Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright ©, 2005
Authoress Despair - The Film Version
by
Kat Meads
Long ago and far away (late Seventies, North Carolina), on an afternoon so uniformly gray the
gloom of a movie theatre didn't particularly count as further light deprivation, I took in a matinee
of Julia, the adaptation of Lillian Hellman's essay or fiction, its genre dependent on whose
authority you favor: author or critic. Mostly women, the scattered and meager audience that p.m.
The bulk of us, I'd hazard to guess, without the energy, will or gainful employment just then to be
anywhere other than a mildew-scented, gummy-floored auditorium, passively viewing Jane Fonda
and Vanessa Redgrave actively suffer for art and politics.
Vanessa's portrayal didn't irk—tolerance that most likely stemmed from a lack of apt comparison.
The politicos I knew at the time tended to be weekend revolutionaries, the equivalent of Sunday
painters, the light of fanaticism burning distinctly dimmer in their eyeballs come Monday. The
few writers among my set, on the other hand, were the genuine article: 24/7 word slaves,
Jane/Lillian's ilk. About writers, I imagined I knew a thing or two.
Whether the original Julia ever counted as a living being, was appropriated, conflated or invented
whole cloth, I didn't and don't much care. What I admired then and still admire is Hellman's
dramatic flair, how she successfully tensed up the confessional essay form, a playwright flexing
her craft muscles elsewhere. Unfortunately what memory sticks on, yea these years later, is the
scene of Jane/Lillian holed up in her semi-isolated beach house, smoking, smoking, typing, typing,
crumpling paper and then, at a moment of supreme irritation at her worthless, disappointing
efforts, the cinematic climax of her frustrations, tossing her manual typewriter out a conveniently
nearby and open window.
Only starting to comprehend life's limitless capacity to frustrate, I still mistrusted that scene. First
reaction: Geez, good aim. Second: Wonder how many takes that took?!? Third: A sand landing
might save the thing bashing to bits but there remains the grit factor. What's Jane/Lillian to do
now? Resort to longhand? The director solved that problem with a quick cut. The prop department
probably sidestepped the difficulty altogether with a strategically placed cushion. No typewriters
hurt or endangered during the making of this film! But, please: even in 1977, writers defiling paper
counted as visual cliché.
I hadn't realized Kathleen Turner's character in Romancing the Stone was supposed to be a
romance writer prior to viewing. She needn't have been; she could have toiled as a corporate
lawyer. Kathleen as writer, Kathleen's character attempting to write, wasn't the plot, merely plot
set-up—a consolation during the inevitable paper destruction scene. I was also relieved by the bit
of verisimilitude Hollywood seems only to permit in comedic treatments of the trade: Kathleen's
writing attire and appearance while hard at it: ratty bathrobe, icky bedroom shoes, nesty hair, face
a-puff. That I could relate to.
I blame Charlotte Rampling for luring me back to what I'd sworn off. Guaranteed: if she hadn't
starred in The Swimming Pool, I wouldn't have ventured near a mystery writer's sojourn in France.
Rampling's character owns a laptop. She crawls about on the floor in search of an electrical outlet.
She prefers a teensy font, uses minimal margins. Her expression, as she types, is believably versus
farcically contorted. Rampling the actress can do concentration; she can convincingly express
tension of thought. She seems truly to know how to type. All good. Even better: she crumples no
paper. Still, I can't deny trashing a word file packs very little visual punch. One quick key tap.
Done.
Nicole Kidman's nose enhancement alone argued for skipping the filmed version of Michael
Cunningham's novel, The Hours. But even if I'd overcome my initial skittishness, the trailer would
have scared me off: Nicole/Virginia, looking mournful, looking defeated, surrounded by a
perfectly symmetrical circle of crumpled paper.
Insufferable trailers.
At least in horror movies, there's adequate warning, the chance to cover one's eyes. I thoroughly
enjoyed Lost in Translation—a nifty little film about unhappiness, a mind state familiar to writers
but not a film about writer funk per se and much the better for it. However: after I'd purchased an
overpriced box of Milk Duds, found an unbroken-backed seat in which to slump, settled in and
turned my gaze screen-ward, only the sudden onset of hysterical blindness would have spared me
previews of Sylvia, a film that promised, in its entirety, to go wrong in oh so many ways.
Gwyneth in a series of Plathian hairdos. Gwyneth miming angst. Gwyneth gearing up to convey
seriously disturbed. Gwyneth, despite the Sylvia-hair, looking a whole lot like Gwyneth, i.e.,
Gwyneth frail, Gwyneth thin.
Daniel Craig as Ted Hughes? Scarcely beefier. In life mode, these two were physically strapping,
substantial folks—Sylvia, a 5'9" gal and no string bean. At the famous/infamous Cambridge
party, Ted's bulk formed no small part of his manly allure—finally a chap, in Sylvia's own
description, "huge enough" to interest.
Following that first flash of mirrored skinniness, definitely, definitely, I should have covered my
eyes and kept them covered until The Matrix theme song blasted an all-clear. But, no. I looked. I
saw. Gwyneth at her desk, bitterly scratching through a clot of less than perfect words. Gwyneth,
out in the elements, wind-blown, raving, frantically feeding a bonfire with—guess what.
Contributor's Notes...
I'm an NC native, currently based in California, and the author, most recently, of a novel, SLEEP (Livingston
Press at the University of West Alabama, 2004). SLEEP is a near-future tale about motherhood, revolution
and information overload.
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