There’s a scene in Francis Ford Coppola’s 1972 The Godfather in which semi-retired mafia don Vito Corleone discloses to Michael, now reluctant acting-head of the family business, what aspirations he had for his son …
VITO: I never wanted this for you. I lived my own life. I don’t apologize to take care of my family. And I refused to be a fool, dancing on string lead by all those big shots. I don’t apologize, that’s my life. But I thought that when it was your time that you’d be the one that holds all the strings … Senator Corleone, Governor Corleone, something … Well, there just wasn’t enough time, Michael. Wasn’t enough time.
Uncredited, Robert Towne wrote this last-minute addition to The Godfather script late in production. Its absence from the movie, I believe, would have fundamentally undermined in what reverence so many hold it. Why? Because this scene is the “why” of this particular story. Of Vito. Of Michael’s ambition as explored in it and its sequels versus simply a record of events culminating in an efficient ending.
What is the why? In most stories it’s clear what’s compelling characters to conduct themselves as they do, particularly in clear-cut mystery, suspense, thriller, romance, horror genres – most merely top-soil entertainment, reacting to a crisis, usually predictably so, or fomenting one they’re inevitably forced to respond to. Action. Reaction. The building blocks of story. Our Legos, if you will. There’s so many to choose from to construct imaginative expressions. Yet the absence of just a single Lego, one penultimate building block, can jeopardize every lasting intent.
Which brings me to The Fabelmans, Steven Spielberg’s semi-autobiographical depiction of his young self becoming a filmmaker. It immediately reminded me of John Boorman’s Hope and Glory, also a semi-autobiographical interpretation of a director’s youth, his set as a child during the World War II blitz of London. Hopeful. Funny. Equally delightful. The purpose of making it, only he would know. Enduring life as best one can? Finding the fancy? Forging a laugh? Vanity? Maybe.
In All That Jazz, Bob Fosse’s more than semi-autobiographical take, there’s a scene where Joe Gideon confesses to Death a particular lament …
JOE GIDEON: No, nothing I ever do is good enough. Not beautiful enough, it’s not funny enough, it’s not deep enough, it’s not anything enough. Now, when I see a rose, that’s perfect. I mean, that’s perfect. I want to look up to God and say, “How the hell did you do that? And why the hell can’t I do that?”
Which brings me to The Shawshank Redemption, Frank Darabont’s adaptation of Stephen King’s “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption” novella. Perfect film, in my mind. But the “why” scene, the whole point of the movie, is divulged in a brief exchange between its two main characters; an almost throwaway dialogue that, had it been cut, would undermine both Andy’s and Red’s ultimate trajectory, but possibly the triumph of storytelling this movie manages to impart to its audience at the end …
ANDY (taps his heart, his head): The music was here … and here. That’s the one thing they can’t confiscate, not ever. That’s the beauty of it. Haven’t you ever felt that way about music, Red?
RED: Played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost my taste for it. Didn’t make much sense on the inside.
ANDY: Here’s where it makes most sense. We need it so we don’t forget.
RED: Forget?
ANDY: That there are things in this world not carved out of gray stone. That there’s a small place inside of us they can never lock away, and that place is called hope.
RED: Hope is a dangerous thing. Drive a man insane. It’s got no place here. Better get used to the idea.
First movie I made, over 30 years ago, has a “why” that I didn’t realize until today. Where I thought the “why” was the punchline of Blood, the final scene reveal, a trick, a gimmick to rattle the audience to show how clever I thought I was, it wasn’t. It was this monologue from much earlier in the script …
REGGIE (to his younger brother): You don’t get into no gang then walk when you feel like it. The gang get into you. And if you start climbin’ the ladder, your home-boys are gonna be right at your feet tearin’ and scratchin’ and draggin’ you back down – not because they don’t want you to make it – but because they’re so hungry you do make it. They wanna be sure you gotta piece of them to take along with you.
Beyond the overarching story itself, I believe that Prince allowed me to use his music for free on the soundtrack because of this bit of dialogue. It’s the “why” of writing that story. That movie’s purpose.
Now back to The Fabelmans. Exceedingly well directed, as one would expect. Marvelous performances. Fascinating depiction of a kid’s nascent filmmaking process, or at least becoming entranced with it – the constant pursuit of documenting well a movie in one’s head – but lacking a particularly specific thing: Why.
Why does Sammy want to make movies?
Have been watching this show, Daisy Jones & The Six, on Amazon Prime. Didn’t have any particular gumption to do so. I was sick. It was on. Knew nothing about it. Thing is, episode three or four, there’s a scene, without a monologue, in which I was unexpectedly shocked into recognition of the one thing I’ve been emotionally bereft of for years. The two singer-songwriter characters on screen jelled in an awkward instant I didn’t see coming and a wind thrushed through my lungs, pulse strumming in a vigorous major key, mind snapped crystal-attuned to all prospects of purposeful being once more. Witness not to what is, but what could result from such a vital, precious pairing. A fiction lacking falsehood. Inspiration.
That spark of realization rejuvenated me in a flash. All the unanticipated delights I used to thrive on that elevated me washed back allowing recognition that their absence had drawn me shallow.
As a writer and filmmaker, inspiration is what’s demanded to sustain me through what First World sad rote craft slogs are required to deliver product. Writing for money is easy. Writing for self-worth? Not so much.
It is the Why of Writing. It’s the Why of Story. The Why of Rote writing tedium in pursuit of expelling a bigger breath that gets me. Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should. I like to think, or aspire to believe, that we write worthy work because we must. To inform, invigorate and regale. To rejoice and inspire. To feel.
That is the why, at least for me. Everything in between is boring.
