Some years ago, I went to see
Frozen 2 with my extended family. and much to my suprise, it's...
pretty good. Great, even. The music is awesome. There's some good writing.
Jokes land. The characters are well realised. The plot is... there.
All in all, I do have some honest to God good time with it.
About 2/3 into the movie, Elsa reaches her climax.. (vinyl scratch),,,
Ahem.. About 2/3 into the movie Elsa's
character arc reaches it's climax. After much tribulation, she reaches the mythical
island of Ahtohalla, the Mcguffin of the plot. As this is a Disney-movie, we are carried there
through a song, a heartfelt power ballad. Me and my daughter change glanses. She's
smiling, as am I. It's a damn fine song. Every hair of my body is erected. Shivers run
through me. My breath feels shallow, my palms swetty.. I'm no longer in charge of my facial
muscles; smiling seems to have become involuntary. Somewhere around the first chorus, tears fill my eyes. I don't notice them. I
just sit
and watch. It's a damn fine song. The scene reaches it's climax.
The music, the story, Elsa; everything soars, ascends. Me alongside them. The final chorus arrives and
something within me... snaps. --- I've always had a obsession with originality.
Everything had to be unseen, unheard of; boarden new horizons. A new side of a
coin. Uniqueness was a laudable qualia, regardless of quality or utility. Not something
to strive for but the thing to strive for. "Has this been done before? Is this
original enough? Does this shed new light or bring a new angle into something
already established?" Or even better: "Is this something unheard of?
Unorthodox, way outside the box? These are the kind of ideas
that rose up when I thought of creation - the miandering
thoughts that guided my hands. Not honesty, integrity. Not meaning or
substance. Not quality nor technical prowess. Success, popularity... all the
same. All I cared for was originality. The problem: nothing is ever original enou
gh.
So, that's what I did, day in, day out; nothing. I kept all the unoriginal ideas inside me,
hidden from the world. I watched with scourn as others wrote, composed, created, bled out their
hearts blood. They found success, a way forward. The world rewarded them with prosperity
amongst their silly, non-original pieces. But my creativity was a blank slate; an
endless vista of imagination and opportunity, unsullied by trite and derivetive
ideas. This status quo held as long as I didn't do a
nything stupid,
like something, instead of nothing. Of course, this all is a defence mechanism. I'm
timid, petrified to face the notion there might not be anything unique about me; that I am a human
equivivalent of a B- exam. A solid 7 out of 10. I'm talented, but no one's going to write any
books about me. I'm smart but not brilliant. I'm gifted but not exceptionally so. I'm strong
and capable but not so you could speak about physical prowess. I'm liked and socially
adapt, but not revered
nor charismatic. To quote Douglas Adams; I'm mostly harmless. I've always worked on supportive roles.
Helped others to shine. While there is genuine fullfilment to be found there, I
always carried with me this aura of martyrdom. "Since I spend my limited time on this Earth
to help others instead of furthering my own ambitions, I should be qualified for a few
bonus points on the cosmic scoreboard." My actions to further these ambitions have
been pretty much non-existent. If I did something
of my own, I did it in a kinda
detached way; played it off as a a joke, some sort of thinly veiled message to no one in
particular. Everything was always instrumental. I never really contended with anything, never wrestled with my ambitions. There
was no genuine heart behind anything.. or if there was, it was veiled. Wrapped in
this detached facade. It's easier that way. If you admit yourself - or others - that
you want, need things... well that's... just... utterly horrifying. We just crea
ted
a fail state. A clear definition for "lack". It's easier to play detached and
untouchable. Plus, yearning for success, attention and fullfillment is so, unoriginal. I forged this well-fortified batallion of
reasons why I'm not where I'd want to be in my life. This facade is built around few key axioms;
First: I'm too deep and enlightened of a person to be beckoned by success and attention. Second: Even
if I were, the game is obviously rigged, proven by the success of all the unoriginal p
eople.
Third: People have bad taste, as proven by the fact I remain unsuccesfull and
other, clearly nondeserving people don't. So all in all, it's quite clear that one shouldn't publish or release anything if
they have even a shred of decensy. If the game is croocked, it's a despicable act
to join in, even if just for a couple of rounds. As long as you hold on to the
stance the game itself is stupid, there's no reason to partake in it.
As long as I'm not a part of the game, I can hold on to
the thought that given
the chance, I'd be exceptional in it. "It's not that I'm frozen by my lack
of courage; I'm just seeking something more. Something better. Something the
hoi polloi couldn't even understand. " It's effortless to fashion rationalizations
like these. Whip up principles to cover your own insecurities. So effortless you
might start to believe your own thoughts. When it comes to rationalizations
the more muddled and abstract, the better. "Originality" is a mighty one
inde
ed. It's vague yet so obviously meaningfull. When you keep the waters muddled,
they can infact appear deep. --- All my favourite songs share one aspect; they
give me this eerie feeling like I've always known them. This song, this story,
this sequance of sounds and words, has always been a part of me. It's like
a homecoming - a return to... something. This isn't nostalgia. These songs
don't take me back to some bygone age, when days were brighter
and I a little less darker. I have a very tr
oubled relationship with the
past, in general. There's nothing I long to return to. Whatever it is I feel, it's not
nostalgia, but rather... a sort of belonging. Which takes us back to Frozen 2; What made this scene so great?
Why does it hit so hard? Well It is a DAMN fine song. It's a power ballad,
a catchy lifter, an orchestral juggernaut. It braids together musical motifs, plotpoints,
visual cues and narrative themes littered throughout the movie, two movies., It
feels like a homecoming
. In every way. This is the true climax of the movie -
of Elsa's arc. The last third is just to tie up lose ends - to unearth the
questions that still lay unanswered. It all just... comes together, here..
And it feels like... home. E-minor, C, D, G - like my essence was hewn from these
chords.This isn't just goosebumps, it's something else; something akin to magic.
A damn fine song. --- But this scene isn't... magical. It has passed through dozens, if not
hundreds of hands. Animators, music
ians, voice actors, producers, programmers,
screen writers, directors... and of course, propapbly a dozen runs through boards of bigwigs
and audience test screenings to sand off all the wrinkles. The folks at modern Disney are
renown for their unlove of jagged edges. If there ever was a sort of "grand artistic
vision" hidden somewhere within this movie, surely it's been mangeld into oblivion by now. It's a trick. Smoke and mirrors. Manufactured
with utmost craftmanship, yes... but still jus
t a trick. Everything seems powerful when it's
projected to a huge screen. Every word feels profound when it's delivered on a bed of evocative
music and a choice use of narrative pacing. That's pretty much, all I do on this channel - manipulate
the audience through skilled use rhetoric, allusion and drama. That's not magic. That's like,
cheating right? You play the game on cheat codes. This sort of cynicism is like a second nature to
me. I'm always ready and armed against the tricks the art
ists, these jokers and charlatans
try to pull.. I take pride in the notion; I see through their gimmics. Grand
shots, bombastic scores, dramatic scenes, well-chosen words, intricate choreographies,
striking visuals. It'll require more to get past my shield. This 101 of cheese might fool
most people, but I'm not a part of that crowd. In the end this is just a simple
song, and a quite cheesy one, at that. Clicheid enough to feel
familiar, vague as to seem universal. All this doesn't make thi
s
song any less of a... miracle. It could have been any other song, another
story and... nothing. The world goes on, 8/10". But it wasn't. It was THIS song, this story, in that exact moment... and now,
the world can never be the same. So, what was it I figured out? What came over me? Well maybe... I figured out
the meaning of life...? (grin) What if all this... "excess", be
it a big screen, evocative music, all the smoke and mirrors artists bamboozel
us with... what if we need all that? Wh
at if that is the little sprinkle of
wonderlust we need to lose ourselves into a moment? A little misdirection so you forget
the complex dance you've practised all your life - your carefully curated person suit...
and instead you just are, and wonder, in awe. What if instead of a trick, it's a ritual? --- I've come to believe art is first and
foremost a physical medium. It's an alltogether different experience to see
a photograph of Michelangelo's David, than to stand in its shadow. See it
tower before. The former can be... nice, I guess... But the latter can change your life.
But, you already know this. Everybody knows this, though it sometimes feels
we're kinda trying to forget. There's ample reason to choose practicality
over... excess, that's the right term, I guess. Money, time, convinience. You have to
go outside. Out! That's where the other people live! There are lines, crowds. God... better to
save your money and sanity. Just stay inside. Plus, it's nice to have an en
dless feed
of... content, at your fingertips at all times. Limitless amounts of options to
shuffle through once you get bored. But I'm not so sure about that either. When was
the last time you opened Youtube, Instagram, TikTok and felt truly blessed to have all
this content available? Do the endless feeds, lists and options fill you
with gratitude and bliss? Perhaps there's a hidden cost for convinience? There's something to be said about
rituals - of viewing life as a landscape of rituals
. They demand
your attention, your submission. The thing starts, when it starts.
Every spring, full moon, sunday, new years eve. You have to be there.
There's no weather-checking the full moon, the dying crops don't really care
weather this thursday works for you. There are rules, a proper way of conduct.
You wash yourself of impurities, dress up, show effort - humility. Often a
sacrifice is required, atleast of time and effort... but maybe even something
of more value. Food, wealth, a po
und of flesh. This isn't about you, per
se. You get to participate, partake in something grander than yourself.
This ritual, this moment is beyond you. Maybe we could do with more
things that are beyond us, these days. Perhaps we need them to stay
sane. Moments that demand you to just shut up and marvel in awe of the things more
grand and beautiful than... whatever it is you think you do when you scroll through
your phone for the 37th time that day. We don't have those kind of rituals
any
more... ones that demand. What we have, are convinient commodities. White bread for
the soul. It fills you up but doesn't satiate. Okay, that's not entirely true... we do
have rituals, we're surrounded by them everyday. We just tend not to recognize
them anymore. We don't look low enough. --- An enthralled crowd - 100 000 watts of bass
drum fills the sky. It shakes the ground, your body. Everything beats, pulsates, resonates. You sit in a darkened room, with
hundreds of other people. You st
are into the gargantuan screen before you.
The drama unfolds. Everyone is quiet. The whole stadium waits with baited
breath as the athelete prepares, then lunges forward. They twist, turn, contort,
fly through the air. You could hear a pin drop. The athelete sticks the landing, just barely,
but they do. The actor says the right words, the artist plays just the
right notes. The crowd erupts, roars. The music soars. Everybody
raises their hands to the heavens. Everyones elated. Hugs, kisses,
tears. For a brief
moment everything makes sense. All is right in the world. Your whole beign is so god-damn filled
with... meaning, you can hardly stand it. Then the curtain drops, lights turn back on.
The narrator is quiet. The fat lady sings no more. A spell is broken and we remember
what the world is like. How things are. Who we are, or atleast pretend to be.
We resume our composure and leave. It was all a parlor trick. Smoke and
mirrors and some good ol' craftmanship. But what if it w
asn't? You know? We've told tales and stories to each
other for thousands of years - before there was written language. We've danced,
painted and sang to each other even longer, perhaps even before we could speak to one
another. Before language, before knowledge, there was drama, there was art, there
was awe. Perhaps those are the most primordial forms of human expression?
The ones that speak to our very beign. What if these... rituals don't help us forget,
but to remember? What we can be
like, when we discard our well curated person-suits
for a moment. What the world could be, should we leave behind everything that makes
us... so inadequate. What if it's not an escape, but a homecoming? A return to something more real? I've come to rely on a new measurement of quality. Regardless of originality or
how "good" the experience is; How deep do I let myself get lost into the
moment? How deep of an layer of bullshit can this experience cut through? Can
it make me just take in, gaz
e in awe? --- These days, we tend to find the idea of rituals as
primitive and the people who partook in them where clearly simpletons - an atribute we civilized
folk aspire very much not to be. What else could that kind of "magical thinking" attest to? And
that's fair, I guess. I too believe in science, reason, cause and affect. But magic, is
a funny term. Because if by 'magic' we mean that a very spesific sequence of steps
will produce rain or a certain incantation can help you cast a lev
el 15 pyromancy, then
yeah, I guess I don't believe in magic either. But if we define 'magic' as "to transform
the perceived world through the use words, sound and images"... Now we're getting somewhere. And thus, I have to redact something I
said earlier; when I claimed this scene wasn't magical. It is; 4 minutes and 32
seconds of world transforming sounds, words and images... but even more
than magic, this scene is true. Atleast my body, my... being thinks so. I've stood
before coffins w
ithout one tear shed... but this "cheesy song", hits me in the gut every time. I've
waded through loss, sickness, dissapointments and betrayal without batting an eye, but I've never
managed to watch this scene without tearing up. There something in this scene more
real than death, sickness or even time and space. It's more real than reality.
It's true the same way numbers are true. Even years later, I can't really
articulate what this scene helped me realise but I do know what it helped
me
let go of; every ounce of cynicism bled out of my body... And boy o' boy was
there a lot of that stuff to bleed out. It felt as if for the first time, I contended
with the experience of... goosebumps, in a serious manner. I admitted to myself
this sensation might not be "just a trick" - a neurological tick talented professionals
can manipulate for gloria mundi. Instead, this... thing might be important. It might
just be the most important thing there is. It no longer mattered what made thi
s
song so special. I just didn't care. Not in a "I don't give a damn"
sense. There's still taste, talent, the craft. Those things are not gone. But for the first time I valued...
lineage, yeah let's use that word. Instead of uniquness I saw connection.
Where there were clichés, I found universal. I traded novelty for congruence. I let go of
what was unique to receive what was authentic. Instead of a unique story I witnessed the
very human effort to articulate something, unfathomable. It fa
ils, of course. A song,
a story, a video can only provide glimmers, but a glimmer is hell-of-a-lot
more than nothing, isn't it? How do you speak of things so grand, there
where no words around when they came to be? Maybe that's why we still dance, sing, paint
pictures and tell stories? Because we have no adecuate words to tell what it's like to
be, to struggle, to overcome. To arrive home. So I kinda saw... all that, play
out while Elsa sang her song. We both found home. And I realised, I'
d
heard this song a thousand times, this story a thousand more. That's
how I knew it was a good one. And all I wanted to do was sing songs of that
one song and tell tales of that one story. "Come my darling homeward bound."
"I am found." God damn. --- Epilogue. It's easy to become cynical in this
current zeitgeist - where everyday feels like we're about drown in white
noise. Everybody wants our attention. We want everybodies attention. Stories,
art, text, entertainment, music, videos, game
s are produced for.. well, content. What a
sad word. Such a vile, monstrous term: CONTENT. We are like infants in front of a mobile and
someone dangles a shiny object in front of us. The dangler and us; locked in a sort
of parasitic relationship. The simple act of attention grants lifeforce to
the dangler. A reason to remain. Our unflinching stare can dispel
the monumental horror of existence. But the sad truth is, we need each other. We,
the-ones-who-stare are just as much parasites as th
e-ones-who-dangle. We are both adrift on
a great, vast sea. As long as no-one flinches, the void and its horrors stand at bay. If we
all hold our breath and don't break eye-contact, the cable won't snap, and we won't fall into
the depths -the abyss, where the monsters wait. Amidst these kinds of thoughts, it's easy to take
a resentful stance towards creators, artists, storytellers, stories. If you really commit to
the part like yours truly, you can even learn to resent people. Just let cyni
sism take a good
chokehold of your soul and run rampant with it. All this content we create; nothing more
than an extension of the rampant attention economy. Paintings, books, videos, games,
music, theater, poetry, mass entertainment, hot takes, blogs, tweets. Penny dreadfuls and
extra-extra-read-all-about-its. Everything becomes a piece of a larger whole. A shameful,
instrumental cog in the great quest for capital - be it monetary or attention. A
desperate cry of a mob billions strong. Th
e problem is; we live for stories
and of stories. We are ready to die and deal death for them. We are all
storytellers, weavers of dreams. We often comprehend our lives as if a
story, a part of a larger narrative. The next chapter. A new beginning. Closure.
Comedy. Tragedy. The End. Main character, NPC, villain. "So what's your
story?", we ask one other. We build our worlds from
stories. We saunter on roads, pawed with the bodies of heroes and monsters
alike. Their words and deeds echo in
ours. --- We all recognise a good story, an awe-inspiring
experience, when we happen upon one. They seldom are something outside our fields of
experience; a new side of a coin. No, we recognize a good story because we've heard it before. The
characters change, the plots differ. Time, place, and aestethics shift with the aeons, but the
story remains the same. The resonance remains. And so, maybe the notion, "is
something original?" is flawed in all kinds of ways. Perhaps I've
had this thin
g wrong my whole life. Maybe that which we pass forward
doesn't have to be...about us. My creations aren't merchandice with which I
barter myself the right to exist - with which's brilliance I buy myself some existential
peace. A right to maybe even, God willing, enjoy my life a bit - free from constant
guilt and shudder. That be nice, you know? These... things, pieces of the creative spirit
manifested - whatever this is I'm up to - they are from me, but they're not me. They're just...
som
ething. Something I put out into this world. Perhaps it's not necessary to change the way we
consume... content. To change the world. Maybe it's not imperative to create things so
deep and original they repair... well, whatever you deem in need of repair. A small twist like motion, deep inside. Half a
degree's turn in one's worldview. Maybe that's all what's needed to change the world. You tilt your
head slightly, squint your eyes just a little, and the whole world is a differrent
place. Pe
rhaps even a better one. --- We can view the content we create and consume as
a glittering bate. Something we obtrude each other with in this limitless void we inhabit. An endless
sea; a blinding glimmer of a million baits. Everyone hopes someone, anyone, would harken to
us, take notice and stop - if even just for a small moment. They would admire our creations,
notice the ways our works are both unique and deviant. Someone would caress our cheek, say kind
words. Pat as on the crown of our
head; confirm we are indeed "a good boy". They vanish, to carry on
their own journey through the glittering infinity. But perhaps our creations don't have to be
glittering baits for others to gawk at. Smoke and mirrors, elaborate parlor tricks.
Something used and discarded with ease. Maybe they can be an ember, a candle
in the dark. A bonfire for humanity. Something which' mere existense is
enough to keep the horrors at bay. Something by which' glimmer others may rest
and regroup; by which
' warmth they can gather their resolve before they carry on on their
own journeys - as we all inevetibly must. Maybe to do so answers the most profound of
all questions? To create light and pass it on, and never take care wether it is us who get
to bathe in the humble glimmer we pass forward. We seem to value originality most when
it enriches something we are familiar with - when it shines a new light
to which we already deem important and valuable. We recognise a good
story because we've
heard it before.
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