12 posts tagged “movies”
01/12/08
This post is kind of meandering, all over the place, and betrays me as more of a Star Wars nerd than I would perhaps cop to, but in lieu of editing at some ambiguous future point, I'll just post for now.
Blogs are built for self-indulgent rants anyway, right? My nerd status can't really be hid that well anyway. ;) -- PD
12/30/07
I'm getting ready to rewatch Star Wars III, last of the prequels. I've become curious about this movie as a potential bridge between my childhood love of the original films, and the confusion and distaste I felt at Lucas' later works. On the first viewing, I had to give begrudging respect to Ep. 3 -- It was living from and delivering some of the values I'd come to expect from the franchise, though I was hard pressed to delineate exactly what those values and experiences were.
So, I'm curious to watch again, and see how the movie looks to me a year or two later, separated from the rabid publicity surrounding it, and the cloud of my own initial nostalgia and dread about its release, and the completion of the prequel trilogy.
01/07/08
(Movie watched)
I watched the film on consecutive nightsl, splitting it in half. It was interesting to see it in two pieces, my reactions very very different on the two nights. The first night, and first half of the film was rather unpleasant. Everything seemed unbelievable about the film: the dialogue seemed stilted, the characters wooden, the CGI rendered spaces were confusing to understand, a sort of spatial Frankenstein, patched together in a way that seemed arbitrary and disorienting. Future CGI work could take a page from traditional stage design, and lay out rendered spaces in a more convincing sequence. This was a big mystery to me, why the spatial areas seemed so disorienting.
Beyond that, the reason for doing a prequel in the first place seemed unclear, as no one really gave a rip about the geo political makeup in the SW universe that contributed to Anakin’s eventual fall. It seemed clearly esoteric, partly because so many of these characters will be gone by the end of the movie. We already know only a small handful of characters survive into the original films: Yoda, Obi Wan, Vader, the Emporer, and Luke and Leia. You could include the droids and Chewbacca, but they are just window dressing here, totally marginalized.
Even with the knowledge of only six survivable characters, we are given this massive world with dozens of principal players, and a galactic Senate to boot, and asked to care about people who will soon disappear from the stage. This is why this could have been compressed into one prequel, and two sequels, to see the story continue for the characters we are already interested in, and to see time moving forward, instead of being fixated on the past, on Vader, who is a character whose own story loop is effectively closed by the end of Return of the Jedi. Everything seems to be functioning on a closed loop of possibility. Ironic for someone like Lucas, who began without such displays of imagination and ingenuity.
The second half of the film was thankfully, more interesting. There was a point where things stopped revolving around court intrigues, and events started moving forward. Lucas’ dialogue was so poor, we had no glimpse into the inner emotional lives of the characters, no sense of intimacy, but their actions remained interesting, particularly starting with Anakin’s moment of turning, cutting off Mace Windu’s arm to protect Palpatine. That could have just as easily been the beginning of the movie, since that was the first true moment of pathos – Anakin collapsing heavily to against a pole, exclaiming “what have I done?”
From there it becomes this fascinating, grisly, tragic unfolding of diabolical schemes, as Palpatine puts his plan in motion to execute the Jedi. Some real menace here, and the sadness of seeing the noble Jedi fall. Here even, for being such a central figure, Anakin seems wooden, mind controlled, almost like the Frankenstein monster he later parodies at the film’s end.
The action sequences are engaging with Kenobi and Yoda, and seeing the latticework of the Rebellion taking shape as Yoda and Kenobi communicate with Senator Organna.
The final showdown with Kenobi and Anakin on the exploding volcano planet is once again, a moment of action. This is what we have been waiting for, the moment that truly births Darth Vader as we know him, and the penultimate showdown between master and apprentice. It doesn’t disappoint. For once, Kenobi seems strong in Anakin’s presence, rather than distant or codgy. The swordplay is all out, and the visuals of the collapsing station behind them are both beautiful and dynamic, leading to Obi-wan shouting over the decimated Anakin, “You were the Chosen One!!”
All in all, I found Lucas’ picture of mature Jedi’s to be very strange. In Eps 4-6 we have either very young or very old Jedis in Kenobi, Yoda, and Luke. Eps 1-3 are supposed to give us a picture of what many noble Jedis looked like at the height of their powers. Instead, they came off as strangely stiff. Instead of serene, they seemed awkward, grumpy, in a sense confined by their goodness, with the Sith lords got to have all the fun. Instead of seeming powerful and joyful, the Jedis, as images of goodness and light, seemed largely clueless, and pawns at the mercy of their enemies, sheep led unwillingly to the slaughter.
It is bizarre to feel such a deep sense of disconnect with Eps 1-3. This is the same universe, the same characters, even more money, and the same creator. The question is whether Lucas has changed, or we have as viewers. I watched these films first at a very early age, about 8 years old, and what amazed me was the ability to continue enjoying them as I grew older. It may have been simply nostagia, but I thought of the first films as true masterworlks, capable of entertaining children and adults by the elegance of their construction, and the strenght of their characters. I’ve yet to talk with many kids about the later prequels. I’m curious as to whether they are equally dazzled by the new films. If so, then perhaps it is only my older age that keeps me from embracing these new films.
The sense of missed opportunity is palpable, though. When I first heard Lucas was creating a new trilogy, I was disappointed it was a prequel, but even with that, still thought these had the potential to be the greatest movies ever made, simply because of the money invested, and the audience relationship already in place. The global moviegoing audience was already primed to absolutely love these movies, and if they approached the same quality of the original three films, the sky would be the limit for profit margin, and sheer fan excitement.
As it turned out, it made original fans choose between delusion and regret. Delusion that the new films were equally good, degrading ourselves into a false sense of satisfaction, or regret at how weak the new films were, and a sneaking suspicion that the first films weren’t all that good themselves, and that we were holding dear in memory films that were equally hokey and contrived.
Lucas remains an enigmatic figure in this whole question. He remains publicly unapologetic about the excesses and criticisms of his later films. As a fan, I’m left speculating as to why the magic seemed so diminished in the later films, and how someone who had such an incredible touch 20 years earlier, could so completely lose touch with his own imagination, or the alchemy of factors that so inspired an earlier generation of filmgoers.
At
least we will have our memories, and hopefully the true spirit of imagination,
adventure, and wonder will live on in other films created by fans of the true
genious of Eps 4-6.
I enjoy movies now, partly because they were very rare as a child. Our tv watching was limited, and a I don't remember getting a VCR until late elementary school. As such, movies watched in childhood made a big impression on me. The Karate Kid franchise was one of those influential sources. Years later, I would be watching another movie, Contact, and see the young villain from Karate Kid 2, and immediately freak out, thinking he was about to sabatoge the protagonist. Turns out he was just a bit player in that film, but it make my point.
I've been watching/rewatching Karate Kid 1. I don't remember seeing it as a child, but know the basic plot points, and of course the movie's climax, helpfully repeated to open the second film. Curiously, I'm finding myself really affected by the movie, emotionally moved. I guess it's tapping into that early childhood emotional space, where Daniel LaRussa seemed like a pretty adequate picture of my own anxious self.
In some ways, I know this is just a cheesy, big studio movie. But at the same time, it presents a picture of kindness that seems resonant to me. Lord knows this movie gave rise to many abyssmal knock offs, least of which being its own third and fourth movies.
That said, the movie opens with Daniel being moved across the country, Newark to L.A., so his Mom can work in "computers". She ends up working a Chinese restaurant instead (?), but the point is Daniel (How you doin'?) is stranded in LA, and basically gets crapped on in week one. He lives in a mediocre apartment, he rides a bike when everyone is driving fancy sports cars, and he hits on a girl and instead gets the crap kicked out him, and later run off the road while riding his bike home, all courtesy of his new antagonists.
He goes to school wearing shades to hide his black eye, throws his bike in the dumpster in frustrated, emberassed rage. He comes home, to find the bike removed, cleaned up, and placed in front of his door. For some reason, this really got to me: this feeling of being all alone, and someone offering some kindness to you. He realizes his apartment complex's maintenance man has fixed his bike (Miyagi), and goes to thank him. Miyagi invites him in, and includes him in clipping his bonsai trees, giving a tree to both Daniel and his mother. Again, this sense of emotional resonance: people who are totally isolated, cut off from their support network back east, just in need of help, and someone quietly meeting them, showing kindness and welcome.
This seems like a sentimental way to describe a movie that ends with a crane kick to the face, but I think it's this real sense of alienation that leads to the emotional impact of Daniels eventual triumph. So we remember the victory, and the pleasure that came with it, but it's helpful to examine the sorrow and flux that underpin the emotional reward the story eventually brings.
A second scene I totally forgot was the subplot of Miyagi's lost wife and son. Daniel gets shown up at the local country club (class conflict, worth its own eventual post), and returns to find Miyagi drunk, wearing his old U.S. Military uniform, and singing the blues looking at a photo of his deceased wife. Miyagi drunkenly recounts hearing the news of his wife's death. We learn Miyagi is a recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor for Valor, but that his wife and son died in a U.S. internment camp during World War II.
Daniel sees the picture, the medal, reads the notice of her death, and gently lays Miyagi onto his bed (he'd falling asleep sitting on its edge), cradling his head to slip a pillow under it, and wrapping covers over him. This finished, he blows out the candle, bows to Miyagi's sleeping form, and leaves.
Again, kind of simple material, but very moving to me, and for a second time it brought to mind a phrase: "the milk of human kindness." It seemed such an apt picture of just what is so sustaining about kindness. It's not thunder and lightning moments, but these small gestures of care that can serve to sustain the human soul, ours or others.
Milk has this quality of comfort, it sustains us as infants, and even beyond that is associate with down home comforts, and a context of care: "milk and cookies," etc. "The milk of human kindness" speaks to our essential need to feel kindness, in the same way that our bodies need the nutrients milk provides. It sustains us, enables us to live and move, strengthens our frames to face the rigors and challenges of life.
It is perhaps strange to find life lessons in mass media, but I've felt for a long time that our generation (late 70's onward) was the first to grow up completely immersed in television and video media. In some ways most of our life lessons have come from movies and film, so that it becomes less surprising to realize that big parts of my emotional formation, for better or worse, can be traced to moments in television and film.
I still have 1/3 of the movie to finish, including the big tournament, but I've already (re)connected pretty deeply with my childhood self, and the power of well-made media.
This may seem passe, but the Matrix holds a special place for me. It was part of my first wave of discovering movies from '95-2000, when movies were becoming more than just entertainment for me, and I was beginning to expect more and more from them, starting from seeing Baz Luhrmann's _Romeo + Juliet in '95 and _2001: A Space Odyssey in about '97.
I picked up a copy of The Matrix a few years ago, and have avoided overwatching it, wanting to keep it fresh in my mind. Looking for something to watch this afternoon, I put it on, starting midway through the movie. I planned to only watch a few scenes, but I became engrossed, and watched through to the end.
I was looking to be a bit disappointed, realizing how many movies have come in its wake (to say nothing of the two sequals). Overall, I was really impressed. Here are a few thoughts:
Lobby Shootout
This was squirm inducing for me. Watching anything go through a metal detector has a different context following the 2001 plane attacks. Our whole viewpoint of security and risk has been really changed. I found myself cringing as they walked in, at the past feeling of elation I'd felt, revelling in their badassery. That view seems naive now, in light of actual violence perpetuated since then. Even stronger, was a sense of Columbine. Even before the lobby, seeing them in black trench coats made me think of Columbine, a kind of reverse association (as the CO shooters were inspired by the movie). I don't think the M, necessarily caused the CO shootings, but it was still an uncomfortable association, like watching Triumph of Will, or perhaps listening to Wagner(?). Add Iraq into the mix, and our views of violence have changed so much in the last 8 years. What was once fun escapism now hits a little close to home.
I'm trying to think of another action movie I admire more than the Matrix. There have been some great ones, I think the Rock is very strong, the Indiana Jones movies, and early Star Wars. I hear people praise Terminator 2. I feel that the Matrix somehow outstrips all of them, perhaps not surprisingly, as it has all the other films' legacies to build upon. Action is married to plot in a really strong way. Things aren't happenning blindly, for mere spectacle, every explosion and wonder advances the plot in a specific way, so that you are being told things about the universe even as you are shown things within the universe.
A second layer is this sense of discovery, the characters discovering things about Neo, themselves as the story unfolds. This was a critical part of Matrix 1's success, and something the sequals could not or did not tap into. There was a sense of wonder at this whole world unfolding, whose rules were still being worked out even for the characters themselves. It's always easier to set the table than to build upon it, but there is such a marked difference in the sense of amazement and discovery in M1, that somehow flattens into spectacle, loses it's urgency in M2 and 3. I kept waiting for more of those moments (Nebuchadnezzer entering Zion in M2), but they all felt flat, retreads of the initial explosion of information. Which is another way of saying, M1 is an amazing action film, even it's own sequel's couldn't capture the same things.
On another level, the Wach Bros work here connects in my mind with Alan Moore's comics work, taking genre pictures in new directions. People of able talent mastering a genre, becoming bored, and taking it to a new level of sophistication. I read a Moore anthology at the library, and it was obvious that he was doing entirely new things with structure and content: one story had each page divided into four sections, for the four stories of a building. From page to page, each level remained in seperate time periods, with level 4 revealing things about level three, all the way through to the end of the story. That's a level of sophistication that has Moore almost toying with the machinery, like Shakespeare creating a new sonnet form, just for larks.
Similarly, there is a fanboy element to the Wach Bros creation, the story is being created from within the context of fandom, instead of being delivered by savvy purveyors of what is now popular. I suppose you could say the same about Lucas' fixation on Flash Gordon and Spielberg's love of early sci fi, but it somehow seems different, perhaps the Wachowski's as a later example of the same quality, having fed on more recent material, and bringing with it a newer vision. Either way, it's clear they are consumers of media, and they bring that knowledge base as consumers into their creation, which is part of it's vibrancy. The French film "NARCO" really establishes this as well. (Still waiting for that on region 1 dvd. Saw it at our local French Film Fest 2 years ago).
Underworld ethos
I've been reading cyberpunk recently, because of my connection with Mtrx and Snow Crash. It's been fun to read further, get a bit deeper exploration of hacker culture, and the counter culture in general. Wardrobe in the Matrix gave a clear picture of this: their outfits are clearly contrarian. Two looks essentially: on ship, they are guirilla revolutionaries, proto-Marxist heroes of the downtrodden, underscoring their status as underfinanced underdogs in the fight with the machines.
In-Matrix, their clothing is more an expression of personality, values. Like Second Life avatars after them, and Metaverse avatars before them, their clothing is more about expression than functionality. All black, all white, refined couture, adverse materials and textures. Sophisticated, but contrarian. Autonomous, clear in their own identity and values, not looking to mass culture for cues, but defining them by their own values, as a statement against mass culture, in a sense. As such, their clothing echoes multiple underworld subgenres: skate culture, hackers, role playing, S&M/bondage, punk music, biker gangs--all contrarian, all with a strong sense of tribal identity opposed to society at large, whether it's jocks, IBM techs, straight laced suburbanites, Barry Manilow fans, or two car families. What's enjoyable is the sophistication expressed in costuming. Their clothes seem to effortlessly combine all these influences to add a subtle but striking layer to the feel of the film.
Themes
As with the costuming, and the action plot points, there is a lot going on here. This mashup (post-Modern?) of many different themes, a hyper intelligence about media and narrative history that suggests the information saturation and cultural blending of the Internet information age. It's not isolated traditions, everything is represented here: Eastern mysticism, Judeo-Xtian messiah narrative, meditation, folk wisdom in the Oracle ("not what you were expecting?"), romantic values of love conquering all. The M successfully pulled in a lot of viewers, I feel, because it gave each of them something to identify with, within the larger potluck of themes.
Particular details noticed this time: afforementioned Oracle dynamic, the agents checking Neo to confirm his death (a la Christ and the Roman soldiers--blood and water), making his resurrection confirmedly miraculous.
Sophistication, then, on multiple levels, plot points, themes, pacing, structure, costuming. A new high water mark in the capabilities of the genre, and justifiably successful, in my opinion.
Cheers. :)
Just finished watching the director's commentary for The Royal Tenenbaum's. It's funny, I tend to wait until a movie is almost a bit stale before taking in the commentary, or at least stale to me, because of the desire to take in the movie itself, before absorbing people's thoughts about the movie, even the director's. Northrup Frye, the literary critic, talks about how artists aren't the ultimate authority on their own works, how there can be themes that they themselves didn't consciously insert, but are present in the work. I think that's true, which makes letting the work stand, before even hearing the director's thoughts make sense to me.
That said, I was ready to hear Anderson's perspective on his film, and overall I really enjoyed it. He seems to have a very quiet manner, at least on the track, and I wonder how he can manage everything with what seems like a deferential personality (where the work itself is so stubbornly unique). Perhaps he is spastic on the set. I found myself thinking of the word "laconic" while listening to him. This strange emotionlessness to his tone, particularly in light of the strong emotions on the screen. His detachment seemed strange to me, but it may have been part of what drew me to the film in the first place: this carefully detached manner of observing strong emotions. On a personal level, I'm recently trying to move from observing to engaging with emotions, so his tone, and the theme in the film seemed to cast a little light backwards onto my emotional landscape from the last few years.
Tenenbaum's made a really big impression on me, as soon as I first saw it. Stylistically I really liked it, inventive, fresh, kind of precocious, all these slightly quirky ways of presenting things that resonate, I think, with anyone who has been a little bit nerdy, intellectual, seen things from an angle different from the status quo. At a deeper level, the family themes connected for me, both in terms of giftedness and dysfunction. In the closing scene's commentary, Anderson talks about how he wanted to capture that sense of family in the film: the way you are present with these people during hte most vulnerable times of your life, and as such, can receive deep wounds from them. At the same time, he adds, there is a way that family can provide, can give something to you that few other relationships can.
I think he is right, but also think that observation taps into a central charm about the film, presenting the attractive and maddening elements of family. It's part of what has endeared this film to me. Initially, I thought it was the Anderson-esque touches that I loved. Watching other Anderson films hasn't been quite the same thing for me, so that I think the family themes, coupled with his way of seeing, really touched things off for me.
As someone who enjoys movies a lot, I've been thinking about doing some filming myself, amateur stuff. That said, I was struck by how complicated the production of this film was. Everything was extremely detail oriented: setting up a custom dig for an archeology scene, dotting the "dalmation mice" with a Sharpie, hanging a set of tennis raquets along the back of a court, constructing three giant letters to suggest the large hotel sign." I had this illusion about just "finding" places and filming, based on how simple it is to catch motion on film, but Anderson and team did some very exacting and specific things to create this setting. It did not come easily, and made me kind of exhausted at the thought of the work they put in to create something this charming and wonderful, meaningful.
He used the term fable to describe the movie, all his movies actually, and I thought that really fit well. He creates this spaces that are realistic, but not easy to specifically place. He resists connecting that last dot, to make it a fully realistic space. They are in a "New York type place", but you never see the Statue of Liberty, Wall Street, etc. I think this makes the story stronger, by making it more universal. Scott McCloud talks about this in Understanding Comics when he describes how realism is harder to identify with than representation--Charlie Brown seems more universal than a more realistic image...Harvey Pekar(?).
One final thing I enjoyed was the touches that Anderson couldn't really explain, at several points he says, "It just seemed right to me," and these are all really strong, distinctive things in the film, part of what makes it really strong. I enjoy that sense of intuition, intuiting the meaning of some pieces, even beyond explanation, and having the priviledge to say, "this just seems right to me" and doing it that way. I imagine that to be validating, but perhaps it's really stressful as well. ;)
Two trailers recently catching my attention, both deal with paradigm shifts, moving between planes of reality, playing with perception.
Sci fi seems to have always been concerned with the new, but both these movies seem children of the Matrix, or at least sharing the same influences, in terms of playing with perception, and dealing in multiverses, rather than just one (or even two) level(s) of existence.
Trippy, interesting, kind of fun. Working against viewer expection.
Writes to the general interests of his audience as moviegoers, yet also speaks to the aesthetic qualities of the film and it's place in the history of film and criticism. Never too long, never self indulgent, but frequently with a quiet wit, wry humor that subtly establishes his own personality within the piece. Even more than Roger Ebert, he balances the multiple roles of a major film critic, and is consistently engaging to read. The more I follow him, the more I come to admire and appreciate his work.
He took a three month sabbatical last year to work on a book. I look forward to seeing what comes from that.
This New York Times article is really fascinating to me. It profiles most of the directors I have enjoyed over the last 10 years, and discusses why they are producing movies so slowly. I've taken to Google Alerts for Baz Luhrmann, trying to track when new material will be coming out from him. Spike Jonze, nothing from him in a long while.
The article does a good job of establishing a real trend, and then suggesting a solution in the creative community of promising Mexican filmmakers. Three of this years top films were made by Mexican directors who encourage and challenge each other in their work. This is how it should be.
Re-watched the first ten minutes of Solaris this morning. In moviemaking, I think it is such an easy thing to let exposition and dialogue represent the story, kind of a holdover from radio days. Soderbergh taps into the visual possibilites of film, and introduces the story with such restraint, where the silence tells just as much of the story as the spoken words. The result is beautiful and profound, in that it gives the audience a chance to interact with the film on an intuitive level, rather than being spoon-fed the action through dialogue. There is a sense of seeing the characters, and having an unspoken understanding of their thoughts and feelings. Our intuitions fill in the empty space Soderbergh leaves in the telling of the story. Really impressive, as a beginning to a film.
Three Times is another film that really taps into the possibility of silent moments.
"I like it when interviews are brief. Are we done yet?
When I was a teenager, I went to the Dramatic Workshop at the New School. The school had a lot of actors under the GI Bill -- Rod Steiger, Harry Belafonte, the generation ahead of me. I went in there and the director said to me, "Vy do you vant to be an acteh?" I didn't know how to answer, so I didn't say anything. And he said, "To express yourself!" And I said, "Yeah, yeah, that's it. That's right."
We used to roller-skate. Not like these souped-up Rollerblades they have today. Roller skates with ball bearings. We'd hang on to the back of a truck and go for a ride for a couple of blocks until the streetlight turned red and the truck stopped. Then one day they changed the lights to a stagger system. Only we didn't know. All the lights changed up an avenue at intervals so you could go twenty or thirty blocks without stopping. Suddenly, I'm stuck on the back of one of these trucks, and after four blocks, I'm realizing that the next light isn't going to turn red. The driver doesn't know you're on the back. You have no choice but to keep hanging on till he stops. There are things you do that when you get older, you realize how stupid they were.
Some people say, "New York's a great place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there." I say that about other places.
You have no idea that years later, people in cars will recognize you on the street and shout, "You talkin' to me?" I don't remember the original script, but I don't think the line was in it. We improvised. For some reason it touched a nerve. That happens.
Marty Scorsese listens. He's open to unexpected things on that -- this is a flowery way of saying it -- on that voyage. He takes ideas, and he's not afraid to try them.
There's no such thing as not being afraid.
Money makes your life easier. If you're lucky to have it, you're lucky.
I left a meeting right after they hit the World Trade Center. I went to my apartment, which looks south, and I watched it out my window. I could see the line of fire across the North Tower. I had my binoculars and a video camera -- though I didn't want to video it. I saw a few people jump. Then I saw the South Tower go. It was so unreal, I had to confirm it by immediately looking at the television screen. CNN was on. That was the only way to make it real. Like my son said: "It was like watching the moon fall."
I didn't have a problem with rejection, because when you go into an audition, you're rejected already. There are hundreds of other actors. You're behind the eight ball when you go in there.
At this point in my career, I don't have to deal with audition rejections. So I get my rejection from other things. My children can make me feel rejected. They can humble you pretty quick.
It's true: I spent lunchtime in a grave during the filming of Bloody Mama. When you're younger, you feel that's what you need to do to help you stay in character. When you get older, you become more confident and less intense about it -- and you can achieve the same effect. You might even be able to achieve more if you take your mind off it, because you're relaxed. That's the key to it all. When you're relaxed and confident, you get good stuff.
The hardest thing about being famous is that people are always nice to you. You're in a conversation and everybody's agreeing with what you're saying -- even if you say something totally crazy. You need people who can tell you what you don't want to hear.
Movies are hard work. The public doesn't see that. The critics don't see it. But they're a lot of work. A lot of work.
When I'm directing a great dramatic scene, part of me is saying, "Thank God I don't have to do that." Because I know how f***ing hard it is to act. It's the middle of the night. It's freezing. You gotta do this scene. You gotta get it up to get to that point. And yet, as a director, you've got to get the actors to that point. It's hard either way.
What's the difference between sex and love? Hmm. That's a good question. Hey, you interviewed Al Pacino. How'd he answer that?
When a parent dies, it's the end. I always wanted to chronicle the family history with my mother. She was always interested in that. I wanted some researchers I'd worked with to talk to my mother, but my mother was a little antsy about it. I know she would've gotten into it. It would have been okay with my father, too. But I wasn't forceful, and I didn't make it happen. That's one regret I have. I didn't get as much of the family history as I could have for the kids.
As you get older, the more complicated things get. It's almost therapeutic to be doing simple things with the kids.
If you don't go, you'll never know."
via Metafilter and Esquire.
