I’m reminded this week of how important friendships are as well as how lasting they can be.

Thank goodness.

Friendships have always been important to me. I’ve been fortunate to maintain some that have lasted nearly my entire life. And I can’t imagine my life without my friends.  In so many ways, the music and color of this journey has been the lives that have so touched mine.

I’m headed out later today, Eastward, to Meridian, MS, to  visit and spend a couple days with my friend, David. David are I used to both live in the Seattle area. We attended church together, embarked on creative endeavors and shared our lives. Those lives would take us in different directions geographically.

So when I moved to Texas, I was suddenly closer to his home outside of Atlanta. We’ve tried several times to reconnect but opportunity and circumstance haven’t been favorable. Fortune is smiling upon us this weekend.

As I pack to get ready, I’m reminded of another road trip, almost twenty years ago, where David asked me to drive with him from Seattle to Los Angeles – straight through - to take care of some things for his mom shortly after the death of his father. The trip was filled with laughter, tears and revelation and I think it was kind of a bonding experience for us. I wrote about it in an article many eons ago trying to express my gratitude for the privilege of friendship and the numerous gifts it brings. Here’s an excerpt from ‘Faith, Friendship & Whiteline Fever.’

Good journeying.

            The trusty Volvo cruised through the night while it’s two occupants looked out into the desolate landscape and waxed philosophic.

            “So what do you think, John,” David, my cohort in all-night journeys queried.  “Do you want another Fig Newton or do you want to be daring and go for a S’more?”

            “How about a 7-up,” I said, knowing I was falling fast on the eating-adventure scale.

            “7-up it is,” he said, tossing me a can with one hand, grabbing a diet Pepsi for himself with the other, all the while guiding our fearless auto deeper into the night.  It was 3:20 AM on a Wednesday morning as we pushed through the California  desert. Ventura, still four hundred miles away, was our destination.  I looked over at David to make sure his eyes weren’t at half-mast.  He seemed born for the road, ready to continue on through Mexico and probably Antarctica if necessary.

            “How do you think your Mom’s holding up?”

            “I don’t know,” he said, mulling over the question.  “It’s hard to tell with her sometimes.  I do know she’s glad we’re coming.  She’s really glad you’re coming, John.  Not the least of which is to keep me from falling asleep at the wheel.”

            “Wait until you get my bill,” I said, wondering what kind of help I could really be.  I wanted to be there for David but it was such a private time for his family.  Would I just be in the way?

            “My eyes are getting droopy.  If I fall asleep, I won’t be keeping up my end of the bargain.  Besides, your Mom will kill me if we die in a car crash.  Give me a story.  Tell me a joke, anything.”

            “I never remember jokes,” he said.

            “How ‘bout impressions,” I ventured.  “I can do a few.”

            “Good,” David laughed, “because I can’t.”

            I straightened up in the seat and swayed my arm in front of me, resting my chin on my hand.  All I needed was a violin.

            “Oh, Rochester, would you see if Mary’s home yet?” I glanced at David with lazy eyes.

            He burst out laughing.  “What?!?” he exclaimed.

            “Oh, come on, you gotta know who that was?”

            “Sorry,” he said, giggling, trying to let me down gently.

            “All right, all right.  Now watch and listen closely.”  I took up the posture again.  “I know, I know, I’m so cheap I won’t even eat my lunch in the sun for fear that my shadow might ask me for a bite.”

            The car was swerving now as David tried to gather himself under control.

            “Are you laughing with me or at me?” I asked.

            “I’m not sure,” he wheezed, apologizing and sputtering, all the while his face a bright crimson.

            “Jack Benny.  It was Jack Benny.”

            “It–what?!?” More gales of laughter.  “I’m sorry.  Really!”

            “That’s fine,” I said, crossing my arms.  “But you’re up next.”

            “Really, John,” David pleaded.  “I don’t do impressions; and by the sounds of it, neither do you.”  A new roll of laughter.

            “We have miles to go before we sleep.  Bad, good, indifferent, you might as well let ‘em rip.”

            David coughed, pushed back his hat and tried to calm down.  Suddenly, a baritone cry that rose on the scale ending in a garbled soprano sound came out of him.

            “Ohh Raggy, howra ‘bout a Scrooby snack?!”

            A pause settled in between us.  “That’s it?”

            “Yep.  You just got my best.”

            I looked over at him and he looked back.  I broke into laughter.  “That’s pretty good.  Jack Benny and Scooby Doo.  Think we could take it on the road?”

            “I think we just did,” he said.  “Now what do you want to do?”

            “How far are we?” I asked.

            “We still have about six or seven hours.”

            “O Boy,” I sighed.  “I think I can do all of the Little Rascals?”

            “I wonder what’s on the radio,” David said, turning on the knob as he guided us deeper into the morning hours.

You never forget your first time.

Twenty-five years ago I wrote an article on spec (meaning I was writing it for myself until someone might buy it). I had just started writing seriously and I was in Ashland, Or., newly married and working sound and lights at The Oregon Shakespearean Festival. I had a lot of down time so when I wasn’t working a show, I’d be holed up in one of the small rooms in our apartment tapping away on my faithful Smith-Corona.

I got the chance to interview Director Robert Clouse who, among other things, directed Bruce Lee in his most famous film, Enter The Dragon. Now I had been a huge Lee fan most of my life, so when serendipity stepped in and I got the chance to work on a series of documentaries Clouse was directing in Ashland (he’d recently moved there to semi-retire), I took the initiative to get to know him a little and asked if he’d mind if I interview him for an article I wanted to write.

My motives were two-fold. One, I saw this as a good opportunity to break into print. Two, I could get the skinny on Bruce by someone who knew him and worked closely with him.

The interview went well and Clouse gave me some things that no one had ever heard about Bruce before. It was a treasure-trove and my head spun as I got back to my apartment with my notes and some of his stories of filming ‘Dragon‘ still ringing in my ears.

The article got written, I showed it to Clouse, who liked it but had one caveat; could I mention his wife, who helped design the famed mirror sequence that climaxes the film? No problem. Then I started to submitting it to magazines.

Up to this point I’d been submitting for about a year, mostly short stories and I was getting form rejections back. But a year after I wrote this article on a bright, spring day, I got a phone call:

“Mr. Kelly”

“Yes, this is John.”

“Mr. Kelly, I’m Dave Cater, the editor here at Inside Kung Fu and we’ve got your article here and would like to publish it.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No. Just need to know if Bob Clouse has read it and feels okay about it being published. We know him here and want to be on the up and up.”

“Yes, he’s read it and given me permission to publish it.”

“Great. Then I’d like to buy it. I can only give you $100.00. I know it’s not much, but we’ll run it as our cover story with some good photos. Hopefully that’ll make up for the small paycheck.

$100.00 seemed like a fortune to be paid for an article. “I think that would be great. Can’t believe this. It’s my first sale.”

“Really? Well the copy is very clean and I was going to ask if you had anything else…”

And shortly thereafter I got off the phone and screamed in our apartment. It was real. Someone had thought enough of my writing to actually buy it. I was a real writer.

I’ve had many more sales for more money but nothing tastes as sweet as that first time you  realize your words will see print. It’s a magical moment you never forget.

Thanks, Dave, Robert & Bruce. You made that first sale pretty special.

A funny thing happend on the way to Facebook.

I’d been invited to a new group called ‘You Know You’re a Grover When. . .’ which was a group created for all of us who grew up in Cottage Grove, Oregon. It was fun, fascinating and a little addictive to remember those things that were uniquely ‘The Grove’ as well as what memories I shared with others who grew up in that wonderful little hamlet. And as it turns out, there were quite a few responses from folks. Like over 500 in the first day, really in the first few hours. 

I was astonished by the response, as well as by things I thought I only remembered but was tickled to realize made an indelible impression on others as well. Something was resonating with all of us.

There are obviously commonalities in childhood but it’s a wonderful psychic hug to share a memory with a finite amount of people. You’re connected on a level as with no else on the planet. Whether it’s being snuck into the Corral Drive-In via a car trunk or reliving the exhiliration of jumping off the train tracks into Dorena Lake right before the Blue Goose steam engine flattens you, to vaulting back in time to remember specific candies you bought at the Little Red Store, to recalling the smile of a certain, gentle janitor that occupied your high school years…all of the impressions and memories that make up that elusive, yet oh-so-concrete place we all know as home.

My friend Mike and I recently completed a short film called ‘Echoes’ that tried to explore the meaning of home in some small way. Enjoying the Facebook group as memories flooded and my face hurt from smiling made me recall some dialogue from the main character of the film as he tries to describe what makes home both unique and universal:

Funny how a place calls to you. Just a
          geographic dot made up of hills and people.
  But it was also a psychic map made up of
memories of the house I grew up in and
friends who carved their histories into
the fabric of my life…

The Grove always created a sweet and longing ache
for me. Why do hometowns seem to do that?
When I’d visit there was a figment of something
always just out of reach…not as satisfying when
you’re there, but always calling to you when you’re not.

Home’s like that isn’t it?

Comics were a pretty big influence growing up. And what I realized later as I got into filmmaking is that comics were really my introduction to storyboards, which are in essence little frames of a film.

I was never a die-hard DC guy (Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, etc.) or a tried and true Marvel fan (Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, Thor, etc.). I was a little bit of this, a little bit of that. I loved Spidey, especially when he’d wax philosophic against the dramatic New York skyline at zero hour. But then I also loved The Justice League of America because it was this great cornucopia of Superheroes: Superman, Batman, AquaMan, Wonder Woman and then if you were lucky you’d get a special appearance by Hawkman (a fav)  or The Atom.

Sometimes when I was little and Mom was away on vacation with friends, I’d crawl into bed with Dad with my pile of comics. I’m thumb through my latest issue of Metal Men or lose myself in The World That Time Forgot (Army Men vs. Dinosaurs – how cool was that?!) and Dad would glance over from his novel (he was a big reader) and smirk. Once he put down his book and said, ‘I know you love those things but wouldn’t you like to read some real adventure, with all the thrills of being there, scared, excited and running for your life?’

Are you kidding?

I’m sure my eyes were wide and I couldn’t fathom what could be better than my beloved comics, but I burst out, ‘You bet!’

Dad nodded, got up and went into the living room and came back with a novel that had no cover but was blue with red binding. I opened it up and it read: Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. I looked up at Dad who caught my eye as if waiting for my response.

‘That is great adventure. It’s one of my favorite books. Trust me. you’ll love it.’

I remember opening it up and sinking deeper into the covers as he climbed back into bed and resumed his novel. I know he glanced my way every now and then but I was already lost with Jim Hawkins and this frightening guy named Long John Silver. But something told me I’d eventually get to like him. I was right, of course, I did like him, but I fell in love with the novel and from then on began asking Dad about other adventure novels. King Solomon’s Mines was followed by Huckleberry Finn, followed closely by The Red Badge of Courage. Dad even let me read The Poseidon Adventure after he finished it but warned me it didn’t end so well for one of the main characters who was a boy about my age. But it didn’t matter because I felt like Dad and I were on the ship together and wherever he was I knew I’d be okay.

After all, he’d brought me safely back from Treasure Island, hadn’t he?

This entry is aimed at anyone who’s ever owned a dog. More than that, it’s about having a dog as companion, dear friend, indeed, a soul mate.

I’ve had dogs most of my life. But two stand out. One, Sheba, I had in high school and most of the way through college and my current faithful partner, Sam, who’s been with me through the biggest transition in my life and moved across country with me and with whom I don’t know how I would have survived without him.

But I’m focusing on Sheba today, who was a stray and who was hit by a car in front of our house during my first year in high school. She was a mix of German Shepherd, Husky and what our vet, Chuck Rosecrans, said might be part wolf. Under his care she healed quickly and Sheba became more than a pet to me. She saw me through tumultuous times in school, losing dad, making the transition to college, broken hearts and more rocky terrain that life will sometimes lead us down. She had a uncanny knack for knowing what I was thinking and would react accordingly. I swear that dog could read my mind.

One of the regrets of my life is our parting. Rather, how we gave her away when I went on tour with a musical/performing group in the middle of college. It was a heartbreak that has stayed with me all these years so I finally decided to write about it in a short story called ‘Kindred Spirits.’ It’s got a slight science fiction feel, though more Ray Bradbury than Isaac Asimov. It’s about coming full circle with your regrets, reconciliation, and love, despite the boundaries of time.

Here is an excerpt from the story that is pretty much what happened when I encountered Sheba a few years after giving her away to a family I’m sure loved her as much as we did. I think of her fondly and all that she gave to me. She was my girl. My soul mate…

When it came time for me to go to college, leaving home was difficult. But leaving Sarai was doubly so. I came home when I could and she was always there, knowing the sound of my car and whining and lapping, with me burrowing my face into her mane and imitating her whining, which made her bark and whine louder. It was our little ritual. On my weekends home, she never left my side and often waited outside the bathroom until I returned from that particular business. Leaving on Sundays was always that much harder.

            With Dad gone, having succumbed to cancer after a nasty battle, and Mom looking to move, Sarai must have known something was up. For the first time she began running away. On two occasions truckers spotted her and took the time to bring her home. But she kept leaving. Mom found her at one particular house that had a little boy. He obviously loved Sarai and Mom, having found a condo in another city, made the tough decision to let Sarai go live with the family. She asked me what I thought and I protested a little but knew it was probably best. And I was feeling guilt over not coming home more and spending time with her. School work, theatre and one fascinating lady had occupied my time and attention. But I thought of Sarai and always missed her. And then I’d try not to think of her often because the guilt would become overwhelming. 

            I came home one weekend to see Sarai off but Mom informed me she had already taken her to the family. I was heart-sick. I drove to the family’s house, but stayed in the car across the street. I could hear her familiar bark as she was obviously playing with the little boy. I sat there for about a half an hour. Most of that time was taken up with tears that wouldn’t stop coming.

            College flew by in a torrent of theatre, parties, filmmaking, discovering writers, heartbreak, and coming to the end of an era and the beginning of a new one.

            But Sarai was always in my mind. Wondering how she was and how I hoped her family appreciated what a wonderful dog she was. And how much I missed her. And how badly I felt letting her go and not saying goodbye. I’m sorry, girl. You’re not forgotten and forever loved. 

            I was home on a break about a month away from graduation. I’d seen Mom in Eugene and was taking a lazy drive down to my hometown,Willow Grove. And I was thinking about Sarai. I took an early turn-off before coming into town where the winding country road took me next to the little mobile home where the little boy lived (who was probably not so little anymore). I stopped on the other side of the road, looking over at the house. And listened.

            And there it was. Her bark. Only it was different. It had been over four years since I’d seen her. But her bark indicated she had kennel cough, an upper respiratory infection that is passed between canines. And it sounded like she’d had it for a while. I pulled out a small pad and pen from the glove compartment and jotted down the condition and the medicine our vet always prescribed. I climbed out of the car and slowly walked across the street.

            Sarai’s barking stopped. It had been fairly incessant as no one was home and she must have heard my car pull up. I went up to the back porch door and placed the sticky note on the back door. I’d signed it and also left my phone number so they didn’t think some stranger was casing their home. As I turned to head back to my car I heard a whine. I looked over and saw Sarai’s eye looking at me from the crack at the hinged gate. I moved over to her, bending down.

            “Hi, girl,” I said. I reached two fingers through the narrow space and gently touched the bridge of her snout. She whined deeper and then pushed her head against the slatted wood as if trying to push her head into the palm of my hand. My fingers scratched her familiar mane.

            “I’ve sure missed you, Sa…”

            And I was crying. And Sarai’s throaty wine rose to meet mine.

            “I’m so sorry for leaving you, girl. I really am. Please forgive me…”

            And the tears gushed out. She was pawing hard at the wood now, trying to get to me.

            “Shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay…”

            She turned so I could scratch the other side of her head. Her eye was canted, looking up at me, unwavering.

            “You’ll always be my girl…

            Her tongue came out, dowsing my hand incessantly, frantically.

            I had to go but didn’t want to. This was unfair to Sarai, and to me. I just couldn’t help it.

            I stood up and as I did she stood on her hind legs so she could be closer to my eye level.

            I pressed my head against the wood and she rubbed the side of her snout against it, trying to touch me.

            “I will never, ever forget you. You are the best dog anyone could ever have. Please take care of this family. Love you, Sarai.”

            And I hurried off to my car, wiping my face and trying to shut out the aching barks that followed after me.

The end of the story has a nice, satisfying conclusion. One I wished could have happened in real life. But that’s one of the gifts of writing. To be able to soften the blow of life and make a happy ending where perhaps one didn’t exist before.

I hope to see Sheba again someday (the Rainbow Bridge?) but in the meantime, this is my gift to her…and to me. 

I can still hear your bark, girl, and still see your knowing eyes. Thanks for the time you so unselfishly gave me. I’m a better man for it.

Sometimes we come to a dark wood in life that seems unsurmountable. We’re cloaked in a darkness that seems to have no end. We look for the light, for the crack in the darkness, that will at least offer a sliver of hope.

I’m thinking of the people of Norway this morning. Lives extinguished in a moment of time by a passing evil. We try to understand why but such acts can never be truly comprehended. There is horror, shock and grief. And there is a coming together for comfort and the long journey of healing.

At times likes these, and in my own moments of darkness that do not even compare to what the Norwegian victims and families have experienced, I turn to God. On the surface that may seem pat. But knowing there are real, omniscient arms waiting for me to walk into, helps me to find the hope I so desperately need.

The other gift I believe God has given us is the gift of words. I’m one who believes He has revealed Himself through his son, Jesus, and through words revealed to mankind that we now bind in a book. But He has always gifted special individuals with life-giving words; words that for a moment at least, reduce the soul’s shriek to a dull ache…providing comfort through a means that perhaps cannot be attained any other way.

It is in this context that I share Pauls Dunbar’s poem, ‘Sympathy‘ that is a determined cry to find hope no matter what the circumstances. Maya Angelou made it a famous clarion call in her autobiography, I know Why The Caged Bird Sings. May it be for the people of Norway that hope, even in this dark hour for them, will finds its way into their hearts.

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting–
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
I know why the caged bird sings!

Can you really make a living writing?

You can.

Of course it depends on what you mean by a ‘living.’ If it means to be able to pay the mortgage, the bills and put food on the table, yes you can do this. It’s not always easy. Ray Bradbury lived on tomato soup and crackers for dinner for his first few years selling short stories. Some writers give up the expense of cars, cable TV, and ever going to dinner so they can stay home and craft their art. Other writers I know work furiously for six months and then live on those saved wages writing for the next six months. It can be a precarious ride. But it’s rarely dull.

Some days you’ll have a silly grin on your face because of your overflowing bank account and the next month that grin will  suddenly be shaped into an ‘O’ of bewilderment as you try to figure out how to pay the electric bill.

I made a living the last three years as a writer. Truly a dream come true. I did it mostly through corporate writing (video scripts, brochures & web copy) but also by selling articles and short stories. It was exhilarating. It could also be maddening. Checks could be slow in coming, projects would fall through and some times clients would dry up. Other times, you’d have three projects at once, with more on the horizon. But there was also life insurance to pay, no paid vacation (unless you worked during that vacation) and sick days spent sniffling over the keyboard.

It’s considered a little gauche to talk about money but when people ask me about writing for a living, what they really want to know are the actual dollar signs. The pay range varies widely but $30,000 – $60,000 is not uncommon. I’ve made both ends of that scale. I know writers that make less and more. I’ve sold short stories for $25.00 ad $1100.00. I’ve written ad copy that’s brought in $250.00 and $3500.00. It really can be all over the place. Like I said; never a dull moment.

So to my writer friends out there who are pounding away at the keys full-time, I salute you and wish you every success. To my writer friends who are just starting out (you know who you are) and are on the precipice of taking the plunge, I also salute you. . .and wish you success, a lack of discouragement, and a never-ending and fertile imagination.

Oh, and a shelf stocked with tomato soup.

Every once in a while I thought it’d be fun to show you a work in progress. This excerpt is from an article called ‘Bastrop’s Warm Embrace,‘ which concerns my move from the Pacific Northwest to a little western town just south of Austin, TX. It was a time of great transition for me; a time of fear, sadness, expectation and hopeful adventure. It turned out the little town ended up wrapping its arm around me, and I was later unofficially dubbed, ‘The guy from Seattle with the great dog.’ The article is due to come out in a magazine in a few months and here’s a snippet. . . 

           1:15am on a cloudless night as I drove the U-Haul slowly down the empty main street. Coming off highway 21 and entering the deserted downtown, I suddenly felt as though my orange and white moving van was in fact, a stagecoach. Both sides of the street were lined with western motifs and brick buildings from yesteryear. The windows were darkened and even the bars had closed up shop. I seemed to be the only rider coming through town.

            I pulled the moving truck in front of my apartment on Pine Street that occupied the entire second floor of a building that housed a salon below. Narrow rickety wooden steps ascended to my doorway and as I made my way up I tried not to think about what it was going to be like in the morning to haul sofas, armoires and heavy oak book cases up the steps. Now, all I wanted to do was fall into my mattress. Oh, wait, that was in the U-Haul, too. A sleeping bag would have to do.

            I opened the door revealing the empty hardwood floors and tin-patterned ceilings and gazed around. This was to be my new home. A boy raised and bred and spent almost all of his adulthood in the Pacific Northwest had come to this sleepy little hamlet to begin a new life. The only one he knew for sure was his husky/shepherd mix, Sam, who would be joining me in a week when he flew to Austin. That was fine how-do-you-do; me hauling all my worldly possessions on a three-day loooong drive from Tacoma, Washington to a virtually unfamiliar spot in south central Texas while my dog rode first class, most likely munching on dog biscuits and lapping up Evian water. But it would be worth it to get him here quicker than to make him suffer the long, hot days I’d just endured.

            I unrolled my sleeping bag, threw down a pillow and climbed on top of it. The air outside was slightly cool with a unique scent of pine and sweetness that seemed to permeate this area of Texas.

            Over the course of the next few days, I would set-up the apartment as living quarters as well as sectionalizing it off for an office space. I had not only moved to the Lonestar state to leave behind an old life fractured by divorce, but also to start a new one, headlined by a new business venture with a long time friend. My home office in Bastrop would be my business digs, serving clients in Austin.

            I found the little oasis in the pines serendipitously the Christmas before when I was exploring areas around Austin. The city’s arts culture and business potential were very attractive, but I didn’t want to live in the city. I’d rather live on the outskirts where the vibe was calmer, the pace slower. So I drove through Bastrop one December day, looking for office space. The owner, a laid back gentleman with a deep tan, showed me the small space which turned out to be ideal as both an office and living space. Plus Tommy, the owner, knew everyone in town, making him a central hub for me when needing anything from office supplies, to a barber, to someone who might help me heft a couch up the rickety walk-up to my apartment.

            Lying there that first night I couldn’t sleep. Unfamiliar sounds (was that a rat…a rattlesnake, maybe…?) kept me from dozing and I looked out the window to see some of the brightest stars I’d ever seen. Certainly, they were the same stars I’d viewed in the skies over Tacoma but here where the sky enveloped the land with a sense of awe, the stars seemed to punch out their crystalline brilliance against the backdrop of black velvet. I felt a little overwhelmed, as well as a little melancholy as I tried to fathom how I’d make this new state my home. But the little town must have sensed my anxiety as it had a way of rolling out the friendly welcome carpet. It was just asking me to be patient.

What is it you look for when searching out a new read?

Whether perusing the aisles of your favorite bookstore or surfing across the universe of Amazon, what makes you stop and pick-up a book and give it a second thought?

Is it genre? Author? Intriguing descriptive copy? Cover? Do you read sample chapters on Amazon or thumb through a few pages in the aisle?

What is it for you that makes you linger over an unknown quantity and decide to take it home and fall into its pages?

I’m curious, for a variety of reasons. And if you could, relate a tale of picking up a book you’ve never heard of and finding out it was a hidden treasure.

Writerly minds want to know.

It’s almost routine when we see a film that’s been adapted from a favorite book and as the end credits are rolling, we sigh and think, the book was so much better.

But there are those rare occasions when the film actually improves upon the book. Here are some that come to mind. . .

JAWS
The film captures the primeval drive of Benchley’s novel but in that rare serendipity that film magic can sometimes produce, the characters are richer and their chemistry is real, keeping us in rapt attention as we follow their every move and hope against hope that they survive their quest against the great white. This film not only holds up but no amount of CGI could improve upon Spielberg’s keeping the monster shark mostly off camera for most of the film. A perfect adventure.

THE MAN WITHOUT A FACE
Mel Gibson’s directorial debut of Isabelle Holland’s young adult novel. The film, a poignant and moving portrait of two people outcast by loved ones and society and how they find and help each other, is an improvement in every way on the dismal novel. Highly recommended.

FIELD OF DREAMS
Based on WP Kinsella’s quirky novel, Shoeless Joe, the film becomes a paean to the father/son relationship while reminding us which game is really America’s past time. It’s a film that, if you step back far enough from it, shouldn’t work at all. It’s actually kind of a miracle that it did. But Phil Alden Robinson’s marvelous direction and adaptation, James Horner’s pitch-perfect (as it were) score and Kevin Costner’s absolute earnestness are marvelous to behold. In many ways it’s this generation’s It’s a Wonderful Life.

What films do you think are better than the books they’ve originated from?