I guess my dilly-dallying days are not over. The rain has not let up for a minute since yesterday morning and I just heard that it’s snowing at Summit, a high elevation pass two hours south of here. Peter, the park superintendent, just offered to drive Henk and me to Fort Nelson tomorrow if the weather hasn’t improved. At least that would get us clear of the mountain passes and hopefully into a new weather system. It’s frustrating not knowing what the weather’s like south of here—or west of here. Perhaps if we’d taken the Cassiar, we’d have had nice weather… When we pulled in here on Friday night, it looked so promising. We were going to experience the Alaska Highway in the sunshine!
Today (Sunday) is a day of practicing patience. I’m still a long three-day ride from Christina Lake (in good weather) and my friends Rick and Jim are expecting me. I told them I was leaving Dawson on the 22nd and that it might take me a week to get there. That would put me there tomorrow. Poor Henk is sinking into the ground in front of the cabin, puddles growing around him threatening to swallow him whole.
Rick and Jim are two of my closest friends from Toronto. I met Rick about sixteen years ago when we both worked as flight attendants for Canadian Airlines. He invited me over for dinner with his “cousin” Jim, who served me “smokies” from the barbecue, which I actually ate (I still have no idea what a “smokie” is). Not long after that, I confessed to being a vegetarian and they confessed to not being cousins. We’ve been friends ever since. They’re two of the most stable guys I know and I love them for being everything I’m not. They make their plans a year in advance—something that I can’t fathom doing—and their million-dollar home in Toronto is paid for. They’ve been together so long that any individuality they possess is only apparent to me in the context of the two of them as a couple. They’re predictable, dependable, responsible, reliable, comfortable—and a lot of fun. I look forward to spending a few days in the sun with them on the lake. It’ll be a bit like coming home for a breath of fresh air and some belly laughs before heading back into the great unknown.
I’ve turned on a television twice since leaving Toronto. Once the night before the ladies’ poker tournament in Dawson to study the old pros in the World Series or some such Vegas tournament with a million dollar prize. Then the next night, I caught a CBC documentary by Chris Landreth called “Alter Egos,” which still has me deep in contemplation a week later.
Chris Landreth is a brilliant Toronto animator who won an Oscar last year for his amazing short animation, “Ryan,” about another brilliant Canadian animator who also won an Oscar and is now panhandling on a Montreal street. “Alter Egos” was the story of the making of “Ryan” from a very objective point of view, airing all the dirty laundry by way of live interviews with Landreth’s subject and people who both knew and still know the person they call a “tortured genius.”
When the question of exploitation came up, Landreth defended his position as an artist and said it was his way of honoring the man. He only wanted to help. It was a beautifully complex documentary that touched on a lot of deep questions about art and the reasons for making it and the lives that get interwoven in the process. It showed the subject and filmmaker sitting together for Ryan’s first viewing of “Ryan.” They were both painfully uncomfortable as they watched Landreth’s perceptions of who Ryan is and was and his projections of who he could be, given the right set of circumstances.
Chris Landreth’s mother died of an alcohol-related illness. By making a beautiful film of this artist he identified with and so obviously admired—perhaps worshipped—he thought he might somehow be able to lift him out of his sad existence of beer, cigarettes, and begging for change. “Let him face himself,” said an old abandoned friend, encouraging the camera use and the interviews as a form of therapy, and explaining that Ryan had destroyed his own career with cocaine abuse. It caused my mind to race. Does anyone have the right to interfere in someone else’s life, even if they’ve given consent? In the name of art or in the name of religion or in the name of politics, do we have the right to impose ourselves on another human being? The same questions could be asked in another way: Should we not help our fellow human beings whenever and wherever we have the opportunity, with the understanding that they are not always capable of asking for help? Do we not have an obligation toward our friends, family, and fellow human beings to hold them responsible for the fulfillment of their highest potential?
Chris Landreth spent two or three years of his life making this 7-minute film about Ryan Larkin. Their lives will be forever intertwined. I wonder if he has any regrets. “I want you to consider quitting beer the way you beat cocaine,” Landreth begged Ryan. “I love my beer,” Ryan defied. “I won’t quit.” In the end, I believe in the art. But in the end, Ryan said, “I just want out of this picture.”
I’ve heard that before from my subject and friend, Mai Spring, whose life story I wrote out in a screenplay. Mai is a Vietnamese war orphan who grew up in New Brunswick in a white adoptive family. We met in Banff when she asked to trade floor-mopping for food. I loved her adventurous spirit and we bonded, quickly becoming like sisters. She went on to literally become a sister, ordaining as a Buddhist nun in Plum Village in France with Thich Naht Hanh. She left the monastery after three years and went on a solo “peacewalk” with only the robe on her back, a tent, a sleepingbag, and a begging bowl. Her peacewalk was cut short when she was raped at gunpoint by two hunters in a field in France. She returned to Canada, disrobed, and became a prostitute. She was still working as an escort in Montreal when I completed the third draft of “Disrobing.”
It’s a very difficult thing for someone to have his or her life story exploited. All the temptations of fame and money are hard to resist, but the person has to be willing to face her demons, otherwise the smoke and mirrors can be impossible to overcome.
At one point well into the project, Mai had a meltdown and refused to have anything more to do with it. I left her alone for a few months to face her demons, feigning indifference, and she eventually came around. She admitted that it was one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do, read someone else’s perception of her, but she was ultimately able to laugh at the fact that in many ways, I knew her better than she knew herself.
My motivations for doing the screenplay were very much like Landreth’s. I adore Mai and I “wanted to help.” I thought I was honoring her and her life by writing it out for the world to admire. I now realize that most people don’t admire. Most people judge. Most people criticize. They punish and complain and blame. The responsibilities that go along with putting someone else’s life “out there” are enormous, and I need to remind myself that such an undertaking should never be undertaken lightly. The person doing the exploiting ought to be as willing to face his or her demons as the person being exploited. If we, the audience, desire stories to inspire and stories to learn from and stories to entertain, then perhaps we, the audience, ought to become the authors of our own fiction…
Chris Landreth made an earlier film called “The End” in which God comes down and tells him he is now the author of his own fiction, so stop writing all these other characters outside of himself. I haven’t seen the film but I love the playfulness of the idea. While discussing the premise for “The End” in “Alter Egos,” Landreth told an interviewer, “If you take on the idea that you are the work of your own fiction, it kind of gives you a bigger canvas to romp around on.” On that thought, I tip my helmet to Mr. Landreth and say hee haw!
Today (Sunday) is a day of practicing patience. I’m still a long three-day ride from Christina Lake (in good weather) and my friends Rick and Jim are expecting me. I told them I was leaving Dawson on the 22nd and that it might take me a week to get there. That would put me there tomorrow. Poor Henk is sinking into the ground in front of the cabin, puddles growing around him threatening to swallow him whole.
Rick and Jim are two of my closest friends from Toronto. I met Rick about sixteen years ago when we both worked as flight attendants for Canadian Airlines. He invited me over for dinner with his “cousin” Jim, who served me “smokies” from the barbecue, which I actually ate (I still have no idea what a “smokie” is). Not long after that, I confessed to being a vegetarian and they confessed to not being cousins. We’ve been friends ever since. They’re two of the most stable guys I know and I love them for being everything I’m not. They make their plans a year in advance—something that I can’t fathom doing—and their million-dollar home in Toronto is paid for. They’ve been together so long that any individuality they possess is only apparent to me in the context of the two of them as a couple. They’re predictable, dependable, responsible, reliable, comfortable—and a lot of fun. I look forward to spending a few days in the sun with them on the lake. It’ll be a bit like coming home for a breath of fresh air and some belly laughs before heading back into the great unknown.
I’ve turned on a television twice since leaving Toronto. Once the night before the ladies’ poker tournament in Dawson to study the old pros in the World Series or some such Vegas tournament with a million dollar prize. Then the next night, I caught a CBC documentary by Chris Landreth called “Alter Egos,” which still has me deep in contemplation a week later.
Chris Landreth is a brilliant Toronto animator who won an Oscar last year for his amazing short animation, “Ryan,” about another brilliant Canadian animator who also won an Oscar and is now panhandling on a Montreal street. “Alter Egos” was the story of the making of “Ryan” from a very objective point of view, airing all the dirty laundry by way of live interviews with Landreth’s subject and people who both knew and still know the person they call a “tortured genius.”
When the question of exploitation came up, Landreth defended his position as an artist and said it was his way of honoring the man. He only wanted to help. It was a beautifully complex documentary that touched on a lot of deep questions about art and the reasons for making it and the lives that get interwoven in the process. It showed the subject and filmmaker sitting together for Ryan’s first viewing of “Ryan.” They were both painfully uncomfortable as they watched Landreth’s perceptions of who Ryan is and was and his projections of who he could be, given the right set of circumstances.
Chris Landreth’s mother died of an alcohol-related illness. By making a beautiful film of this artist he identified with and so obviously admired—perhaps worshipped—he thought he might somehow be able to lift him out of his sad existence of beer, cigarettes, and begging for change. “Let him face himself,” said an old abandoned friend, encouraging the camera use and the interviews as a form of therapy, and explaining that Ryan had destroyed his own career with cocaine abuse. It caused my mind to race. Does anyone have the right to interfere in someone else’s life, even if they’ve given consent? In the name of art or in the name of religion or in the name of politics, do we have the right to impose ourselves on another human being? The same questions could be asked in another way: Should we not help our fellow human beings whenever and wherever we have the opportunity, with the understanding that they are not always capable of asking for help? Do we not have an obligation toward our friends, family, and fellow human beings to hold them responsible for the fulfillment of their highest potential?
Chris Landreth spent two or three years of his life making this 7-minute film about Ryan Larkin. Their lives will be forever intertwined. I wonder if he has any regrets. “I want you to consider quitting beer the way you beat cocaine,” Landreth begged Ryan. “I love my beer,” Ryan defied. “I won’t quit.” In the end, I believe in the art. But in the end, Ryan said, “I just want out of this picture.”
I’ve heard that before from my subject and friend, Mai Spring, whose life story I wrote out in a screenplay. Mai is a Vietnamese war orphan who grew up in New Brunswick in a white adoptive family. We met in Banff when she asked to trade floor-mopping for food. I loved her adventurous spirit and we bonded, quickly becoming like sisters. She went on to literally become a sister, ordaining as a Buddhist nun in Plum Village in France with Thich Naht Hanh. She left the monastery after three years and went on a solo “peacewalk” with only the robe on her back, a tent, a sleepingbag, and a begging bowl. Her peacewalk was cut short when she was raped at gunpoint by two hunters in a field in France. She returned to Canada, disrobed, and became a prostitute. She was still working as an escort in Montreal when I completed the third draft of “Disrobing.”
It’s a very difficult thing for someone to have his or her life story exploited. All the temptations of fame and money are hard to resist, but the person has to be willing to face her demons, otherwise the smoke and mirrors can be impossible to overcome.
At one point well into the project, Mai had a meltdown and refused to have anything more to do with it. I left her alone for a few months to face her demons, feigning indifference, and she eventually came around. She admitted that it was one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do, read someone else’s perception of her, but she was ultimately able to laugh at the fact that in many ways, I knew her better than she knew herself.
My motivations for doing the screenplay were very much like Landreth’s. I adore Mai and I “wanted to help.” I thought I was honoring her and her life by writing it out for the world to admire. I now realize that most people don’t admire. Most people judge. Most people criticize. They punish and complain and blame. The responsibilities that go along with putting someone else’s life “out there” are enormous, and I need to remind myself that such an undertaking should never be undertaken lightly. The person doing the exploiting ought to be as willing to face his or her demons as the person being exploited. If we, the audience, desire stories to inspire and stories to learn from and stories to entertain, then perhaps we, the audience, ought to become the authors of our own fiction…
Chris Landreth made an earlier film called “The End” in which God comes down and tells him he is now the author of his own fiction, so stop writing all these other characters outside of himself. I haven’t seen the film but I love the playfulness of the idea. While discussing the premise for “The End” in “Alter Egos,” Landreth told an interviewer, “If you take on the idea that you are the work of your own fiction, it kind of gives you a bigger canvas to romp around on.” On that thought, I tip my helmet to Mr. Landreth and say hee haw!
posted by Moira Nordholt | 3:21 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home