WE ARE BRILLIANT: Why Failure is Actually Success

It's approximately three in the morning, and I'm still stinging from my most recent failure. I'd been working for the past few days, creating a graphic to iron on a dress I found at a thrift store. I overcame countless obstacles and went to great trouble, spending my time and money on this pointless project.  

Let's just say it did not end well.  

I chose the wrong kind of transfer paper. I accidentally ruined half of the image. The other half didn't iron on properly because the dress was sliding all over the place. 

My money, my time, gone. I could have been doing so many other things than sitting on the computer erasing minuscule pixels from the edge of a photo of Alain Delon and Monica Vitti. I tried to salvage the "rustic" looking dress by throwing colors over it, chucking it in the washing machine, but it was useless. I could not redeem this unique-looking dress, especially not when the image of my goal was in my mind torturing me. I sit here now and feel a stab of pain at the thought of what I wanted to accomplish and couldn't.  

This seems to be a pattern for me. I want to do something, go somewhere, be somebody; so, I spend tons of money buying useless supplies, research incredible learning opportunities, start a blog. But everything ends in either diminished inspirational powers or complete, humiliating, catastrophic failure. I'm reminded of the time I planned to go to Prague before a doctor told me I shouldn't, because my stomach ailments were too concerning for me to travel alone. Or the time I went halfway across the world to (basically) meet Michael Ball (I love him), and failed to see him outside the stage door; I cried my heart out in that hotel shower, feeling beyond stupid. I'm reminded of the countless times I've started to write a story and never finished it, felt the rush of exhilaration and possession that comes with a big idea. The idea always died a slow, uneventful death. Every single time.  

Why do I try? Why do I keep doing these things that, for someone like me, someone meek and bland, are useless? With every hollow attempt for greater things, I hurt myself more and more with the knowledge that I'm incompetent. I hear stories from every corner of my 'social circle' about people who know the career they want, have made a leap of faith and skipped off to a new country to find themselves. People everywhere make their livings on the internet, and people despise and adore them for the simple things they do daily. So, what the heck am I doing?  

I'm trying to be liked other people, that's what. It's pitiful, and not at all aligned with the strength of character I try to claim. The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that I am the truly accomplished one, while the 'put-together' people around me are not. Sure, they're walking down a straight line, living a happy, secure, comfortable life. But, hey, looking straight ahead is boring. If you have your eyes locked on success, you miss everything around and behind you! 

Now, as for me: my eyes are all over the place. I drive top down around roads that are nothing but curvy, tangled lines. Right as I'm driving past literature, I make a beeline for religion, then turn a corner for theater, then reverse because I missed some movies I wanted to see. My music library has everything from Frankie Valli to Vox Lumiere, and I'll eat anything put on my plate. Not to brag, but my horizons are pretty freaking broad.  

Maybe the problem isn't that I suck at being successful. Maybe I just have too much on my mind! How can anyone expect me to focus on buying a house when I have French to learn, and pointless blog posts to write, and fictional men to cry over? And I do think it's a matter of expectations. I wouldn't have tried nearly so hard, had I not been born in such an ambitious world. Modern society draws "success" in one-dimensional shapes: - flat, square diplomas, oblong outlines of office buildings, smooth, round tables at Starbucks where supposedly world-crushing struggles are hashed out over cups of grande-sized syrupy sludge. Everyone with a sense of self-importance is actually trapped inside the geometry of our world's collectively narrow minds.  

Reader... If you have ever felt the way I feel... If what you want in life has ever differed from what your family and friends expect, if you have ever wondered why you can't do anything right... Reader, you and I are succeeding, and in an arena far larger and more impressive than that of the daily grind.  

We are victors in the fields of art and spirit. We don't just look at a gatepost, we see the whole fence. We know there is more to life than what we'll do next week, next month, next year, because we don't just live life, we love it. We are multi-taskers; we see, smell, hear, read, listen, think, dream, all at once. We don't waste our energy on fleeting everyday tasks, because we're too busy climbing toward transcendency. We are far from incompetent, we are brilliant.

  

Guys, we don't have time to stress the small stuff! Reader, readers, you and I are going to make a pledge. From this day forward... We will not bring ourselves down. We will not mourn our 'failures'. We will not take one step forward to measure up against 'the successful'. Instead... We will run amuck. We will embrace creativity and discovery and madness, regardless of whether it leads us to comfort or chaos. We will not wear blinders when we walk. We will happily look everywhere, and let our feet find the future later.  

I started this blog with the vain hope that people would read it and share it and give me a purpose in life. But, you know what? I don't care if anyone reads it. I am getting the truth out there. I am being creative and courageous. As for a job, and a relationship, and a life? Sorry, not concerned. I'm too busy deciding where to take my heart next. It has a busy schedule. 

The Power of Optimism: Hope and Love in 7th Heaven

I am a complex individual. I have a lot of faith in the power of goodness, yet, at the same time I'm incredibly negative; I love the world, in spite of my fatalistic belief that it's falling apart. So, in my movie-watching ventures, I tend to veer back and forth between depressing sagas and good-time comedies.  

Feeling unwell, I took today off of work and settled down in bed to watch a movie. 7th Heaven (1927) is a silent film I've been meaning to watch for ages, and the plot description perfectly suited my ill-bearing, stress-sick mood. Poverty, abuse, war, - perfect! I guess I'm just a movie-masochist that way. However, my hope for two thoroughly miserable hours in bed was thwarted.

Chico, played by Charles Farrell (who is almost too beautiful for me to bear), is a cleaner of the sewers of Paris. He aspires to be a street cleaner, to work above, among the people. Nearby, Diane, played by Janet Gaynor, is being whipped by her elder sister. Forced by her sister into prostitution and theft, Diane is full of fear and misery, and is ashamed of her sins.  

One day, Diane's sister drives her out into the street, whipping and strangling her as they fall in the gutter near Chico's work area. Chico drives Diane's sister away, but is filled with disdain for Diane's lack of courage, saying a creature like her doesn't deserve to have her life saved. He questions God's will in placing people on earth, declaring himself an atheist. 

Suddenly, Chico's first chance arrives. A local priest approaches and offers him a commission as a city street cleaner. Chico is about to go off to celebrate when a policeman approaches; Diane's sister is in custody, and they are taking Diane with her. Chico, surprised by his own words, declares - "She's my wife!"  

Ladies and gentlemen, this without a doubt is one of my favorite plot lines. Man rescues woman by pretending to be her husband! In a day and age where men run from the mere idea of marriage is distasteful, a man protecting a woman by calling her wife is always heart-melting. I watched, with veritable hearts in my eyes, as Chico and Diane lived together in shy intimacy, continuing their charade until a police detective should come and see if Chico's claim was true. As their time together became more pleasant, and as their love grew deeper, Diane gained more and more courage. She began living by Chico's mantra, and was always looking up.  

Just as Chico asks Diane to marry him, they are hit with the ultimate trial: - War has broken out! As a final test of his faith, Chico asks God to observe their vows to each other in his home, making them truly married before he is carried away with his regiment.  For months and years, Chico and Diane remain faithful. At the same time each day, they hold the religious medals they wear around their necks, and they think of their love. They believe that they will be together again! 

… I refuse to tell you exactly what happens in the end. To do that would spoil the beautiful emotions of this story's conclusion, but I will say this: - Hope and courage prevail. If faith can carry two troubled beings through outward trials, trials even as devastating as war, it can surely guide people like me through inner turmoil.  

In accordance with my unshakable values, I exercise a great amount of humility. I recoiled from the conceited Chico, who found himself so self-reliable. "I'm never afraid! That's what makes me a very remarkable fellow!"  Then the war changed his point of view; God was the source of Chico's courage, his ability to continue looking up while in the grapple of adversity. 

That's when I understood: Self-belief is a virtue. When courage and humility combine to form hope, it is a grace and a treasure. I spend so much of my life in fear. Anxiety over what I've done, what others might do, holds me an iron grip in every moment of every day, preventing me from finding the inner peace I display outwardly. But humility is good, I told myself.  I might be afraid, but my life means little, and I'm generous to others. For years this has been my recipe for a fruitful life, a huge helping of humility.  

I missed an ingredient: - COURAGE. How can I have faith in the goodness of people if I spend my life hiding behind corners? How can I ever hope to reach above my dissatisfaction, if I don't bother to try, to fight for my happiness? You, reader, don't know how I let other people walk over me. They do the talking, they do the judging, they do the choosing and the criticizing. And, I? I'm not there; or, at least, I pretend not to be. It frightens me, to be alive.  

No one should be afraid to exist. No one should purposefully be unhappy. That, in a nutshell, is what I learned from 7th Heaven. Oh, I could argue that the reason I have no courage is because I haven't found love; Janet Gaynor had Charles Farrell to inspire her, but I'm single and battling life on my own. But that's another part of being brave: continuing without the promise of love, without knowing when the war will end or who will fall. You have to look up.  

If you're reading this... You're strong. You're capable of things that surpass the puny powers of the ones who put you down. You can be humble and kind. You can be mighty and brave. You will be okay. You need to believe that. You need to look up.  

That kind of rich optimism... It's the closest thing to Heaven. It must be close to Heaven.  

I'll try it, and let you all know.  

Alain: The Art of Camouflage

Alain Delon (born November 8th, 1935) is famous in French cinema for his brilliant acting and exquisite appearance. Every now and then, I type the name “Alain Delon” into Google images and sit back in awe. I click through pictures and I stare. I stare at the unbelievable amount of beauty before me. And that beauty is only increased when you watch Alain Delon move and speak in one of his films. The combination of talent and physical beauty is mighty powerful; and girls like me, who have an unhealthy obsession with handsome European men, don’t stand a chance against Delon. But are we who find Alain dangerously attractive the only ones susceptible to his charms? Not so. I propose that men like Alain Delon, rather than being mere eye candy, are actually the driving force behind the captivation of entire audiences.  

Some credit, of course, goes to the directors for encouraging actors like Alain, getting great shots with all-important focus on the eyes, the lips, et cetera. However, Alain is a man of many talents, one of those being the natural virility that emanates from him in every role. 

In Plein Soleil - or Purple Noon - (1960), Delon plays Tom, a young man who has travelled to Italy under mysterious circumstances. Tom has, supposedly, been sent to Rome to by a Mr. Greenleaf, in order to bring his son Philippe Greenleaf home to San Francisco. However, Tom’s true intentions are gradually revealed as he commits crime after clever crime, starting with murdering Philippe and stealing his identity. Being a passionate devotee to gorgeous young men, I find myself covering Tom’s crimes with my Alain-obsessed commentary…  

  

“Damn, Alain looks good in that guy’s clothes.” 

  

“Hurry, Alain, pretend he’s drunk instead of dead!”  

  

“I know you’re lying to her, Alain, and that you’re a creepy murderer, but I want you and Marge together anyway.” 

  

You readers who haven’t seen Plein Soleil are probably laughing at or frowning on my foolishness, but my desperation as a single young woman is not the only element at play here. Sometimes, while watching a movie, I will purposely sit back and pretend I’m someone else, - a retired old man, or a middle-aged policewoman, et cetera. And no matter who I am as I watch Plein Soleil, my desire as an audience member stays the same.  

  

I want Alain to win.  

  

What is it about Alain Delon’s depiction of Tom that makes me root for him? Is it his dialogue? Not likely. There isn’t very much significant dialogue in Plein Soleil, and I can’t understand the original French anyway. Cinematography? Music? Both were exceptional, but neither made a lasting impression.  

  

It’s Alain. Alain and the pure magnetism of his acting. I cannot think of a single actor who could take on this role and achieve an identical audience response. Who but Alain, with his lean body and luscious hair, could sit down with the woman he plans to steal from his murder victim, share a conversation full of lies, then walk around Naples as if he were the dragging the city around by the tip of his finger? In this scene from Plein Soleil, the purposefulness of Alain’s every movement creates an impression of importance, so much so that it’s difficult to focus on any part of the setting around him. Alain Delon doesn’t just cooperate with a written scene, he commands his scenery.  

We can all see that Alain Delon isn’t simply attractive, he’s compelling. He captures the eye with his presence, overpowering our senses with a captivation that’s almost primal. Is his inherent sensuality of movement the cause of this manly possession of pre-historic power? Or is there more to Alain Delon than the naughty look in those blue eyes?

To answer our question, let’s talk L’Eclisse (1962). I have to admit, my first viewing of this Michelangelo Antonioni film was not met with a standing ovation. I was tired and a little impatient with the artistic vision behind the film, driven mostly by extensive shots of buildings and trees, and those frustratingly satirical scenes where society forces people to converse in cryptic half-speak, if they ever speak at all. Not only that, but Alain Delon is absent from the first fifteen minutes  of the film (which is far too long for me to wait to see him), and throughout the film Alain’s beautiful voice is dubbed by an Italian actor. Watching L’Eclisse, I was struggling to maintain my normal powers of resigned concentration, and, quite frankly, I just wanted to see Alain make out with someone. However, once I smothered the flames of my Alain Delon attraction and looked at his performance objectively, I was held by that same animalistic captivation, in spite of this character’s being so different from that of Plein Soleil.  

While being slightly more romantic in overall intention than Plein Soleil, L’Eclisse is very intentionally subdued, so much so it’s almost dull. Alain’s character Piero is a stockbroker, who first appears on screen making phone calls and shouting to stockholders in a sea of insane modernist money bags. Even in this Bedlam of ambition, the collectively volatile behavior of the men and women is idle, meaningless, something for which we can credit Antonioni’s direction, as well as his calculating eye for truth. One can easily confuse Piero as a distraction from the tediousness, since he’s definitely easy on the eyes in his suit and tie. But, in spite of his beauty, Alain Delon doesn’t detract from the scene. In fact, he enhances it by being emotionally unavailable to Vittoria (played by Monica Vitti). Even in this monumental scene where, at last, there’s some great, great physical contact happening between Piero and Vittoria, the intention of the picture requires a frustrating amount of restraint. So, how is Alain still so captivating? 

In spite of my initial distaste after finishing L’Eclisse, I found myself thinking about it for days. I sat at work reading internet critics' opinions on the film, remembering Alain Delon’s hand almost, but not quite, twining with Monica Vitti’s in an awkward, suspenseful dance. Everyone seems to agree on the message of L’Eclisse - namely, that intimacy with another human is difficult, perhaps impossible, in our modern world (a message with which I can completely relate). In reviewing sections of the film, this meaning came upon me very intensely, particularly in scenes like the one above; and, if I’m forced to picture those scenes with another actor, that message simply does not deliver. I don’t think any other man, in this deliberately bland part, could kiss an equally bland woman and convey that complex combination of passion and reticence. Alain Delon doesn’t just kiss a woman, as some actors (many of them American) tend to do. He consumes them, he is responsive to them, he's calculating, mindless, vulnerable, powerful, - all these things at once. And that is what carries the moral past the screen and into the psyche. He is the struggle of modern romance, the social confusion L’Eclisse seeks to discuss, personified. He makes the film what it, at its best, should be.  

  

‘Wait, Ashley,” I hear some of you saying. ‘Are you saying movie wouldn’t be good without Alain Delon?” 

  

Well… Yeah, I am saying that.  

  

Alain Delon isn’t just a moving dummy you stand up in front of a cardboard backdrop, he’s a household name of French cinema. He’s so dynamic that he, not the scenery or the dialogue, creates the desired mood of the picture. Films like Plein Soleil and L’Eclisse, which are already fortunate enough to have been created by some highly intelligent people, is enhanced exponentially by Alain’s presence, causing the film to adjust in order to match his exuberance and natural talent. By being the man that he is, Alain Delon inspires a chameleon effect to take place on the screen, changing the emotional response of the picture in the same way a camouflaging animal changes colors. What might have been a straightforward crime film, or a bleak existential satire, becomes a jungle of human experience as bright and lively as Alain Delon’s eyes.  

  

So, when you watch a film starring Alain Delon, don’t just swoon and choke on your hormones. Well, okay, you can still die a little inside. But get it all out of the way early:  

His hair.  

His eyes. 

His style. 

His abs.

His everything. 

 Still alive?… Okay. Now, - watch this man act.  

Pick out a movie, sit back, and observe a master human being at work. Look inside yourself as you observe Monsieur Delon captaining ships of cinematic mastery, leading them into sparkling waters of audience enthrallment. Mark my words, you will never forget a journey led by Alain Delon. Not in a million years.