The Accidental Florist

Creative writing, it increasingly occurs to me, is a curious thing. I say "increasingly"; I suppose I mean that this realisation has grown stronger in me since I have been published and started writing a blog. Previously, I was writing in a rather old-fashioned, starving-artist-in-a-garret kind of way, not knowing if my manuscripts would ever know the light of understanding cast from the soul of another human being. Those early stories, most of them unfinished, were to me like suicide notes, or messages in bottles. I would not be there when they were read; I probably would not be anywhere. They were addressed from my soul directly to the unknown human soul, or to some higher soul, if such a thing existed.

I am not saying that what I wrote was of a higher quality, but in terms of the intention and process, I feel as though I am looking back on a period of very pure activity, and that my activity as a writer now is in danger of contamination, if it is not already contaminated. I know very well that there are specific individuals who will read what I have written. I am even acquainted with some of them. This gives me pause. Writing, for me, apart from having a playfully creative aspect, has been very much about the communication of the Sacred, and the Sacred is most certainly something that must be handled with care. In some ways, it even seems to me that what is most sacred is what is left uncommunicated, that perhaps communication is in itself profane (a theme much apparent in my current tale, Shrike). I have long agonised over the confessional aspects of my writing, feeling often that they sully me in some way, and yet driven by some instinct that the deeper the confession, the fuller and truer the writing. I sometimes feel like I have to be more of a whore to be a real writer. Confessing to the unknown soul of humankind or God left me feeling pure; confessing to a specific mixture of known and unknown individuals brings to mind images of a maudlin drunk and makes me think uncomfortably of phrases such as 'crocodile's tears'. And yet, I still feel some kind of duty to try and place myself within a kind of sacred space, emotionally, when I write, and send messages to the world from there. The extent to which I manage such a feat is the measure of my success as a writer.

I wonder if this underlying feeling that communication is somehow dirty isn't a little bit English. Well, it's a rather vague and unprovable proposition; nonetheless, I have what might be called anecdotal evidence. I also find this a trait that English and Japanese culture have in common. People from other cultures tend to call it 'reserve', but what does that actually mean? There's a saying in Japanese that goes "Mono ieba kuchibiru samushi". It actually comes from a haiku by Basho, which translates roughly as, "The lips that speak are chilled by the autumn wind". The first part, which has become a saying, carries a significance beyond its literal meaning, indicating that speaking instead of keeping silence is often a cause for regret. It might be compared to the English expression, "Least said, soonest mended." The implication of both phrases seems to be that things are how they are, and talking about them is more likely to create confusion than to solve problems; we will therefore get where we're going – where we already are – much quicker if we take the route of silence in combination with patience or action, rather than the circuitous route of words.

There is another Japanese saying, "Iwanu ga hana": "Not saying is the flower". Exactly what flower 'not saying' is, they don't say, but perhaps there is a meaning similar to "silence is golden", although, in fact, it seems to me that the implication is more that there is some kind of beauty or sense of spiritual attainment in having something to say, but witholding (perhaps a bit like Tantric conversation). One is about to speak, but instead of doing so, one allows a flower of multi-petalled meaning to bloom in silence on the air. If I wish to trace such attitudes back to a first ancestor, what immediately springs to mind is the sacred name of God – which I shall not mention here – too holy to pass human lips.

Talking of lips, the English are said to have stiff ones – their upper ones at least. I believe the phrase was first coined by an American, though I don't have the information to hand. If so, the English took this not as an insult, but as a kind of compliment. To the English it meant determination and pragmatism. What did it mean to the American who applied the term originally? Was it possibly meant to express reticence or snobbery, or some combination of the two?

In a previous post, I talk about America as a country that does not speak the languages of the rest of the world:

There are other languages in the world apart from (American) English, and other cultures. The world resembles my [Japanese] friend and I, sitting on a train seat opposite an arrogant American businessman, and talking about him in a language he doesn't understand.

Interestingly, in this analogy, I implicitly place Japan and England on the same seat opposite America. This is not so in all cases, but in the case of communication, is there not some language that the English and Japanese share, even if only partially, that is not so conspicuous in American culture? And is that language not the language of silence? Perhaps the Japanese take this further than the English. They speak of the Japanese tendency to communicate through 'isshin denshin', a knowing of the other person's thoughts and feelings that does not rely upon words.

With the English, perhaps, its often more a case of valuing privacy than being able to communicate through some kind of social telepathy. Explaining his reasons for leaving England and his love of New York, my namesake Quentin Crisp devoted some words to the subject:

"The English always say that the Americans are so false. But I don't spend my time wondering if the man in the deli really wishes me to 'have a nice day.' If he didn't, then he wouldn't say it, surely." Quentin warms to his theme. "In New York, everyone is your instant friend. If you were to stand up in this diner now and shout, 'I'm putting on a cabaret', then everyone would gather round and ask, 'Where will it be?', 'What will it be about?', 'Who will you hire?'. If you did that in England, there would be absolute silence, everyone would stare into their soup and think, 'How appallingly embarrassing.'"

I remember watching an alternative Queen's speech on television, given by Quentin Crisp, in which he urged the British to move to America. He expressed his delight that people in New York will tell you the story of their lives while waiting for the traffic lights to change. "That," he said, "will never happen in England."

Perhaps one of the most interesting convergences of English and Japanese reserve comes in the novel (and film) The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro, a British author who was born in Japan. The story concerns the English butler, Stevens, whose life is a model of devotion in the service of Lord Darlington. As well as a story of loyalty, this is also a story of love. I must confess, I have yet to read the book, but certainly in the film, the implied love that Stevens feels for Miss Kenton is never spoken. And yet it is strongly present throughout the story. The closest it comes to fulfilment is at the end of the film, when Stevens and Miss Kenton meet again after many years and, just as they are saying goodbye, their hands touch briefly. Such unfulfilled, unspoken love was as much a staple of pre-modern Japanese literature (lingering somewhat in modern literature) as the happy-ending and lovers' kiss is the staple of Hollywood today. While Stevens is, therefore, a kind of English archetype, he is also representative of Japanese romantic ideals. Interestingly, Kazuo Ishiguro seems to make the novel even more Japanese by having Stevens' master, Lord Darlington, implicated in the rise of Nazism in Germany. He is later exposed and shamed, and Darlington Hall (I am writing this from memory so may have the name wrong) is bought up by an American. This mirrors both the Japanese defeat in the Second World War, and subsequent occupation by America, and the ever-growing sense in Britain that we are a spent force, that the world we once knew has been taken over by America.

All this brings me to the real beginning of this essay, which goes like this: Last night I happened, more or less by chance, to watch the film The Accidental Tourist. Actually, this was not the first time I had seen it. I had also seen it many years ago, and remembered that, while it had not hugely impressed me, had even been rather disappointing in many ways, there had been something about it, some quirk or other, that had caught my attention and told me that there was something of interest lurking below its surface. This time round I did not watch from the very beginning, but managed to pick up the threads of the story. The main character, Macon, played by William Hurt, is a writer of travel guides who has recently lost his son in a shooting incident. His marriage collapses as a consequence and he continues to drift numbly through life, until he encounters an eccentric dog trainer called Muriel (played by Geena Davis). Macon's travel guides are specifically for reluctant travellers, for instance, those taking business trips to places they would rather not be. Sections of his travel guides are read out as a kind of narration at strategic points during the film, highlighting his psychology as a man who needs security and dislikes the unpredictable nature of life.

Since spending some time in America, whenever I watch an American film, I am reminded, more strongly than ever before, of the love-hate relationship that the British have with American culture, and of just how different the two cultures are. At some points during the film I could hear Blur's Magic America playing in my head. Such a song is a typical expression of the love-hate relationship I mention. On the one hand, Blur are taking an ironic stand, implying by what is left unsaid, that America isn't really all that magical. On the other hand, they are partaking in the fantasy of their protagonist, Bill Barret, and celebrating his "simple dream".

As a Brit, the easiest point of entry for me into the film, in terms of identification, was the lead character Macon, whose grief renders him so numb as to be almost totally withdrawn, most of his lines being mumbled in a deadpan irony that masks a deep pain. Towards the end of the film, his wife, after their attempt to get back together, says to Macon, "The trouble with you, Macon, is – ", at which point he interrupts, "That says everything that is wrong with seventeen years of married life: 'The trouble with you, Macon, is- '." Undeterred, his wife finishes her sentence, "The trouble with you is, you never want to talk about anything." Again, this is from memory, so may not be entirely accurate. Nonetheless, I was reminded of a song by British pop group, The Beautiful South, that song being, You Keep It All In, (one of the few Beautiful South songs I actually like). In the song, the 'I' character is berated by someone close to him in terms very similar to those used by Macon's wife: "You know your problem/You keep it all in". To which the I-character has a withering riposte: "That's sweet/The conversation we had last week/When you gagged and bound me up to my seat/You're right, I do/I keep it all in." Macon has a similar riposte for his wife along the lines that, "If we assume that you're right about that being the trouble with me, can we just shut up about it."

The film, as a whole, resembled many British films in that it was quite understated, without spectacular action, and focused on the lives of ordinary people. In that sense, I felt quite at home with it. However, I gritted my teeth at times, as when Macon encountered Muriel's son, and it was very clear that there was a struggle in him of attraction and repulsion at wanting to replace and not wanting to replace his own son. There was such acreage of potential for sentimentality in this situation, that I found myself recoiling. "Please don't let this be a moral fable about family values!" said the voice in my head. For some reason, I identified it as the Brit in me that reacted in such a way, wanting at all costs to avoid such a cinematic orgy of emotion. Is this because I am cold and cynical? Well, I can't rule that out, but I would also like to think that it is because I have some concept of what is Sacred, and I would prefer such things to be either left unspoken or treated very carefully. Luckily, the film did not veer so far into such territory that my English instinct to be dismissive about sentimental nonsense came into play.

As well as being a film about grief, The Accidental Tourist is also a love story. I am not particularly keen on love stories, not because I think "Bah! Humbug!" to the idea of a love story per se, but for reasons similar to those outlined above, as to why I was wary of the second son plotline. Love, in films, seems far too easy. It loses its value. However, I came away from this film feeling rather differently, feeling like I'd 'got' the idea of what love stories are about.

The Muriel character enters the film because Macon's dog bites him, and he feels the need to discipline it with proper training. Muriel's sartorial style is what I believe is called 'ditzy', but she displays an uncanny rapport with dogs. Nor is this a sentimental, 'animals-love-me' kind of rapport; she manages to keep the dog in line with clucks and clicks and simple hard discipline. There is something brittle about her character. She talks about almost anything, as if to herself, giving personal confidences in a way that makes them sound superficial, seeming to show herself as a hard, spiky exterior, with little or no interior, and with little conception of the interior of other people. And yet, Geena Davis also manages to convey that this ditzy, all-surface quirkiness, does indeed belong to a person with great depths.

[SPOILER ALERT]

In fact, it is partly Geena Davis' performance that carries the film and makes it worth watching. The story itself is not particularly remarkable. Macon's son dies. He separates from his wife. He drifts into a relationship with Muriel. He finds that he can't commit to Muriel, and, when his wife phones him, decides to try again with her. He is then sent on to France to write another guide book, and finds that Muriel has followed him onto the plane and booked herself into the same hotel as him, because he was "falling to pieces" when she met him, and she believes he needs her. He tries, half-heartedly, to dissuade her from following him. He puts his back out in the hotel and his wife arrives to look after him. She sees that Muriel is in the hotel too and asks Macon to explain, which he does. She then asks why he could not have taken steps "for once in his life" to stop Muriel following him. This is a moment of truth. Macon decides to take steps, after all, "for once in his life". He tells his wife he has to go back to Muriel: "You don't need me any more. But I need her." Such is the story. It is not particularly original, but what makes it interesting is that Macon and Muriel are real, individual people. It is their story, and that is enough, because the film brings them to life, and brings their love to life.

I was not sure that such a film could ever be a favourite of mine, and yet tiny details seem to have wormed their way into my heart, such as when Macon, lying in his hotel bed in Paris, laughs to himself suddenly in amusement, and says, in a tone of fond chastisement, or perhaps simple fondness, "Muriel Pritchett!"

But of all the little details, perhaps it is the very ending that has secured the film a place in my heart as something essential. Macon leaves his hotel to get a flight back to America, where he presumably believes Muriel will have gone after he has refused to have anything to do with her in Paris. His back still pains him and he leaves his luggage at the side of the street. He hails a taxi, which a young French boy stops for him, and he gets in. The boy holds the door for him and says, "Au revoir, monsieur. Bon voyage." The taxi moves and the boy runs off. Since the taxi is driving slowly, the car and the boy remain more or less parallel, and Macon watches the boy, entranced. Then, ahead, on the street corner, with her luggage, he sees Muriel. He can hardly get his words out in French, but manages to tell the driver to stop. Muriel is about to hail the cab, and then sees Macon inside. Their eyes meet.

Let me pause for a moment here to reflect upon the accident of their meeting like this. At this point, as they say, understatement and realism 'leave the building'. Well, at least realism does. Not that such a thing is outside the bounds of possibility, it is simply that there is too much of a tradition of such chance meetings in the history of the love story for us to look at this with completely innocent eyes. Whoever made the film must have known that, if not before, then certainly at this point, they were leaving behind 'slice-of-life' and entering 'love-story' writ large. Such chance meetings, by the way, were also an oft-used device in the Japanese literature mentioned above, where unfulfilment was the formula, rather than the happy ending. Nagai Kafu describes such a device in A Strange Tale from East of the River:

To give [my tale] an ending in the old style, I should perhaps add a chapter describing how, quite by accident, six months or a year later, I met O-yuki in a wholly unexpected place. She had changed her profession [of prostitute]. And if I wished to make the scene yet more effective, I could have the two of us see each other from the windows of passing automobiles or trains, unable to speak, however intense the longing. My scene would have a very special power if we were to pass on ferries on, say, the murmuring River Tone, in the time of the autumn leaves and flowers.

A Japanisation of the ending of The Accidental Tourist would thus, presumably, have the taxi driver not understanding Macon's instruction to stop, and Muriel believing Macon had gone back to his wife, perhaps, moving away without a forwarding address. This would have been considered a far more beautiful ending. Not saying is the flower, and unfulfilment leaves the dream of what might have been intact in a sacred shroud of sadness or 'aware'. This is also the effect of the tale of the English butler, Stevens.

Is this unfulfilment beautiful only because it allows dreams to remain dreams, only because the specifics of real life so often disappoint? When we get what we want, it enters into the realm of real life and seldom retains the beauty of a dream.

So, does the ending of The Accidental Tourist work? Does it persuade me that what comes next will be the beauty of a dream fulfilled, or do I believe that it is an illusion, that the film had to end there because that was the most beautiful place to end, and what came next would inevitably disappoint?

I do not know exactly, except that, I want to believe. Perhaps these two quirky individuals can really make something of their real life together.

There's a look on Muriel's face when she sees Macon in the taxi that is one of the 'details' that makes this film 'essential' to me. Her eyes are illuminated from within. She smiles, and her whole face seems to say, "At last! At last!" And a flower blooms.

Yes, the film-makers were right to end with such a look.

Can such a flower ever bloom from what is spoken and fulfilled? Must it always bloom from silence and unfulfilment?

I am haunted by that look. "At last! At last!"

Let it be real.