Heroes, Cinema and ADHD

There is something intoxicating about film and stories that are shown on a screen. Stories have always gripped us as humans, but there is nothing quite like seeing a story acted out in front of you. You are not merely hearing words, you are not only seeing pictures, this is not some bard singing you a tale of glorious battle; you are watching the story as if it were happening before your very eyes.

It is as if it were real. As if it were fact.

This is one of the reasons that I handle messy stuff in books far better than in film. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo as a book was gripping and a rather fun read... the movie, however, nearly traumatized me. 

Now, I’ve made it no small secret that I am a fan of Quentin Tarantino’s films. I’m not really sure which one is my personal favorite, but there is a certain energy about his movies that fascinates me. (I’ve discussed this before in my essay “Lust for Life.”)

So when his new movie, Django Unchained, came out and won rave reviews, I was eager to see it. My new fiancee, being a fan of heroic type, bloody action movies, seemed more than willing to go see it with me. So, with a free evening on our hands the day after Christmas, we decided to go see it.

One other thing that you should know in order for the following to make more sense: my fiancee has ADHD. For several years I was extremely skeptical that any such thing existed. America is overmedicated, I am sure no one will disagree with that, and I had always assumed that ADD and ADHD were just parents going crazy and not wanting to train their children properly... choosing to drug them instead. 

...I was wrong.

Until about 12, Leslie had undiagnosed ADHD, which mostly manifested itself in causing her to become overloaded with stimuli far too often. At 12, however, she had meds prescribed in order to control the rapidly firing synapses, and generally calm her down. Being an extremely bright child, my fiancee began to notice how much different she acted while on medication and how much she hated being on medication. Being the bright lass that she is, she discovered that she teach herself to control her brain and act like a normal person without the meds... thereby foregoing the need of them. So, the meds lasted for six or so, and she has self-medicated with self-control ever since... something that she tells me not all ADHD people can do.

Under good circumstances she can control how focused she is, and is generally very good at paying attention. Also, being a woman and ADHD, she is also incredibly good at multitasking (something that continues to perplex me to no end). However, when there are TVs blaring, people rushing by, horns going off and other such noise... she can become extremely distractible and it is often impossible to carry on a conversation with her. This is why watching movies at home is sometimes hard for us, because I will inevitably hone in on the movie, while she will be paying attention to everything and anything but. (Of course, because of her aforementioned ability to multitask, she usually knows exactly what is going on in the movie.)

In a movie theater, however, her ADHD works in the complete opposite direction. Because in the case of my dear fiancee, her “attention deficit” is more like “pay extremely close attention to everything that is going on around you.” And what is the only thing to pay attention to in a movie theater where everyone is behaving themselves? The screen.

In retrospect I should have known better than to take her to see a Tarantino film. Several months ago we went to see a David Koepp action flick. I personally loved it; it was perfect for an adrenaline junkie like myself. Leslie, however, nearly had a panic attack. I failed to realize that the movie, taking up all of her ADHD, overanalyzing, hyper-focused nerves, caused her to become super focused and invested whenever we went to see a movie on the big screen. So of course, anyone knowing anything about Quentin Tarantino could have guessed how she would react to the third act of one of his films.

As I write this now, however, I am actually quite grateful to her. If she hadn’t tagged along, I might have a far less critical view of what is sure to be one of the most talked about movies for the next few months. My reaction leaving the theater might have been more akin to a fanboy’s than a discerning movie goer’s had she not been holding my hand as we left the cineplex.

Now... on to my review... and as always.... spoilers to follow.

If I recall correctly, Leslie laughed harder than almost anyone at the opening scene of the film... which involved a German dentist, a tooth bobble-head, and two slave traders getting shot. Yes... this is a Tarantino movie all right. And in fact, the first 2/3rds of the movie unfolds like a hilarious, yet bloody, buddy comedy featuring Christoph Waltz and Jamie Foxx.

But then, of course, the third act kicks in, predicated by a classic scene of only dialog and no music or bullets. At this point, Leslie, having never seen a Tarantino movie before, knew that something bad was going to happen... even though no one was doing anything remotely violent. It still amazes me how Tarantino does this. I was even shaking a bit, and I wasn’t the one entering a sensory overload induced panic attack. 

A rudimentary summery of the plot might go like this: Bounty hunter buys slave, slave helps bounty hunter, bounty hunter frees slave, slaves tells bounty hunter about his missing wife, slave and bounty hunter save said wife. Simple, no? Simple enough in a way, but it is in that very last plot element where the film so drastically changes from buddy comedy into morally queasiness inducing bloodbath. 

Let me explain: for most of the movie (the parts that Leslie liked) there is this sort of warmth between Django and Dr. Schultz.... nearing a father/son relationship. There is some genuine chemistry between them, and I am sure that Leslie was hoping they would walk off into the sunset together, as was I (although she told me afterwards that given the way the movie was set up, she knew one of them was going to die).

There are three linch pins which swing the movie from comedy to tragedy, however: two conversations between Django and Schultz, and a man being eaten by dogs.

The first conversation takes place when a reluctant Django fails to shoot a wanted criminal because the man’s son is present. Schultz tells Django that in his world, the world that Django has now entered in order to rescue his wife, he must “get dirty.”

And so the morality grays a bit.

The second conversation transpires as Django and Schultz are on their way to the plantation where Broomhilda, Django’s wife, is being kept. In order to get into the plantation, Django and Schultz are passing themselves off as two slavers looking to buy a prizefighter of a man. This is all a ruse, of course, but in order for it to work, Django must pass himself off as a black slaver... the “lowest of the low” as he puts it. Schultz has instructed him several times now that when in these positions, he must NEVER break character, no matter what. And Django doesn’t.

He plays his character so well in fact, that Schultz becomes uncomfortable, and asks Django to tone it down a notch. Django simply retorts that it was Schultz himself who told Django that he needed to “get dirty.” Schultz backs off, and they proceed towards the plantation.

The morality darkens further.

The third pin is the kicker, though. As they are making their final approach to the plantation, they stumble upon a slave who has been caught running away. The plantation owner (who is escorting Django and Schultz) toys with the man, pretending to have sympathy, while at the same time threatening to do him in. Schultz, feeling sorry for the man, offers to buy the runaway slave outright in order to save him. Django, however, interrupts Schultz to tell the owner that they don’t REALLY want to buy the slave, Schultz is just tired of the owner toying with the man and wants to move on.

The owner grins maliciously and then sics the dogs on the poor man. Schultz, while hurt and disturbed, says nothing. It is at this point that Django’s transformation from a man trying to save his wife into a monster like the slave traders around him becomes complete. His “charade” has become so convincing that even he nearly believes it himself. No one’s life matters anymore, save for his wife.

This is the reason, I believe, that it is in perfect keeping with the theme of the movie that Schultz dies before the end... because he has become less violent, he has become soft and kind... and there is little room for such people in Tarantino’s films. As has been said by his long time collaborator, Samuel L Jackson, Tarantino’s films are a peek into the minds of violent people. 

So, in the end, Django is classic Tarantino. And that is why Leslie had such a negative reaction to the ending... and I must confess that I have had similar reactions.... (especially to one Doctor Horrible’s Sing Along Blog). Hyper focused, and hyper invested, she wanted Django to turn into something other than a monster, but in order to survive in the world of Tarantino, one must become a monster. 

As was said in one of the trailers before the movie: “One day, kimosabe, good man must wear mask.” Schultz, the only truly honorable character in the movie, refuses to wear a mask... and as such, he dies.

To quote another movie: “You either die a hero, or live long enough to see yourself become the villain.” 

Tarantino as explained by the Nolan brothers. You’re welcome.

Lust for Life

It’s funny how as the pace of life speeds up, we as humans slow down to compensate. I’m not sure if this is a good thing, or if it simply complicates the process; but as so many haggard old men and jaded adults tell me: “It is what it is.”

Moving so slowly myself, it’s near impossible for me not to notice this cycle of cause and effect. Over the past two weeks or so everything has become a whirlwind of activity and pine and turkey and driving and Santas. After spending nearly a week straight in my van touring Virginia, haggard seems like a very good word.

Of course we move slower; when faced with a whirlpool or cliff face, you tend to cling onto whatever piece of stable ground is in sight. You don’t want to fall, you don’t want to die. Even humans who have nothing to live for tend to actively avoid situations where their sanity and wellbeing will be tested. We like safe, we like known... even if we don’t know why.

Amid all this transitioning and insanity, around the time when Thanksgiving was transitioning into Advent, Quentin Tarantino began to come up a lot. I really have no idea why. Perhaps it was the release of his 20th anniversary box set containing all his films, or maybe he was just coming up in conversation more naturally... but I suddenly found myself holding conversations about him with my girlfriend, Leslie, and my old film buddy from college, Jeremy.

With Leslie, I expounded on Tarantino’s unique flavor of dialog and tone, and how similar it is in many respects to Flannery O’Connor (which Leslie had just been sharing with me). They both have a very strong ear for conversation and ethnic colloquialisms, and both add sudden spurts of violence to their stories to punctuate themes and ideas.

With Jeremy, I reminisced about the time we had gone to see Tarantino’s WWII epic, Inglourious Basterds in theaters together, not realizing that we were witnessing film history. The movie singlehandedly launched Austrian actor Christoph Waltz’s career, and once again threw Tarantino’s hat in the ring with such filmmakers as James Cameron, the Coen brothers, Peter Jackson and Pete Doctor. Of course, neither of us could ever forget that opening scene.

It was a given that since he came up more in conversation, the films I began to watch in my free time (which I tend to have to much of as of late) we mostly his. I began with Death Proof, then worked my way through Kill Bill and Reservoir Dogs, leading up to his masterpieces: the afore mentioned Inglourious Basterds and, of course, Pulp Fiction.

At this point, I realize that a lot of you are wondering where I am going with this, and perhaps even a few are offended by my love for such a “twisted” man as Tarantino. Allow me to explain: As I began to rewatch his films, I also started looking up interviews on Youtube and watching mini-documentaries where he talked about his work. The wild look in his eye might disturb some even more than the gratuitous violence of his films; it suggests that he is either constantly huffing cocaine, or that he had a serious case of untreated ADHD. Whatever the case may be, the wild look in his eye and gregarious gesticulation of his hands always punctuate whatever he says. The man is larger than life, but more than that.... he LOVES life.

And then it hit me, say whatever you want about his films, I want to be more like pointy jawed, foulmouthed, interrupting crazy man. Why, you ask? Because I would bet good money that there is not a day of the year where he wakes up disappointed or clinging to that last bit of solidity the day before. I would bet that each morning when he walks up, he says something to the effect of:

“Hot DAMN it feels good to be alive! Booyah! I get to make movies and hang out with awesome people and it’s totally ******* awesome! You know? I think I’m going to get myself a tasty beverage to wake up!”

His enthusiasm is infectious, and despite the fact that he may be a sub-par filmmaker, I firmly believe that it is his boundless enthusiasm which inspires those that surround him to do their best.

It reminds me of my history and math professors in college. They might not have been the best in the world, and I was most definitely not the best student, but the energy that they exuded in class infected my being. I excelled in those classes, not because the professor cracked a whip over my back, but because he loved what he did.

Anyone can be “good” at what they do, not everyone can LOVE what they do. Take for example the Apostle Peter. Poor Peter was pretty much just bad at life, he backstabbed his friends, he sliced off people’s ears and just made a general fool of himself... but there was something in him that Jesus saw that many others probably did not have: the Love. After Christ’s death and resurrection, Peter became the most vocal and prolific of all the Apostles (save for Paul, who came later). He offended, healed, preached, and probably drank and sang his way through life, never abating from the cause of Christ. Even his final request to be crucified upside down was for the Love. He loved Yahweh, and it showed.

How many of us live mediocre lives of mediocre excitement? Far too many, I would hazard a guess. The trite, cliched piece of inspiration might come in the form of: “Be the best you you can be.” But that is truly a chiasm from hell.

Instead, do it for the Love. It will make you jump out of bed, plaster a smile on your big dumb face, and cause everyone you meet to wonder what the hell has gotten into you. And you can tell them firmly that it is not hell, it is the Love. You did it for the Love.