The Murderball Lesson

A few nights ago, my honey and I went to see that new documentary called Murderball. In case you haven't heard of it, it's about quadriplegics who play rugby at a very high level of competition. I.e. the Paralympics, World Championships, etc.

It's a great film, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Was absolutely riveted in fact, and lost myself numerous times in the experiences and personalities portrayed on the screen. Afterwards, I told my fiance how much I enjoyed it, and he said someting along the lines of, "Yeah, but it didn't look very good." (He notices this kind of thing as a graphic artist.)

I thought about it for a second, and discovered he was right. Visually, the directing style left a lot to be desired, and just the film quality in and of itself was pretty mediocre. It did look like someone had shot it on a fairly inexpensive digital camera. But what I realized was this: I didn't notice. Not really.

I mean, once I thought about it, sure. But what was doing it for me was the story--the narrative arc dealing with the rivalry between the US and Canada--and the characters--the strong and absolutely compelling personalities of the documentary's subjects.

My point with all this is to say that there's a literary analogue here, and it's one that I often forget but need to remember every time I sit down to write. The lesson is simply this: People care first about story, character. Aesthetic beauty is important, but secondary. So everytime I fall in love with the language, with the melodious sound of a word, I need to pull back. I need to think, Hey, have I done all I can to make the story interesting? Have I made sure these characters are real, are sympathetic? Because without these things, a piece of prose, beautiful as it may be, is empty, hollow, soulless. It becomes artifice, not art. Art must always have soul. It must always be alive.

I always talk about how hard it is to write, especially when I'm striving for art. But maybe, in some ways, I'm making it harder than it needs to be. Because as long as it's living on the page, and the reader is there, well, heck, you're more than halfway there.

I may be waxing too poetic here, and I'll probably regret saying this later when I read it again, but it seems to me that life--and here I'm talking in both senses--biologically and the metaphor that covers our daily behaviors and activities--is art. In other words, when we consider that art has to be alive, anything that is alive must have elements of art. Can this be true, or am I in logical fallacy territory? I'm not entirely sure, but it's something interesting that I intend to consider.

Whether you buy the above (possible) hokum or not, go see Murderball. See if you're not utterly transfixed, if you're able to resist leaving yourself and entering into the story and the characters, feeling along with them, feeling totally alive.