Timing

As I grow old and grey and full of sleep (to borrow from Yeats), my attention is increasingly divided between the very long past and the foreshortening future. Inevitably, this is a time of regret for that which has not been, and trepidation for that which is bound to be. I often think these days that I wish I had the years to do over again, but almost immediately realize that I would just make the same stupid mistakes, and so the longing for bygone years is pointless.

I find that as time shortens it slows. Everything seems to move more slowly now, from my perceptions to my joints, from my intuitions to my ambitions. I have less time, and so I want less for myself, though I do still long for the most and best for those I love. And that circle of affection has narrowed almost entirely to my children, and to my new grandchild. For her, above all, since she is so new to the world, so pure and full of promise, I desire and hope for the broadest, deepest, most fulfilling experience of life, for the ecstasy of flowering imagination and the tragedy of unmasked reality. For myself, I must find a way to be content with what I have remaining to me: work, and worry, and a declining sense of wonder. Thus, happiness becomes acceptance of resignation.

My hands no longer work as they once did. I have always admired the prolific virtuosity of human hands; it is amazing what they can accomplish, the wide range of skills and intricate moments of movement which have enabled them to build and to destroy, to sign and shape and make imagination possible. They are capable of everything from musicality to murder, and from cruelty to caress. My hands always served me well, yet now, more and more, they defy my intentions and frustrate my efforts. I drop things, they simply slip from my fingers which once were so fervent in their grasping. I knock things over and lose things, and I look at my hands in a kind of mournful awe. ‘We have done your work,’ they seem to be telling me, ‘and now we will do our own will.’

The past, though it forms the bulk of my consciousness, I try not to dwell upon, for, as Lear said, ‘That way madness lies.’ If I were to allow myself the lurid luxury of living in the past, I would certainly lose such tenuous grip as I have upon the present, and whatever shredded hopes remain to me for the future. I know too well the mistakes that I have made – they haunt me continually like spectral hounds, yowling and yapping after me with greater alacrity as my forward momentum wanes.  For, you see, as time slows toward its end, the past rages closer, feeding on the diminishing momentum to which age condemns you. And so, try as I might, I find it more and more futile to escape the past with its snarling regrets and slavering demand for remorse.

Health and its perils you think more on, of course, and you must make a conscious effort not to talk about them since nothing is more tedious to young people than such talk. Unable to imagine themselves at your age, as you once were unable to imagine yourself as aged, they will at best endure your conversation about your health with kindly toleration. But you cannot help but see in their eyes and facial expressions and incipient movements toward the door or just toward a different subject, their roiling impatience, and so, one of the most pressing truths about yourself becomes a social taboo, and you feel even more isolated in your declining constitution. I have found that it is actually a relief to speak to people my own age since they understand that health is a pressing subject, and that it presses more and more as time grows short. And so, I allow myself to bask in talk of heart and kidneys and spine and mental powers in the rare conversations I have with my contemporaries. It serves to relieve the burden momentarily of the lonely consequence of age.

Looking forward is similar to looking into a mirror. You are reminded in every sag and wrinkle that time cannot reverse itself, and that since there is really nothing in the future for you but oblivion, you must gather all your strength to accomplish as much as you can before the end. And yet, you struggle against your own depleting energy, straddling a steepening fence line between what you feel compelled to do and what you still are capable of. People have often pointed out that I am a workaholic, and though I have never really thought of myself that way, in comparison to what I find that I can do these days, it now seems to have been true. Yes, I still have a headful of ideas and plans and projects, but they must be measured against the yardsticks of energy and time. That would seem to impose a need to devote oneself to the most important affairs, but there is, too, a sense that, having lived so long and worked so hard, I deserve a rest. And so, I find in my waking hours what I often tell myself at bedtime, when I hesitate to turn out the light: ‘You’ll have plenty of time to sleep in the dark soon enough.’

And so I go on working, and worrying about the future (my own and that of my loved ones), and trying to savor what little is left to me of the wonder that has driven my existence since the very first moment that I realized I existed, a moment of great peril and promise that has itself become lost to me in time.

In B Minor

It has been a year since I first watched the YouTube video of Yuja Wang playing the Liszt B-minor piano sonata. (I know it has been a year since I left a public comment on it at the time, something I rarely do.) And I find that I am as moved, awed and transported by her performance now as I was then. The B-minor sonata, which is in one 30-minute-long movement, is a snarling, graceful bear of a piece. I imagine that attempting it is rather like preparing for a championship boxing match, or, perhaps more aptly, an alligator wrestling match, since I think it is a piece that may very well devour you if you are not equal to it.

I have heard many pianists perform the sonata, from Horowitz to Argerich, and each time I delve into it with the pianist in expectation and anxiety. It is the only composition by Liszt which I truly admire, the only time that he attained a height I would call spiritual; and, to me, spirituality is the essence of genius. Bach often created on this level, as did Beethoven; Brahms managed it occasionally, Schubert at the end, Tchaikovsky only once (the Sixth Symphony), and most composers, never. And so, I think it takes – no, I know it takes – an artist capable of both spirituality and genius to undertake the sonata with the skill to perform it, the artistry to interpret it, and the courage to lose herself in it, and emerge victorious.

That is what Yuja Wang does. And that is why it is so important to watch her play the piece as well as hear her play it. In her face, her body language, her expressions of lips and arms and shoulders, is not just total absorption in the music, but a genuine spiritual connection to it. She does not just play the sonata, she lives it, embodies it, makes love to it. There are those who have commented on the performance that there is here and there a missed note, but that is like saying that life is not perfect. But life is vast and deep, joyous and tragic, filled with terrors and ecstasies, perfect in its imperfection. And so is Yuja Wang’s performance of the Liszt. A Russian Literature professor of mine once said that Madame Bovary is art, but Anna Karenina is life.  I feel much the same way about her performance.

The piece, though in a single, prolonged movement, is, in fact, divided into several phases, intricate in their interconnection and breathtaking in their mingled delicacy and passion. If it were possible to hold one’s breath for 30 minutes, I suppose this would be the time to do it. And yet Yuja Wang remains utterly focused, sublimely transported, masterfully attentive both to detail and to the sweeping emotions, gentle reflections and bombastic outbursts of the piece. She is playing it from inside; not a brilliant technician approaching it from a distance, but a complex and sensitive soul making itself at one with the piece. And the result is a melding of art and music, artistry and poetry, poetry and profound insight that is at once powerful and touching.

How this young woman manages to keep all of that complex and demanding music in her mind, let alone under her control, is a mystery to me. But that she does, and does so with a clarity of vision and unity of expression, is nothing short of miraculous. I urge all of you to take 30 minutes out of your busy lives and demanding schedules, and sit in wonder and awe with Yuja Wang as she guides you through the vast complexities and delicate intricacies of this marvelous sonata, rather like a guide conducting you on a private tour of Yosemite in winter, or a wingless angel showing you the way into a world beyond the mortal.

Unreliable Sources

I have been a news junkie since my teenage years. I simply never felt comfortable unless I had a grasp on what was happening in the world around me. And for this, I relied on the mainstream media – newsprint, television and, more recently, alternative media. But now, I find, the media are no longer reliable. In fact, more and more, they strike me as downright deceptive.

I search the U.S. media in vain for news of the world. I have been trying to follow events in Venezuela, for example, and in the Middle East, Southeast Asia and North Korea. But now the mainstream media is all-Trump-all-the-time. Trump hating, Trump impeachment, the Mueller Report, Attorney General Barr, Trump’s taxes, Trump’s staff testifying before Congress, Trump-this and Trump-that! And the truth of it is that it is almost entirely speculation, not reporting.

The bias in the media has become so blatant, so bald and transparent, that the commentators and even the reporters no longer try to hide their contempt for the president and for their profession. Journalism, for the most part, is no longer objective, it is obsessive; it is no longer professional, it is overtly political. The facts have been sacrificed on the bloody altar of political agenda, and it is we, the public who seek information not indoctrination, who suffer.

Bias is everywhere now, and suffocatingly so, not only in the words the journalists use, but in their choice of stories, choice of guests, body language and facial expressions. Their disdain for the president, but beyond that, for professionalism, is so obvious that it is simply not possible to view them with any credibility at all. And so, I do not. The only news source I trust now is NHK, the English-language Japanese news service. It is there I go to get the headlines on U.S. news, and stories about all the other underserved parts of the world.

Of course, it is no surprise that the poll rating of the news media has now dropped to the level of that of Congress. And the reason for this is simple: the mainstream media are behaving like children. Trump won and Hillary didn’t, and they can’t forget or forgive the fact. Trump calls them names, and, like third-graders, they hate him and want to hurt him. Trump’s policies are working, and this drives them crazy in the same way that an ex-spouse’s successful remarriage drives the former spouse crazy. They feel bullied, scorned, vindictive and jealous. And they take it out not only on Trump, but on the rest of us.

Now, I will say again as I often have on this blog: I am not a Trump supporter. I could not vote for either candidate in 2016. But this juvenile obsession with undoing Trump’s presidency, marginalizing him, destroying him as a person and as a political figure, is disgraceful. I am old enough to remember Huntley and Brinkley, Walter Cronkite and even, vaguely, Edward R. Murrow.  In my recollection, they could be depended on for a factual presentation of the news. But now, gaggling puppets like Don Lemon, Rachel Maddow and Chris Cuomo, whose entire ethos is the demeaning and destruction of Trump, are simply unendurable.

Which brings me to the cavalcade of Democratic candidates for 2020. As they stumble over one another to prove who wishes more than the others that the United States was like Sweden or Denmark, they make it all the more likely that the Trump they so despise will be reelected. The current mania for socialism, an economic system for the organization of humanity which has failed miserably everywhere it has been tried, is a delusion bordering on psychosis. We have allowed ourselves to be driven 22 trillion dollars in debt, and yet all these latter-day Engels can think of is more and more government spending, more and more government control. Medicare for all, free college for all, the Green New Deal! The more they hawk this pie-in-the-sky nonsense, the more they urge independents into the Trump camp, which they would resist if they had a reasonable alternative.

And that is not Joe Biden. I have paid attention to him since his announcement, and I must say I am baffled. The man is so far behind the times, so unabashedly archaic, so muddled, that I cannot see why anyone would take him seriously. At 76, he is clearly showing his age. He slurs his words, loses his train of thought, and makes gaffes that no one can dare to overlook (China is not a threat!). Yet, according to the polls, he is the Democratic front-runner; and the media, slavishly looking for an alternative to Trump, continue to prop him up. This, of course, is the same media that created Trump in the first place, and, realizing with horror the true nature of its creation, has been trying desperately to destroy ever since.

And so, I have suppressed my lifelong appetite for the news, since there is no honest news left to be had, and gone on a subsistence diet. No longer able to stomach the vindictive tripe which passes itself off as journalism, I now subsist on such crumbs as I can gather from the few news sources which I still find credible. “Reliable sources:” in the news business these days, that has, alas, become an oxymoron.

Un-Agenting

The question I am most often asked by aspiring screenwriters is: How can I get an agent? My answer is always the same: Write something an agent can sell. Agents are hard-working people who must pay all the usual expenses of living, and so they are not inclined to take a chance on unknown writers and unlikely projects. But if you present an agent with a script that she thinks she can sell, she may very well represent you. Finding an agent, and keeping an agent, are among the greatest challenges for a screenwriter, since, without proper representation, you cannot earn a living.

Likewise, unless you are a member of the Writers Guild, you cannot earn a living. And that is why, on Easter Sunday, I fired my agent of many years, under protest. I did so because the Guild ordered me to with the threat of retribution, including even the possibility of expulsion. So, you see the impossible position this puts me, and other writers, in: If I did not fire my agent I couldn’t work; and since I now have no representation, I probably cannot work. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. An ironic position to be put in by the union that claims to protect my interests, to say the least.

I won’t go into the details of why the Guild has required all of its members to fire our agents (it’s tedious, and I’m not entirely sure I understand the details myself); however, the action is directed at the four major talent agencies, and the issue seems to be twofold. First, the Guild objects to the big agencies’ practice of “packaging,” that is, putting together the various elements of a production, including script, director and stars, and extracting fees for doing so. This, the Guild claims, has caused the earnings of its members to decline in recent years. Second, the Guild likewise objects to the practice of “affiliation,” which, as I understand it, means the big agencies’ growing partnership with studios and other production entities to participate in and benefit from all aspects of production. In effect, the agents who represent us thereby become our employers as well. This the Guild sees as a conflict of interest. But, since such a conflict of interest violates state or federal work rules, it ought to be resolved in the courts, not in collective action.

Now, it must be understood that packaging and affiliation are two important sources of revenue for the agencies, and the Guild is attempting to force them to divest themselves of this income for the sake of writers. This represents a second irony, in the sense that writers have traditionally been treated by the entertainment industry with disdain bordering on contempt. To say that the integrity of our work is not respected is a colossal understatement. We are routinely rewritten, forced to work for free, and summarily fired and replaced by others over whose work we have no control, even on projects which we ourselves have created. And yet for the sake of this maligned creative underclass, the WGA actually thinks the big agencies will forego hundreds of millions of dollars in income. To my mind, this is nothing short of comical.

In my view, the Guild has made at least two very serious miscalculations in this latest work action. First, it has taken on a fight it cannot win. The agencies are not going to restructure their business model for the sake of writers; it is not in their interest to do so, and writers do not have the clout to compel them to. To put it in a word: The Guild has chosen the wrong hill to die on. Second, in order to prosecute this unwinnable war, the Guild has compelled its members to sever professional relationships which, in many cases, have existed for years, and upon which writers depend for their livelihood. The onus, meanwhile, does not fall on either the Guild’s leadership and the top one percent of its members, or on the agencies, which are owned by multinational conglomerates; it falls on the working writers. And it hits hardest at young writers who have just gotten started in the industry and have either recently found or hope soon to find representation. I feel sorry for such young talent; they have been shanghaied into a war which was not of their choosing and from which they stand to gain less than they are being forced to sacrifice.

But my essential problem with what the Guild is doing is that it should not have the authority to force me to fire my agent and thereby cripple my ability to earn a living. That, to me, is simply wrong. To strike for cause, yes. But no one should be able to compel me to end a longstanding professional relationship upon which I depend for my livelihood. Given this precedent, the Guild could, theoretically, force  me to terminate any form of professional relationship or collaboration if it deems it necessary. To my mind, this precedent is a very dangerous one.

There is another aspect to this work action that I also resent: It is an action being taken, almost exclusively, for the benefit of television writers. I have never worked in television, and so, as with the last strike, I stand to gain nothing. The world of television writing, with its writers’ rooms and showrunners and sponsors’ interference in the creative process, is alien to me. And so, it is difficult for me now, as it was during the strike, to see why I should be penalized for the sake of writers with whom I have very little in common, and whose potential gains will not accrue to me.

With each contract negotiation it becomes clearer to me that the interests of feature writers and television writers are not coextensive. For example, in the current work action, the Guild has created a Staffing Submission System whereby writers can submit ideas directly to television producers. Nothing has been said about feature film writers; there is no mechanism for us to find work. This is yet more evidence that the Guild exists primarily to protect television writers, while feature writers are relegated to a second-level status.

Since the Guild ordered the mass firing of agents, there have been no negotiations. Instead, the Guild has filed a lawsuit against the big four agencies, which promises to drag on, as such things do, for months or even years. Meanwhile, thousands of writers find themselves without representation, which is to say, the ability to find work and make deals. In forcing writers into this position, it seems to me that the Guild has shot itself in the foot. From what I understand, dissent within the Guild is rising, which may serve to weaken it at a time when it is demanding solidarity. But the truth remains that even those who voted for the Guild’s stand against the agencies did not ask for a lawsuit on their behalf and did not expect to be forced to fire their agents. The unintended consequence of all this may be that the Guild will emerge from its current action a weaker and not a stronger organization.

Under normal circumstances, we fire people for cause. My agent has given me no cause to fire her; on the contrary, I depend on her for my living. She has ever been gracious, conscientious, caring and honest in her dealings with me over more than a decade. I am not represented by one of the big four agencies, my agency rarely packages, and it does not affiliate. I had no reason to fire my agent, and that I should be forced to do so under threat of reprisal by the union that claims to represent my interests is wrong, and in my view, ought to be illegal. Yet both my lawyer and, to her credit, my agent, advised to me do so on the grounds that I would be punished and my career damaged if I did not. This is not collective action; it is coercion.