Life, they say is like an onion, and I guess this is how I came to write this account of Fences the movie. The first draft came out of my writing group. A motley group of folks come together to do two strange things – we write as a group, and listen to each other, these are odd things to do in a world of singularity and quick unseen social interactions.
Our small enclave evokes the magic of storytelling simply by the act of picking two cards. Two 2×4 inch Prompt cards with odd situations and subject combinations. Our minds then work its alchemy in transforming those cards into histories and futures, dreams and nightmares, finding Truths from lies and along the way laughter, tears, release, and wows.
This time the two cards that were picked were: “Movie Director” and “The Last Night in the Old House” my mind raced quick to events of the last few days, and like the onion, it peeled back more than what was thought to be there.
As pen hits the page, my mind raced through emotions and events … and yet quickly circled back to the film Fences. It seems that I have a long history with that playwright’s new film of 2017, yes, a hauntingly long history that lay buried, yes memories, maybe unspoken, but like the elephant in the middle of the room, the observation must be given voice.
The first time I became aware of Fences, was in 1987, back then it was a full fledge high grossing play on Broadway in New York. I read about it in the Los Angeles Times, Theater section. Sullivan, the theater critic had written the article in anticipation of its Los Angeles opening. The article was as much about James Earl Jones (Voice of Dart Vader, Star Wars movie fame) as it was about the play Fences or the incredible author August Wilson who won both a Pulitzer Prize for Drama and the Tony Award that same year for Fences.
I was excited about going to the play and in process of plans …I saw a billboard picture of James Earl Jones with a baseball bat, for the show… I don’t remember where I saw it, but I remember the words that tumbled out of my mouth in seeing that picture “Jones looks like my father”, I was shocked at how much he looked like my father and a cold shiver ran down my back. Within a few weeks, some televised show had the briefest of a clip showed Jones doing a scene from the show, a bead of sweat formed on my forehead ….I don’t remember what happen, which is to say I did not see that play.
I was involved at that time in a form of psychotherapy (or what I like to call the study of the Soul), with a group known as The Prosperos. It seemed that at the time of the plays L.A. opening, my sessions with my Mentor became more often, some bouts with intense emotions. In the meantime, I was reading more books, steered on in part by lively discussions through my once a month dinners with Mary Ritley (known to some as writer M.R. Ritley) discussion about ordinary people, about archetype symbol’s, totems, and the re-enactment of identity in cultural history. Somehow the Play was gone and a distant memory but not the dominos benefits it unleashed in my life.
Over the last decade, my family and myself due in part to illness and the death of my mother – my siblings and I have grown closer. More able to discuss openly our growing up years. I receive a phone call the first of January 2017 from my Brother Michael urging me to go to see a movie, he said: “I want you to see this movie and then let’s talk”. I knew from his tone, it would be one of those conversations about fathers and sons. I smile to myself, and into the phone, I said yes, I would. knowing on some level it would be of more benefit to us…the phone rang off.
A day later I went to see the film. Then two days later at writing group came this prompt ““Movie Director” and “The Last Night in the Old House”. My thoughts began followed by my pen into these words.
In the opening scene of film Fences, the first thing I was struck by was the weight that Denzel Washington had put on for the role of Troy Maxson, the protagonist. Denzel’s gait and stance was that of a hardworking man from the 1950, He seemed massive. Denzel the Director had done his job on period history and transporting us back in time in the movie. And when Denzel opens his mouth uttering the first words about his life struggles, I felt the bead of sweat and a single tear run from my eyes. I did not need to hear the words he spoke, I knew the words before they were spoken. Denzel playing Troy Maxson, the husband and father describing his struggle to find and maintain job, family, and somehow in the process losing a dream, but he would carry on, the best way he knew how, responsible, hardworking, and sacrificing. Strange I thought how these things can eat away your soul if your dreams aren’t in them.
As I heard the lines of the movie unfold and each character already familiar to me from my past appear, either seen or spoken of, my heart would be wrenched a bit like a sponge of its water.
An example is Troy talking about the act of claiming his manhood, it was Freeling, yet I felt the weight of the price for doing so, was there no other way? trapped in a process as old as time, fenced in, living more a re-enactment of some ancient scene from Mary Renault’s book “The King Must Die” or from the historical playwright James Goldman’s “The Lion in Winter.” a struggle, a fight against self-doubt, fear, yes death itself. I knew that battle, what it took for Troy to become Troy himself. To realize something, almost hidden, Troy had beaten fear even of death.
I had tried to brace myself, for I knew, like a good RHS the archetype characters were not finished with me yet, and (laughingly now) seeing myself braced not wanting to see or hear what I needed to hear and see played out with Troy and his son Cory… that is when I heard the words “COME ON”, Troy said “COME ON” that is when the floodgates of emotions open wide within me because I knew Cory had stepped up and his father had answered – “COME ON”-. this realization, you know, win or lose that relationship is changed forever, so in the yard of that old house father, son, and symbolic ball bat – fight it out, and as my tears fall I know these are not tears of sorrow but of sweet release for the son who now becomes the prōtagōnistēs symbol, no matter if beaten, racked with pain or whatever, that he is no longer fenced or bound by fear. How do I know you see at that moment, I had the cathartic release, It Was Mine. My Confirmation of my coming into my Authentic Self as I had picked myself up off the floor, long ago, that last night, in the old house that no longer was my home.
