I Need a Montage

Life is hard. It's been made infinitely harder by the viewing of too many movies.

Movies present life like we want it to be, or at least neatly and cleanly. So many dazzling possibilities exist within them that just never seem to crop up in my everyday life. So for starters I've got to cope daily with the disappointment that I am not secretly a wizard recruited into a hidden school of magic, nor am I a messianic figure destined to break the mold of our everyday world which turns out to be a massive illusion generated by heat-sucking computers, nor am I a super-powerful mutant with the ability to fly and make strangers obey my every command. That's bad enough.

But even on a more realistic level, movies show us elements that weave together into a story, so that we can bathe in our delight at the happy ending or sigh with heartfelt sorrow at the tragic conclusion. Nothing pointless happens in movies; nothing occurs that doesn't fit in the thread somehow. My life seems mostly made up of extraneous bits, sidelines, and I spend my days wondering when I'll get back to the main plot. That's strike two against "real life."

Worst, though, is that the characters in movies accomplish all that is needful in those few hours on the screen, no matter how long the actual work and sweat and crying and self-flagellation would last in the real world. The monster can be vaporized using its own deadly radiation against it; the show that will save the orphanage can be planned, organized, and performed to the delight of audiences everywhere; the vigilante cop can track down the drug dealer who killed his partner in an undercover operation that went bad and impale him on a flagpole despite the fact that his by-the-book captain doesn't like rogue cops who don't play by the rules.

This is why I need a montage. Wouldn't that be great? If we could utilize the awesome power of the montage, we wouldn't have to put in the endless hours and days of work needed to accomplish most worthwhile things; we'd just skip around among significant scenes that highlighted our progress at key moments without having to muck about with the uninteresting details.

For instance, Chris was chatting with me today and cruelly making me think about pursuing a career in writing columns and essays and such (based on my sterling performance here). I would have been happier had the thought never really occured to me--now I was stuck thinking about the tantalizing possibility.

But it would be hard. I'd have to do a lot of work. Hard work. The montage would fix that.

We'd start out with a shot of me reading my IM messages from Chris, stroking my chin reflectively, then assuming a square-jawed look of determination and nodding once, resolutely, at the computer screen (presumably, the computer would display huge green-screen blocky '80s text so that it could be read by the viewer). I'd then open a drawer, pull out a pen and paper, and begin to write as the strains of some '90s pop hit (I'm guessing Smashmouth's "Rockstar") began to spool over the visuals.

A series of quick cuts to various scenes, each lasting 3-5 seconds:

Me, writing furiously, several cheap notebooks full of scrawled notes and amusing doodles spread haphazardly over the desk.

Me, typing away on my laptop in my office, shot from behind the monitor so the CRT reflection can be seen in my glasses.

Me, bouncing Madeline on my knee and typing with my free hand on the laptop sitting on the living room coffee table. Joanna in the background, shaking her head with gentle bemusement as a knowing smile plays at her lips. "That husband."

Me walking into a large newspaper office, computer swinging at my side, portfolio in my hand.

Me, walking back out of the newspaper office, head down, dejected. Then I look up, square my jaw, and stride purposefully back to the car.

Me, typing at Starbucks, attractive teenagers chatting in the background while reading books of amusing essays. Two young women in low-cut, midriff-exposing blouses saunter by; I take no notice, so lost am I in my work. The generically bland teenage counter clerk looks on, smirks, shakes his head with gentle bemusement. "Dude."

Me, reading a sheet of paper in my dimly lit office, then suddenly crumpling it into a ball and tossing it over my shoulder. The camera pans down to show the trash can overflowing with crumpled papers.

Me, asleep at my desk, my head resting on piles of scrawled-upon paper, a pencil still clutched in my hand, my glasses askew on my forehead. Joanna enters, smiles knowingly again, removes my glasses and pulls an afghan up over my shoulders.

Me, smiling, typing quickly, nodding, not paying any attention to what keys I'm actually punching.

Me, walking into another newspaper office, this one sleeker and more friendly-looking. Cut to me rising at the same time as a large man in a too-small gray sportcoat and ugly tie. Both of us smile, shake hands.

Me, walking out of said newspaper office, grinning in the noon sun. Three steps into the parking lot, I suddenly jump up, pump my fist in the air, and click my heels together. Freeze frame on my delighted face. The music reaches a triumphant crescendo, then spools out as the image fades to black.

Cut back to me, the montage ended, smiling as I finish another Pulitzer-winning column. I square off the paper and drop it in a manila envelope. The wall of my office has several clipped newspaper articles pinned up, mostly published copies of my columns but intermixed are a few articles on my success. My picture can be seen prominently at the top left of one article with a headline that reads, "Local Writer Considered for Nobel Prize." I have a fancier computer, a nicer chair, and better clothes than I had when we began. My office is also in a mansion.

See? That would be sweet. Thirty seconds, and I get to skip over all the dull, tedious, difficult bits and move straight to sweet, sweet victory.

Maybe I should take up screenwriting instead.