Review

We move fast through our lives in America. We do not move quickly or rapidly but ungrammatically fast. Our days are full. We make lists of the things we have to do. On one list are all the foods we need to buy for the week. Another list shows events to attend and errands to complete. Yet another list includes people to call to arrange more events. We get a lot done. We make good time.

One of the myriad things that many people do is drink coffee. "I have to have my morning latte'. It's a ritual of mine." According to the Pocket Webster School and Office Dictionary, "ritual" is "performing rites," which are further defined as "solemn or ceremonial acts." This implies some thought and some spiritual connection to the acts.

For some people, this pseudo-ritual may consist of jumping bleary-eyed into their car, travelling a route they know without thinking, pulling up to a drive-through window, and procuring an over-priced, fattening drug lite that keeps them moving through a morning they dread. This is far from solemn or reflective. In fact, coffee seems to be a symbol of our lack of reflection--and even a weapon against reflection.

Ironically, coffee was first used as a medicine in Arabia, then as a meditation aid. Later, in Europe, coffeehouses drew society's intelligentsia and creators. Great thoughts were birthed and discussed in coffeehouses ("Bean"). The physical and social enjoyment of coffee comprised a shared experience, a rudimentary ritual.

Where are our true American rituals, in which we engage consciously and spiritually? What rituals do we have to bring spirit into our physical lives? When, in our culture, do we stop and reflect? In other countries, communities gather for rituals that both transcend and sanctify their daily lives. Their shared experiences become a basis for unity and trust (Beck and Metrick 137).

Wedding customs, for instance, often include some community activity that serves to bless the marriage socially. There may be feasts and celebrations that last days (Kononenko). Our American wedding ceremonies take mere hours and seem to be more of a duty than a sanctifying act. Our role is mainly passive, highlighted by sitting in a pew and perhaps throwing rice. At funerals and graduation ceremonies we remain spectators.

In fact, the Pocket Webster defines a ceremony as "formality"--even "meaningless or conventional formality." Many events may seem like mere obligation, rather than celebration. We rarely prepare philosophically for what has become social tradition. Webster's defines tradition as "oral transmission of opinions, customs… an old, well-established custom" with custom defined as, "frequent or habitual repetition of the same act." Are our ceremonies only special because we perform them so often? Only through purpose, consciousness, and presence can we provide meaning to our ceremonies.

Getting back to the java: should drinking coffee require as much thought and spiritual investment as a wedding in order to fulfill its role as ritual? Certainly not. What cheapens both is the idea that grabbing a paper cup full of self-indulgence would qualify as a ritual, when it is merely a habit, "a pattern that has become automatic." A ritual would give us time to reflect and to discern our values. A ritual re-establishes a connection with nature, people, or spirit.

Let us consider the places where we see coffee served, besides the drive-through window, or the Starbuck's in the lobby of our building, where we wait with a briefcase in hand and our coat half-buttoned on the way to the office. After church services, there is always coffee. At PTA meetings, there is always coffee. Birthday parties, holidays, after dinner, after dessert--whenever there is time for adults to linger and to catch up on the news, there is coffee. When new acquaintances begin to make friends, it is often over coffee. When an event is over, but friends aren't ready to go home, they have coffee to relax and reflect on the evening just past.

There--there it is--that word, "reflect." Coffee deserves better than a styrofoam cup and a quick gulp between phone calls.

Coffee's American heritage includes its use as a psychological aid and symbol. These strengthen the case for its value in American ritual. Jason Wurtsbaugh writes about the rich literary symbolism of coffee--how it represents "the warmth between two people," for instance, or how coffee is served as part of the ceremony of caring for someone who is upset. We recognize, in the pouring of hot water, the offering of time and attention. While our morning cup wrapped in cardboard may still be a personal totem, the shared mug of coffee represents a friend’s mindfulness and empathy.

Jamake Highwater offers the idea that ritual "epitomizes a group's fundamental value system" (14). While we in the United States may not have the changing of the guard, or the calls of mullahs at prayer time, we do have the simple sharing of an ancient beverage, which sums up our values of friendship and community.

"The Bean Scoop." DecentCoffee.com website. 2004. 16 October 2004.  http://www.decentcoffee.com/CoffeeHistory.html.

Beck, Renee and Metrick, Sydney B. The Art of Ritual: A Guide to Creating and Performing Your Own Ceremonies for Growth and Change. Berkeley: Celestial Arts, 1990.

Highwater, Jamake. Dance; Rituals of Experience. Pennington, NJ: Princeton Book Co., 1992.

Konenko, Natalie. "Traditional Ukrainian Wedding Rituals Collected in Central Ukraine, 1998." BRAMA-Gateway Ukraine -- Arts and Culture website. Brama, Inc. 1997-2004. 24 Oct 2004.  http://www.brama.com/art/wedding.html.

Pocket Webster School & Office Dictionary. New York: Pocket; Simon & Schuster, 1990.

Wurtsbaugh, Jason. "The Myth and Ritual of Coffee in Mario Puzo's The Fortunate Pilgrim." Liz Rosa's English 187 Italian American Literature home page. 9 Mar 2000. 24 Oct 2004. http://www.uvm.edu/~arosa/wurtsbaugh.html.

In the very beginning of the movie, Adaptation, adapted from the book, The Orchid Thief, by Susan Orlean, directed by Spike Jonze, with screenplay by Charlie Kaufman, we are treated to a one minute montage history of the world, specifically Hollywood, beneath an audio/video monologue by the screenwriter, played by Nicholas Cage, berating himself for being a repulsive, parasitic, fat, balding failure. The audience has been given a very clear picture of this character. He has told us he is pathetic, and this is all-too-apparent. The surreal opening few minutes have the viewer thinking to herself, this is yet another self-indulgent and narcissistic Hollywood tale – this time about the life of an oppressed, emotionally-crippled screenwriter. After watching the confusing story three times, I am compelled to revise my initial assessment of Hollywood navel-gazing.

Charlie Kaufman in real life is a screenwriter who does not have a twin brother or any brother named Donald. Our real-life Charlie is writing about a character named Charlie Kaufman (think Escher – Mobius Strip – recursive and flowing back on itself) who is extremely shy and introverted, and he is suffering from such low self-esteem that he cannot even bring himself to kiss the woman he loves. He is a known, successful screenwriter mired in crippling writer’s block attempting to adapt a non-fiction book about a fanatical orchid breeder, John Laroche, who lives in the Florida Everglades. There are two interesting, seemingly different premises, each having to do with “adaptation,” that I believe will address my title question as to “Why Donald Kaufman, and why did he have to die?”

First, despite the fact that the audience is led to believe from the screen credits that Donald co-wrote the screenplay with his brother, Charlie, we discover, in reality, Donald is non-existent. Charlie Kaufman has cleverly written into a multi-layered screenplay adaptation of Olean’s book, an identical twin brother/alter ego in the form of Donald, Charlie’s exact opposite. Second, John Laroche, the character from Orlean’s book, is a real-life, very strange orchid breeder, who explains that the Darwinian principles of adaptation “means you figure out how to survive in the world.” This will have significant implications in Charlie’s own struggles with his demons and insecurities. The film provides a multi-layered definition of the meaning of “adaptation.”

Charlie has become so innocuous in his own eyes that he goes unrecognized as the screenwriter on the set of an earlier movie, Being John Malkovich, which the real life Charlie actually wrote. He desperately wants to write a passionate and meaningful screen adaptation for Orlean’s book – a screenplay without the usual sex and violence. But his life is completely devoid of passion. He has lost his soul. Listening to a replay of his ideas on a handheld recorder, he is absolutely crushed by his realization that everything he has said is a cliché. He sits, paralyzed by writer’s block, slumped over his typewriter in his utterly minimalist apartment when his identical twin brother walks in.

Donald walks and stands tall; he is smiling, outgoing, and loudly confident. He has a pretty girlfriend and a great love life. He is everything Charlie is not. To Charlie’s utter disgust, Donald announces he is going to take a screenwriting workshop from Robert McKee, a writing instructor who gives weekend workshops where, in Charlie’s non-conformist opinion, he teaches appallingly conventional structure. Almost immediately after taking the seminars, Donald comes up with a cops and robbers thriller, which is optioned through Charlie’s scummy agent for big bucks. Charlie is completely demoralized.

In desperation, Charlie flies to New York to meet Orlean, a writer for The New Yorker who wrote the book he is to adapt. Charlie realizes he needs to meet the woman who is so passionate about her subject, but he loses his nerve when it is time for the appointment. At Donald’s urging, Charlie goes to a Robert McKee screenwriting seminar (another actual person who plays himself) and surprisingly gets some good advice about character and conflict. McKee is a very important figure – a turning point in the journey for Charlie. Charlie stands up in the seminar and asks what he can do for a story that has no story. He has allowed himself to be vulnerable, and McKee rails at him – telling him to look at life itself, life is conflict – to say there is nothing happening in life is crap. Later, McKee becomes a sort of father figure, realizing Charlie is talking about his life, and he tells him to give the story a good ending. Charlie flies Donald in from the West Coast to help him write a new script with a hot ending, and in a heart-to-heart brotherly conversation, Donald tells Charlie, “You are what you love, not what loves you.”

This story is a quest. Like a fairytale, the temple guardians of self-doubt and self-loathing are preventing our hero from achieving wholeness. When he is blocked, his other half appears to help him along on his journey. Donald is to Charlie as Laroche is to Orlean. Donald follows the movie storyline like a sidekick for Charlie – like Tonto is to The Lone Ranger or Robin’s relationship to Batman – they are so important to the stories we tell and are told. Laroche is like the Merlin character – think Whoopee Goldberg in Ghost. He is a sort of guru of adaptability, doing what it takes to make a living, overcoming adversity and meaninglessness. And Orlean too, is a positive force for Charlie. She not only inspires him to write, but she lures him into the adventure, sort of like Gweneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love or Andie MacDowell in Groundhog Day. Laroche is like the wise old man in a fairy tale who leads Charlie and Orlean to the secret in the tale. The secret is in the journey to find the ghost orchid, and only Laroche knows where it is. The orchid represents the passion lacking in the passionless souls of Charlie and Susan.

The third act of this convoluted story has Charlie overcoming his writer’s block, becoming whole and productive – passionate about Orlean and her passionate obsession with the outrageous Laroche. Charlie begins to get inside the heads of the characters in Orlean’s book, living and writing his screenplay passionately as he has always wanted to do. He writes of Laroche’s wild eccentricities, his obsessions with ghost orchids, tropical fish, and pornography, as well as the important definition of adaptation.

He is finally succeeding in writing a passionate screenplay, albeit one that has all the elements of violence, sex, drugs – plus alligators – that he has always deplored, but which McKee has recommended. He is finally becoming self-determined, and now, he no longer has need of an alter ego. He has written about passion and risk and outrageous characters committing outrageous acts. And in doing so, he has become a whole being. Charlie and Donald are identical not only in body, but also in spirit and intellect. Donald must die. There can’t be two of them. The reason for his existence in the first place – to be everything Charlie could not be at the time – is no longer necessary.

In Florida, Laroche has led Orlean to the orchid, which contains a mind-altering, powdery substance, which they are planning to market. Charlie and Donald have followed Orlean to Laroche’s greenhouse in the swampy Everglades where they find Orlean in a drug-induced sex scene – the antithesis of Orlean’s chi-chi, New York intellectual life, albeit a passionless one, bookish and lacking in true adventure. But she wants her life back, to be a baby again, now understanding the meaning of passion. Laroche must also die. Orlean and Laroche attempt an escape from Donald and Charlie into the swamp, and in a violent scene, a hungry alligator catches Laroche. He, too, is no longer needed.

In the ensuing scene, Donald is shot by Orlean, but only wounded. Charlie is still working up his confidence for finality. Charlie gets Donald into the car to take him to the hospital, when they are broadsided by a deputy sheriff’s car, and Donald flies through the windshield, dying a few moments later in Charlie’s arms. It is a violent accident, similar to the accident in which Laroche’s car was broadsided, killing his in-laws and putting his wife into a coma, changing his life and forcing him to give up his nursery and adapt to changing circumstances.

The multi-layers of the screenplay are almost complete. Charlie returns to Hollywood with a completed screenplay and newly acquired self-confidence. He is able to tell the woman he loves that he loves her in the final scenes, and in another voice-over, tells the audience he finally has hope. His agent and the film executives are ecstatic over the final screenplay. He has found a way to adapt and begin to be passionate about his life. Charlie has adapted even though the woman he loves tells him she’s engaged to another man. He has survived. He has found his soul, and he is complete.

Driving in traffic affords me the opportunity to listen at length to National Public Radio. I somehow feel smugly intelligent using otherwise empty time behind the wheel to learn. During a recent installment of All Things Considered, I heard a story on the first annual Home Movie Day, slated for August 16th of this year. The contributing journalist interviewed film preservationists and archivists involved in collecting and saving home movies. Apparently they are now considered an important piece of our cultural and historical heritage, so there is a movement to raise awareness about their significance and protect them.

My consciousness was raised. Inspired by a newfound respect for family film archives, I decided to revisit our own home movies. The earliest ones date back to around 1986, and were taped with my father-in-law’s newly purchased video camera, a prized possession roughly the same size and weight as a microwave oven. Sometime in the early nineties, it appears the members of our family became too weak to hold the camera, and production ceased. The next batch of homemade cinema begins in the late nineties, when my husband and I bought a digital video camera.

Prepared with popcorn and beverages, I assembled the tapes in chronological order. It had been years since I watched most of these. Because I was determined to assess the home movies with journalistic objectivity, I decided to review only the earlier tapes. It would be more difficult for me to remain unbiased toward more recent ones, where emotions are still vivid.

I pondered what I was hoping to discover. Would these home movies have any redeeming historical or sociological value? Are there any artistic qualities, though likely unintentional, in any of the frames? What details of our family life might they reveal? How do the tapes reflect the times in which they were recorded? If I didn’t know these people and I was seeing these videos for the first time, what would my initial impressions be? Which aspects do I enjoy, and which ones are dull or uncomfortable? I searched for solid ground where I could stand detached to evaluate.

Because many different events were transferred onto each tape to save space, early tapes are a mixed bag of family footage and weekend vacation retreats my in-laws took with friends over the years. This makes for an interesting film montage.

The first tape opens in August of 1986. My in-laws, prosperous late fifty-somethings at the time, are entertaining a group of friends and acquaintances at their lake cabin for the weekend. It’s easy to catch the sense of excitement the cameraman, my father-in-law, feels over his new toy. Everything this collective group says and does is recorded for posterity. Narration is provided as well, beginning with a reference to the date of the video camera’s purchase. Next he cites the names of the guests, to make sure the viewer knows which people were there.

The camera slowly and lovingly pans the surrounding lake and mountains, lingering over the tranquil sight of a few scattered canoes and boats carrying fly-casting occupants. Although the lighting is good, the picture occasionally goes out of focus, giving the film the appearance of a moving impressionist painting. My favorite piece here patiently shows an osprey as it fishes for its dinner in the lake, circling in front of the cabin and diving into the water. It’s clearly a hot weekend because the assembled crowd on the outdoor deck is clad in swimsuits for every shot. At one point, I could almost feel the humidity rising off the lake as the temperature soared.

Gradually, the coffee cups and ice tea glasses become highball and wine glasses. As the cocktail hour progresses, the character studies begin. Snippets of disjointed conversations overlap one another, as if it were a movie directed by Robert Altman. The cameraman does close-ups of guests and jokingly asks more probing questions. Once darkness descends, some subjects choose to answer them. Mildly flirtatious behavior becomes part of the social shorthand between old friends. Zoom-in shots of a man’s hand on a woman’s knee as he speaks into the camera, a woman bearing appetizers and seductively hand feeding one of the men as they talk, and the aesthetic presentation of a culinary masterpiece on a platter by candlelight all set the tone. This segment portrays a particular generation and a specific lifestyle. Despite the inexperienced cinematography, I found it illuminating after all these years.

Other segments like this were included in the library: stag weekends with the men at Gearhart beach, a group of married couples on the Dechutes, friends skiing at Mt. Batchelor. Video cameras were still a novelty. These were men and women who had not yet learned to act differently in front of the camera, making the images all the more candid and memorable.

In a 1987 installment, a child is having a fourth birthday party with family at Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlor. We see the sign outside. Her older sister, mother and father, and one set of grandparents are with her. Her excitement can’t be contained as she runs across the parking lot to the door. The older sister is obviously perturbed at being second fiddle on this day, and makes repeated attempts to steal the show. Once seated, the birthday girl opens gifts with wide-eyed amazement, expressing little gasps with open mouth. Even though she is happy, there is a humility in her enormous blue eyes that says she can’t believe this is all for her. A noisy drum beats, as the wait staff yells for attention from the patrons. All of the assembled staff sings “Happy Birthday,” inviting everyone to join in. There is a nervous intensity to this type of forced celebration that’s obvious, even on film. An unspoken message says, “There is tension, but we wanted this child to have something gay and fun to remember on her birthday.” With the birthday candles blown out and the music over, it is quiet. There is a visible strain between the mother and the in-laws that is uncomfortable to watch. I feel relieved when the scene is over.

Now we are at a communal swimming dock at the lake, along with dozens of people from neighboring lake cabins. We are told it is Labor Day weekend of 1987. Blistering heat is evident, as even elderly grandmothers are wearing swimsuits and plunging their soft bodies into the frigid water. The narrator talks to families playing in the water, as he films parents teaching their children to swim. Kids pull each other around on air mattresses and inner tubes. Screams of thrill can be heard from delighted older children on the tall water slide.

The film abruptly cuts to boating and swimming races, with throngs of people screaming encouragement to their children as they compete. The sun sparkles on the surface of the lake, and the picture sometimes turns almost white. Even though the children are young in age, the viewer can see which ones are competitive and which are racing for their own enjoyment. A ribbon and trophy ceremony follows, with proud parents and grandparents clapping and snapping photos.

In the aftermath, the film shifts to a lazy scene at the cabin, interrupted by a man yelling, “Fire!” The filming stops, only to be continued a few moments later by a woman. Small boats filled with men come from all directions toward the spot where flames can be seen, leaping into the air. The camera shows us the surrounding landscape, thick with trees, and cabins nestled throughout. A woman’s voice narrates, commenting that if the fire goes into the tops of the trees, we’ve lost the battle. The sound of the generators and fire hoses that suck water out of the lake can be heard. A sound like an air-raid siren pierces the air in the distance, calling out to the all-volunteer fire department in the area. As the drama unfolds, an elderly woman with grandchildren attached to each hand arrives on the front porch of the cabin. She speculates on whether she should evacuate with her family, traveling on foot via logging road. No one can leave by car now, she says, because the one lane access road leading in is being used by fire engines and emergency vehicles. After some discussion, the women and children at the cabin decide to wait. If things become worse they can go out to the middle of the lake in boats, where the fire can’t touch them. Filming stops, but later we see burned trees and the charred ruins of a large outbuilding beside a house. A man’s voice comments how lucky they were and how quickly everyone acted.

There was an unintentional but appropriate juxtaposition in this film. It occurred because of chronology, but could just as easily have been planned by a screen writer. The neighborliness of good times was set next to the more important reason neighbors are historically vital: survival.

It is October of 1987 and Great-Grandma, known as Nana, is having an eightieth birthday. A gala celebration and family reunion has been planned. Though Nana herself seems a little vague, it’s immediately clear how adored she is by the entire family. Nana seems slightly intimidated by the camera, but Great-Grandpa has no such problem as he flips off the cameraman, indicating his disdain. As the relatives arrive, the volume increases. Generations happily intermingle as music plays in the background. Brief interviews with the guests inform us that some have come from two-thousand miles away. Many are from Nana’s native Canada. A very large pregnant woman wearing a yellow dress (could I have picked a color that made me look any bigger?) answers questions about the overdue status of her maternity. Hints of family dysfunction seep out of the film occasionally. There are close-ups of people pouring those extra swigs of liquor into their drink. In the kitchen an older child mercilessly teases a younger child, and a couple bickers loudly. The camera pulls a tight shot of a woman in her thirties. She is uncomfortably surrounded, making jokes and trying to explain her husband’s absence to relatives without having to discuss their separation. She looks imploringly at the camera, as if hoping it will go away, but it doesn’t flinch. One fragment of film summarizes the entire scene. We see Nana and her five surviving siblings scrunched together, arms around shoulders, talking about their youth and their love for one another. This is the point of origin. Everyone else at this party descends from this tableau. The tape of this event clumsily depicts family in all its glory and imperfection.

Following tapes echo similar themes. A tape from Thanksgiving of 1987 introduces a new baby brother to the extended family, as everyone takes their turn holding this example of promise in the flesh. A little girl says grace, and the feast is displayed. Siblings fight and vie for attention and on-camera air time. Three successive years of children’s Christmas programs are saved on video, each one replete with winged angels and shepherds. Vacations come and go as people grow or age.

So I return to my original musings about the value of home movies. I’ve concluded that the video recordings we made later served a different purpose. They chronicled the accomplishments and events of specific children, as a record of their achievements and development. These early films, shot mostly of us instead of by us, showed our family just being rather than doing. Watching it now, I see it as a cinematic family portrait. And like the family portraits people reluctantly pose for at the photographer’s, the art is in the subjects rather than the composition.