because it features a subtle use of vocal harmony, acoustic rhythm piano, a twelve-eight time signature, mixed acoustic and electric instrumentation, and major key tonality.

Now that's a smart music webpage, huh?  A friend of mine at work recommended it.  She said it was fairly new and not very well known.  Very cool.  Check it out.  You'll totally love it.

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Over spring break, which was two weeks long, I spent several days in San Diego with my composer, Myron Fink, shaping the story Bloody Ground, which we began three years ago.

I came home, fed and watered The Blessed Sir Knavely, May His Line Continue On Through Eternity, and then headed off to Phoenix, where I spent an entire week with Glendon Yoder's family.  They put me up in their guest bedroom, let me write during the day in peace, and watched some of my favorite movies with me, one per evening.

How random was the family section of my favorite films:  Secondhand Lions, A River Runs Through It, Crash, A Time to Kill, and While You Were Sleeping.  You figure out the common strands.

The good news is that the story is done.  Now it's a matter of writing the dialogue.

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Of course, before THAT gets done, I need to do a final description pass through The French Inquisitor.

Yep, that's right.  We're almost ready to send our first screenplay out to a select group of readers.  And then, once it comes back with comments from them, and Steven and I make our final revisions, we'll send it off to screenplay contests and agents. 

I'm aiming to get my final pass done by the end of next week.  Then I'll send it back to Steven for his final dialogue pass.

Does this sound a bit like work to you?  Oh, right.  That's exactly what it is.  And it feels pretty dang good.

Yeah!

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I apologize for the long absence from this blog.  I've been making a significant number of personal decisions about the future, none of which would be appropriate to discuss on this blog.

If you're interested, feel free to contact me by email for more details.

Life is good.  :-)