The Review Where I Try Not to Be a Spoiler (But Readers Should Still Be Alert)

As a writer, my reaction to something well written (be it play, movie, novel, poem, advertising copy...) is usually "Dang!  I wish I had written that!"  It was on my lips as I left the movie theater after watching the movie Freetown (and in the back of my head for the two hours prior).

One thing I loved was how seeds of future actions or plot turns were carefully sewn into the script without feeling forced or out of place. For instance, a fun scene illustrating street contacting in Monrovia effortlessly establishes that an elder is having a hard time with a cold contact approach to proselyting ("opening your mouth").  This elder later opens his mouth at just the right time, which was immensely satisfying.  Little moments like that are found throughout the movie, making it feel like all of the little threads have a through-line.

The journey of the movie is both a physical journey to Freetown and a spiritual journey for the man charged with keeping the missionaries safe.  This charge bookends the events in the movie and spurs him on in the physical journey, which moves him along in his spiritual journey too.  Issues of faith and practicality are the central struggle in the story but the script doesn't sermonize.  A well placed word or phrase (or no words at all) speak more than a monologue could.  The write trusted the powerful images on the screen and did not let the characters talk more than they ought to.

The movie shines in many aspects, of course, (not just the writing) and the story itself (a true one) is incredibly compelling.  There were shots that created images not soon forgotten--the line of baptismal candidates queued up beneath the lookout holding a semi-automatic rifle, the convert on the bus with religious icons on the window behind her, the return of one man when two were expected (with just the closing of the door and no words).  It felt like every shot was rich with information about life in Africa, life as an African missionary, and life as an African Latter-Day Saint.  My heart thrilled to see their faith and courage.

The only complaint I had (besides wondering sometimes why no one thought to barter with those big, shiny watches they were wearing) was that there was one character we don't quite see safely to the end of his story.  Those of you who have watched the movie might know who I'm talking about.  The rest of you should stop reading right now because I won't be able to rest until I know......

What happened to our LDS rebel friend??  I half expected him to come tumbling out of the car on the ferry but he was nowhere to be seen.  I love that he made his stand at the end, but he still seems very unsettled to me. Where did he go? What were the consequences of his bold action? Earlier we are given to believe that helping the missionaries would have dire consequences but the bad guy seems so thwarted at the end that I don't feel like his threat is credible anymore and yet I don't know for sure that this is the case. Also, the rebel is asked several times to join the group fleeing but he chooses to stay with the rebel group. Then he breaks with the rebels but doesn't join the fleeing group? Perhaps this is a minor point, but it stands out as a loose thread when all other threads are so beautifully tied off.

Overall, this was a highly engaging film. I enjoyed watching it and encourage you to do the same. This film with stick me for a long time (and not just because I dearly wish I had been the one to write it).

What Movies Do Best: Thoughts on _Selma_

On hot button issues I tend to follow the example of Mary: "But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart" (Luke 2:19).  It's a matter of self preservation.  In most issues you are damned if you do or damned if you don't.  I used to find a good flame war invigorating, but now I can't stand the taste of bile.  Aware of what I don't know, I hesitate to draw a line in the sand.  It seems, too, that there is a deep chasm between the two sides of any issue.  Knowledge and understanding are not acknowledged as malleable and progressive.  You choose a side and view everything through that lens.  The word "ignorant" is hurled back and forth like it was a cardinal sin rather than a universal fact.  I am ignorant.  Love me anyways (as I love you, in your ignorance).  Educate me without rancor (and I will try to return the favor).

With that preamble, I will uncharacteristically share my thoughts on a one such issue (with fear and trembling for the personal ignorance I am sure to reveal).  I didn't really learn any big new facts from the movie Selma.  I am somewhat educated and know my history.  The power of the movie for me was the power of the medium: perspective, empathy, emotion.  Watching the movie with my father I was struck with the realization that he, too, was in his 30's in the 60's--living in the same world and yet in a very different world.  If this struggle was in my immediate background, as close as the man sitting next to me, how would that affect my initial response to the death of a young black man at the hands of a policeman? 

I know this all sounds like Empathy 101 or Things You Learn When You Are Twelve but there is a difference between knowing something intellectually and having it really land emotionally.  The struggle depicted on the screen was not far away at all.  It was right here, within the scope of my immediate family, nearly within the scope of my lifetime.

And as I think of my family's history unfolding alongside these seminal events and yet not seemingly touched by them, I don't have to wonder what it would have been like to experience that.  I'm currently experiencing that.  How much pain is outside the scope of my daily influence?  How many moments are there where I would stand up and be counted if I had any real awareness of them?  This is not to say that my sphere of influence does not contain pain or moments of truth and courage.  But, oh, how I would like to take a stand for truth in all instances.  How I would like to view life from all perspectives, even if only briefly.  How I hope to keep being emotionally educated.  And how I hope we can always do this for each other with love.

[And, yes, I know I promised some musings on a current hot button issue but that mostly got the ax.  That's not my bag, folks.]

Here is a poem I wrote a week or two ago that seems particularly relevant to my musings tonight:

Maps

I’ve been high on life, drunk on love, and addicted to soap operas, but I couldn’t tell you what alcohol tastes like or how random pills you haven’t been prescribed feel when they slip into your brain.

That’s not my path.

No judgment.

It just isn’t mine.

That’s on Main Street; I’m on Center.

If you want a tour guide, I can’t help you with that street.

It isn’t a personal failing not to have first hand, intimate knowledge of every street in town.

That’s what maps are for.  Guidebooks.  Blogs.

Because I’ve been beaten down but never beaten.

I’ve begged for seconds but never for rent.

But I have listened to enough travelers to know that no roads are without rocks.

We all have bloodied feet, even if it isn’t apparent when observed from a distance.

So instead of throwing stones between the blocks, perhaps we should work together on a more comprehensive and detailed atlas.