The Truth is in the Nonfiction, or is it?

I was browsing NPR’s website and glanced at this title: Does Lance Armstrong Have the Right to Lie in His Memoirs?

I had to click on it, and what I read got me thinking about our responsibilities as writers when it comes to telling the truth. Now, I know Lance Armstrong isn’t a writer – he’s a writer (ba bum bing!). I’m sure most of the words on the pages of Lance’s autobiography were penned by a ghost writer.

If you don’t want to read the short NPR blurb, I’ll give you an even shorter blurb: some people bought Lance’s books, found out he took ‘roids, and are mad about it. They want to sue because Lance’s book is full of steroid-related lies.

We’re familiar with unreliable narrators. Can we trust Scout to accurately relay the events of Macomb, Alabama? She is not only recalling events from a time long past but also through the rose-colored glasses of childhood. In “The Yellow Wallpaper,” the narrator is insane. Can we truly rely on her account of what goes on in her yellow room? How about Benji’s part of The Sound and the Fury. As a mentally challenged narrator, Benji’s stories have no sense of time or space. He may begin with a tale from his childhood and jump to an even from his 33rd birthday without the audience’s knowledge. Do we trust that his narration is true?

Is that what Lance Armstrong is to us now? Do we have to read his autobiography with a grain of mental salt? Or should he and other nonfiction writers, if we can even call Lance’s autobiography nonfiction after recent allegations, be held to different standards?

I’m currently of two minds and trying to decide which side of the fence on which I should sit: On one hand, I think that anyone’s autobiography is going to be tainted by personal bias. Even if the author is doing his or her best to retell the story truthfully, odds are that it will lean towards the inaccurate anyway. Autobiographies kind of masquerade as nonfiction, don’t they? Few people will willingly paint themselves in a negative light on purpose. If you’re conceited enough to write an autobiography, you’re probably self-interested enough to protect your life story by avoiding all negative connotation. All ideas of journalistic truthfulness are thrown out the window when the subject of the piece and author are one in the same.

But, on the other hand, I believe strongly in the power of books. I question what I read on the internet constantly, but if I find material in a book I would never ever accuse it of being false or misleading. Even with a work of fiction I expect a book to have a semblance of truth – a prevailing theme or idea that is honest even if it’s a sci-fi fantasy that takes place in a parallel universe. The setting and characters may not be honest in that they don’t reflect real life, but their experiences, emotions and the novel’s core message are all rooted in a truth. For some reason, if I were to read this Lance Armstrong autobiography in which he claims to have never used performance-enhancing drugs, I would probably believe him. Because it’s written in a book. And books hold all power. Books don’t lie.

 

So, I guess, if I had to choose a side, I’d give all those readers their money back. I know it’s probably not practical or even fully legal legal, but it upholds a moral standard for all writers – write the truth; don’t intentionally deceive.

Self-Awareness in Film

I love things that are self-aware, probably because I am hyper self-aware. I like things that turn inward and critique or reflect upon themselves. Along with requiring a unique sense of perspective (being on the inside and still looking in), it takes courage, too. I can think of lots of examples: 30 Rock skewers network television from the perspective of a network television show; At Swim-Two-Birds is a meta-textual story, a writer writing about a writer. Two of my favorite movies deal with this self-awareness. They are movies about movies – I just love that.

Singin’ in the Rain – courtesy of IMDB

The first is Singin’ in the Rain, which I’ve written about before. Gene Kelly stars as Don Lockwood, a performer who got involved in motion pictures after his work as a set musician and then stuntman. He caught the eye of starlet Lena Lamont played by a delightfully annoying Jean Hagen. His best friend, Cosmo Brown (Donald O’Connor), works on film music and keeps Don grounded as his star rises. But, no one keeps Don’s ego in check better than Kathy Seldon (Debbie Reynolds), a chorus girl Don meets serendipitously. She insists that she’s not familiar with his movies and considers film to be second to the stage. The movie focuses on the shift from silent to talking pictures. Classic musical shenanigans ensue, brilliantly choreographed musical numbers highlight Kelly’s propensity for all things dance while a slew of excellent songs with beautiful lyrics will keep you humming hours after seeing the movie. Kelly’s iconic Singin’ in the Rain dance will have you swinging off of lampposts, too.

Just as Don and Lena were getting settled in their stardom, something came along to uproot everything they knew about their business. Don is lucky enough to have Gene Kelly’s beautiful voice, Lena is not. Rather than have the audience hear Lena’s real voice, studio executives dub her lines with the voice of Kathy. Watching silent film stars struggle to adjust to the presence of sound in a movie is fascinating. In real life, actors had to drastically change their performance styles or risk becoming antiquated faces of films past. In a way, Singin’ in the Rain deals with the fickleness of Hollywood. Audiences love Lena, but they won’t respond positively when they hear her speak. Kathy has all of the talent, but her face isn’t recognizable to the moviegoer. Both situations kind of stink, though I promise you’ll be rooting for Kathy.

This movie was made in 1952. In terms of time, it was not far removed from this actual occurrence. Silent film stars of the 1920s were pushed out by young vocal ingenues.  Vocal dubbing ran rampant throughout Hollywood, which I am obstinately against, by the way. How cool is it that a movie took on these two Hollywood black marks? Of course, this is a movie musical so the commentary is done through song and dance with lots of smiling, but the commentary is still there, and I like it.

The relationship between Don and Kathy is also very Hollywood self-aware. Don has a huge ego as most movie stars will. When he meets Kathy and she refuses to indulge his star, he’s affected. He can’t stop thinking about the girl who doesn’t seem to care that he’s a movie star. How self-aware is that? It’s an actor emphasizing the worst part of an actor’s nature and thereby providing a criticism.

The Artist – courtesy of IMDB

A lot of the self-awareness present in Singin’ in the Rain can be paralleled with that of The Artist. The extremely talented, oh-so-handsome, Gene Kelly-esque Jean Dujardin plays a silent film star George Valentin who can’t seem to cope with the coming of sound. He helped launch the career of Berenice Bejo, but she quickly surpasses him in Hollywood. George desperately clings to the Hollywood he once knew and makes a few flops before he calls it quits.

The Artist deals with Hollywood’s ever-changing nature but focuses on the individual more than the conceptual whole. The audience comes to understand George’s fear of becoming obsolete, a fear that transcends the film business and can be applied anywhere. His downward spiral is more drastic, however, because his success depended on the fair-weather adoration of strangers. The Artist is aware of the fleeting nature of fame and the dangers of pinning one’s self-worth on it.

Sunset Boulevard – Courtesy of IMDB

Sunset Boulevard does this, too. Gloria Swanson plays silent film star Norma Desmond years after her last movie. Self-awareness abounds in this film. Not only is it a movie about a movie, but Gloria Swanson’s personal story parallels that of Norma. Swanson was also a silent film star whose career experienced quite the lull after the dawn of sound. Swanson had to pull from personal experience to play Norma Desmond. The result is one of the most impressive performances I’ve ever seen. Norma is all at once, desperate, pathetic, creepy, elegant, and regal. In this movie, Hollywood is fickle and actresses are friendless – maybe a little too true to life?

Can you think of other movies about movies that have a sense of critical self-awareness?

How about books, poems, television or artwork?

Skewed Self-Worth and Social Media

My Facebook sees very little action these days. No offense, Facebook, but I’m just not that into you. Sure, we had some good times throughout high school. You were my go-to for procrastination and creeping, but now I have Buzzfeed to waste my time, and I don’t really care about other people enough to spend hours pouring over their status updates and profile pictures anymore.

So, when I posted two articles on my Facebook the other day it was more for my personal amusement than for my Facebook friends. I really didn’t care if anyone read them or not. I just wanted to put them somewhere for future reference.

The next morning, I received an unexpected surprise (side note: Aren’t all surprises unexpected?). A number of people had liked and/or commented on these posts. I was elated. I, the girl who stopped caring about Facebook in 2009, had her day made by Facebook approval.

Naturally, this got me thinking about our collective societal obsession with social media. For a while, I thought we loved it because it was a place for personal expression and connection creation. Now, I realize it’s so much more than that. It’s where we go for validation. We post things because we want others to confirm our opinions and thoughts. It doesn’t matter who approves or what they approve; all that matters is that someone cares enough to agree with us. That’s got to be why the “like” button was created. It is the easiest way possible to validate someone else. We push a button to show confirm our interest and the number of people who agreed with the post in question is displayed for the world to see. I won’t lie to you. I’m always a little impressed when I see someone received an inordinate number of likes from the social media population.

The two articles I posted were about books and what it’s like to be an introvert, two things I know a lot about. Seeing that other people related to those posts in some way validated quickly my quiet nature and love for reading.

I wonder what that’s going to mean for us as a collective whole in the future. Is social media going to become our barometer for self-worth, or has it assumed that role already? Will we compare the number of “likes” we get with those of someone else’s profile? Are we less because our likes are fewer?

Facebook and other forms of social media are dangerous because they present people in the most positive light. I’m only going to post pictures of me with my friends or of me doing something awesome. Upon a shallow investigation of my profile, the casual observer would see a Roz who spends all of her free time with other people rock climbing or eating a lot of dessert. In reality, Roz is the introvert who would rather spend time alone – though I still indulge in dessert probably a little too frequently.

Basically, what I’m saying is that social media presents a skewed perspective. Comparing myself with someone else based solely on social media is dangerous and wrong. Deriving self-worth and personal validation from social media is also dangerous and wrong. It’s not reality. It’s the fantasy of ourselves we choose to project.

I’m curious about what you think.

Beautiful Ruins

I can’t read at night. If I do, I find myself awake in the wee small hours of the morning with my eyes glued to the page. Or I find myself awake in the wee small hours of the morning thinking about what I’ve just read. Neither is ideal because both mean that Roz isn’t sleeping. And, for the sake of the world, Roz needs to sleep.

To accommodate work, life, school and reading, I’ve devised this brilliant plan: get up before the sun and start my day with a chapter or two.

Beautiful Ruins – Courtesy of JessWalter.com

This morning, I woke up even earlier than usual because I was desperate to finish Jess Walter’s Beautiful Ruins. It completely engulfed me with its layered narrative, compelling plot line and empathetic characters. It’s the perfect summer read.

The novel begins in Italy in the 1960s (how much more summery could it get?). Pasquale is trying to amp up tourism on his tiny island and fulfill his father’s dream of owning a hotel at which Americans stay. As fate would have it, the doomed Elizabeth Taylor-Richard Burton movie Cleopatra is being filmed not too far from Pasquale’s oasis and an beautiful, dying American actress comes to stay.

Right off the bat, this book combined things I love: 1) Books 2) Hollywood 3) Italy.

The next chapters switch vantage points and time periods. We meet a Hollywood producer dealing with his fading star and terrible plastic surgery; his assistant deciding whether to stay in her thankless job or curate a museum; a musician coming to terms with his less-than-successful career and a life tainted by addiction; two writers, one a novelist struggling to write more than a chapter about his WWII service and the other pitching a screenplay about the Donner party; and the inhabitants of Pasquale’s Italian island, including his sharp-tongued mother and aunt. Richard Burton makes a cameo appearance, which is awesome. Everyone is lovable in his or her own way, though each has a flaw which proves to be his or her downfall.

Now, I don’t want to reveal too much, but Walters does a fantastic job of interweaving the stories of these seemingly disparate people (Shades of Mrs. Dalloway). The stories deal with love and loss, sex and scandal, success and failure – and there’s a little Italian sprinkled in for good measure. Each is poignant and uniquely touching though never overtly sappy or preachy – I appreciate all of that. (It’s best that I finished this one in the morning. Now, I have all day to mull it over.) I think my favorite part of Beautiful Ruins is the way Walter deals with life becoming something you didn’t expect or plan, how things can turn out okay even when life goes off the rails. It’s a reassuring truth that Walter handles genuinely. There are an inordinate number of dog-eared pages for a non-school novel in Beautiful Ruins because I found much of Walter’s prose to be worth remembering either for its truth or its humor or a combination of the two.

The novel reads like a movie. Walter paints cinematic pictures that would be at home on the big screen. It’s romantic with the perfect meet-cute, but one could also find bits of Italian neo-realism scattered throughout a sarcastic dramedy. Walter takes shots at Hollywood in a big-brother-teases-a-little-sister kind of way; it’s all done with good humor and admiration. (See the Donner party screenplay)

It is a magnificent read and perfect for whenever, summer especially. You’ll want nothing more than to sit on an Italian beach with a cold drink in one hand and Beautiful Ruins in the other.

Or, you know, at 5 AM in your room with a cup of coffee. That works, too.