[ToC]

 

GOONIES
OR WALLACE STEVENS'S "THE SNOWMAN": AN ESSAY IN 7 FILMS

Peter Jay Shippy

(2010 Hybrid Essay Contest Winner)

after Tom Andrews

1. The temps mort shot

Helen Vendler on the set of a small city talk show—Providence Today, Hartford Subsequently, Worcester Yet to Come.

The critic sits at the far end of a ridiculously long—11 feet long—yellow, Naugahyde couch. A make-up artist finishes Vendler's face. She looks like a Pirouette. Don't fret, says the make-up artist, on TV you'll look like a million bucks—trust me.

The host, a young woman, anchors the other end of the couch. The host wonders if journalism is dead—has she made a wrong choice? Is there time to switch gears? Her agent wants her to read for a small part in a large movie, playing a TV journalist. Is it a stretch? she wonders.

The host is secretly dating Ernie, the talk show's Foley Artist. He sets up his equipment behind the couch. Why must we keep our love a secret? Is she embarrassed to date a man with aural fixations? Is desire too difficult to tell from despair?

A techie squats next to Vendler and pins a microphone to her lapel.

Director's voice: Helen? Can we test your mic? Say a few words.

Helen Vendler: I can tell you what it's not about—it's not about a snowman.

The crew fills the set with props: a clavier, a stuffed cockatoo, a live peacock, a glass coach, a ridiculously large monocle, interior intonations, a blue guitar and a box from Estonia.

Director's voice: Ernie? Give me a sock to the mug, a real jawbreaker.

Ernie twists apart a head of romaine lettuce.

The crew, more props: a jar shaped like Tennessee, a Cuban cigar, a carpenter's iridescences, withered lilacs, square hats, mattresses of the dead and frost shriveled elephants-ears.

Director's voice: Ernie? Give me a crow, no, give me a murder of crows on the wing. And, Helen, let's try your mic one more time.

Ernie flaps a half-dozen black, velvet gloves.

Helen Vendler: It's not about a snowman.

The crew, more props: rabbit ears, whirroos, an owlet, postcards of Vesuvius—Krakatoa—Mt. St. Helen's, the spontaneous particulars of sound and azaleas and so on.

Director's voice: Ernie, some thunder? A few rolls from Uncle Crash-boom-bah?

Ernie flutters a sheet of aluminum. The host looks up.

Helen Vendler: I can tell you what it's not about.

Director's voice: Thanks, Helen. You're coming through loud and clear.

The crew, more props: a cat in a paper bag, leaden loaves, the hierophant Omega, a dish of country cheese, turquoise leaves, and a golden vase filled with broken stalks.

Ernie walks in high heels on a cedar platform while kissing the back of his hand. The host turns around and looks at Ernie. He shakes a tin box filled with wood scraps and nails.

Director's voice: Is it just me, or did I hear a crash? A real render-bender?

The crew, more props: the rock, secretions of insight, a jar of plastic paratroopers, pineapples, a cricket in a telephone, red emeralds, and a Styrofoam snowman.

The host fights her way through the crew and the props to embrace Ernie. They exit.

Director's voice: Cue snow.

Paper snow falls from the rafters.

Helen Vendler: I can tell you what it's not about—it's not about a snowman.

The snow falls until Helen Vendler is covered to her chin.

 

 

__

2. Sweet nothings

A. Long shot of two figures walking across a barren landscape—like something out of John Ford. A dust storm rages. Their faces are wrapped in kerchiefs and rags.

B. Long shot of two figures walking across a barren landscape—like something out of George Herriman. A sand storm rages. Their faces are covered in Halloween masks—a cat and a mouse.

C. Long shot of two figures walking across a barren landscape—like something out of Mary Shelley. An Arctic storm rages. Their faces are covered in masque masks—Frankenstein and Percy Bysshe.

D. Long shot of two figures walking across a barren landscape—like something out of Arthur C. Clarke. An ion storm rages. Their faces are covered in space helmets.

E. Long shot of two figures walking across a barren landscape—like something out of de Chirico. A shadow storms rages. Their faces are covered in dumb show masks. No, they are dummies.

F. The two figures enter the abandoned city. Dust or sand or shadows or ion or snow cover the streets. They enter a park. They trudge. We hear music—an ondes Martenot plays Messiaen's "Three small liturgies of the Divine Presence." They reach a white mound. They begin to dig with their hands or shovels—they blast it with a ray gun. Finally, they uncover an aa cenotaph. Stevens's poem is inscribed in the lava:

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

G. The two figures embrace and exit the park, in opposite directions.

 

 

 

__

3. The world tossed at tennis

The universe—a million light years from earth.

Pods of galaxies are strewn like beer foam—one coil of light signifies a billion stars. Our POV is moving as we sail through unknown space, into the Milky Way, the Ring Nebula, Lyra, Vega and finally we hover above Earth and fall through the atmosphere, clouds, until we see land, North America, Connecticut, Hartford, Elizabeth Park covered in snow and finally we locate a solitary figure, Wallace Stevens, walking and mumbling.

Wallace Stevens: One must have a spirit of winter to consider... one must have the winter spirit to reflect... branches... pine-trees covered in a crust... of ice... of snow... slush... don't forget to buy milk and bread... the rough fir trees in remote undulation of the sun... a listener... who listens to snow and... nothing... and nothing... one must have winter spirits... one must have....

Cut to Stevens's library at 118 Westerly Terrace. Stevens sits a brown modern club chair in front of a roaring fire, nursing ale in a great stein.

Wallace Stevens: The will of winter to believe... one must have winter's mind to reflect... boughs... pine-trees in piecrust... ice... snow... don't forget to buy milk and bread... the rough fir trees... darling buds... rough fir trees in remote undulation of the sun... a listener... who listens to snow and listen... nothing... nothing... one must have a mind... where is my mind....

As he speaks, Elsie Stevens enters. She wears a Phrygian cap sprouting wings. She listens and exits and reenters with a red wagon filled with a stack of Gramophone records, gauze and ewers of maple syrup. She searches through the records, tossing unwanted discs through the air where they catch light and shatter as they hit the wall or floor. Finally she settles on two selections—Satie and Schumann. She uses the syrup to glop one disc against each of Stevens's ears and then wraps the gauze around and around his head, until he resembles a pale intrusion.

Elsie Stevens: Think not of them, thou hast thy music too.

She exits.

Wallace Stevens: Winter... winter's mind... boughs... pine-trees... ice... snow... milk... fir trees ... a listener... listens... listen... snow and... nothing... rien... nichts... niente... nothing... a mind... my mind...?

Close-up on a book on the mantel above the fireplace—David Hockney's The Blue Guitar: Etchings By David Hockney] Who Was Inspired By Wallace Stevens Who Was Inspired By Pablo Picasso.

Fade to black.

 

 

 

__

4. Instructions to the director of the adaptation

The poem contains 15 lines.

The first line relates to an unspecified time in the past or future—think of that iconic scene in Safety Last (1923), where The Boy (Harold Lloyd) hangs from the hands of a clock on the side of a skyscraper, hundreds of feet above traffic.

The second line mentions frost, as in crystals of frozen water, not Robert—but since you mentioned him—let's rock! How many snowmen appear in the Bobby oeuvre? None! Zero! Mostel! Nada! Nowhere in his 32,987 poems or in his 987 essays or in his erotic graphic novel does a snowman appear. Why not? Because Frost was born in San Francisco. He never developed the almighty mitts it takes to raise a righteous man of snow and so he banished the roughly human from his work. To regard the frost and boughs is better than picking apples. It's a dream work. Ask any farmer's kid. Ask me.

The third line is below the line (the opposite of behind the scenes).

The fourth line relates to revolutions—complete circles—think of Henriette Girard (Lillian Gish in Orphans of the Storm (1921)), the illegitimate and abandoned child of an aristo family, adopted and raised by a loving commoner only to be blinded by the plague—the black death!

The fifth line mentions junipers. Remember that early Christians smeared juniper berries over their palms and feet to simulate crucifixion juice. Remember that gin comes from genever, Dutch for juniper. "And you, my semblables—the old flag of Holland / Flutters in tiny darkness."

The sixth line is capable of a tour-de-force performance and may attempt to steal its scene.

The seventh line relates to January—Janus—the god of gates and doorways, beginnings and endings—think of Harold Lloyd as The Boy in Haunted Spooks (1920). Let down by love The Boy tries and fails (and fails) to commit suicide. Eventually he marries The Girl (Mildred Davis, who would marry Lloyd three years later (they remained wed until her death in 1969)). The couple (the movie couple) moves into a stately house (the movie house) where The Wicked Uncle (the movie uncle) tries to scare the youngsters away so he can have the mansion all to hisssssself.

The eighth line mentions sound, as in the verb sound: to suddenly dive downward to avoid sharp leaves and—ouch—wound the land.

The ninth line is a red herring, in contrast to the twelfth line, which is a McGuffin.

The tenth line relates to Taoism—think of Lucy Burrows (Lillian Gish in Broken Blossoms)—a London urchin abused by her boxer father until she escapes and is rescued by a Cheng Huan, a Chinese poet who protects her and teaches her The Path. When Lucy's father discovers his daughter's whereabouts he arrives at Cheng Huan's door prepared to drag her back to their hovel. What Battling Burrows doesn't know is that CH is a member of the Society of Righteous and Harmonious Fists. "Hear the sound of the land, motherfucker."

The eleventh line is full of the same wind, "Hear the sound of the land, Erato."

The twelfth line is a McGuffin, in contrast to the ninth line, which was a red herring. Is it still a red herring?

The thirteenth line relates to the the. There is no article in Persian, Sanskrit, Homeric Greek, or Latin. Ulysses's nouns were untethered, free as a stray dog at the garbage heap—think of that memorable scene from The Man on the Dump (1938) where Lillian Gish (Lillian Gish) leaps from the acme of the world's largest junkyard (to escape The Man) screaming, "Where was it one first heard of the truth?" and falls into the arms of Harold Lloyd (Harold Lloyd), who sings, "The the."

The fourteenth line mentions nothing—a real crowd pleaser. If Stevens had stopped here—beholds—would this poem be a sonnet? The poem is one sentence long. Is it still a sonnet? ("...one of the most amusing things about all the po-faced or bloody asseverations on what constitutes a the 'true' sonnet is the fact that no one can agree on anything but the fact it has fourteen lines. Probably."—Don Paterson, intro. to 101 Sonnets)

The final line is the martini shot. Cheers.

 

 

 

__

5. Anecdote of the jar or the plot of every Wallace Stevens poem ever

A. A title introduces the crime.

B. Stevens and his team inspect.

C. His client is accused of a heinous rhyme.

D. Further investigations take place.

E. The trial begins. A stenographer from the Hartford Accident and Indemnity Company takes notes.

F. In a boardroom coup, Stevens presents startling new images that elicit chin music and a confession from the true crook.

 

 

 

__

6. One of the three pure ones

Close-up of a radio on a deal dresser. The baroque machine looks robotic, sentient. A hand enters the shot and turns the radio on. Our POV closes, until we are inside the radio among glass tubes, wires, and dust. Sitting on a miniature stool is a miniature Wallace Stevens.

Wallace Stevens: I shall explain "The Snow Man" as an example of the necessity of identifying oneself with reality in order to understand it and enjoy it. And speaking of enjoyment, I'm sending Chesterfields to all my friends. That's the merriest Christmas any smoker can have—Chesterfield mildness plus no unpleasant aftertaste.

Cut to a young John Ashbery, lying in a dorm bed next to the dresser, puffing on candy cigarette.

Voice-from-the-next-bunk-over: Hey, Ashes, hows about some music? This poetry talk gives a fella the heebie-jeebies.

 

 

 

__

7. Journey beyond the stars

Brooks and Hughes, two police detectives, pace around a cramped office littered with the conventional procedural detritus—Styrofoam coffee cups, Chinese food buckets, smoldering cigars, boxes stuffed with case files, a pristine Olivetti Valentine loaded with a sheet of blank paper, and the OED, unabridged. The bookcases are filled with hundreds of copies of Harmonium. Headshots of six children and one Helen Vendler are thumbtacked to a bulletin board. Brooks pulls down a Murphy bed and they sit, staring at the photos.

Brooks: What are we looking at?

Hughes: The answer.

Brooks: You're saying it's right in front of us? This answer?

Hughes: Staring us in the eye.

Brooks: What happened to these kids? That critic?

Hughes: Staring us in the eye.

A comprehensive pause. Hughes smiles.

Brooks: What?

Hughes: Epistemology is?

Brooks: The bough of philosophy that investigates the nature of knowledge.

Hughes: Knowledge is?

Brooks: Awareness, or possession of info, data, truths and or principles.

Hughes: Are you seeing what I'm thinking?

Brooks stands on her head, while continuing to consider the headshots.

Brooks: You're suggesting that no modus operandi can be taken as definitively true.

Hughes: But?

Brooks: But not all views are equally true.

Hughes: Now in French.

Brooks: Mais non toutes les vues sont également vraies. Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!

Brooks disengages her headstand and picks up the phone.

Brooks: Sergeant? Send up an automatic writer.

There's a knock at the door.

Brooks and Hughes: Come in!

The automatic writer enters, sits at desk in front of the Olivetti, cracks his knuckles and falls asleep, typing. Louis Armstrong & Ella Fitzgerald sing "Cheek to Cheek" over a montage of: Brooks pursuing a criminal across a high wire—Hughes smoking a pipe in a trench on the Somme battlefields—Wallace Stevens mumbling as he walks Elizabeth Park in Hartford— children wearing plastic beaks flapping their arms and running through a playground—Brooks and Hughes in a gondola, pursuing a criminal across Lethe. The automatic writer collapses. Hughes pulls out the paper and begins to read.

Hughes: "The Snowman" by Wallace Stevens. One must have a mind of winter to regard the frost and the boughs of the pine-trees crusted with snow—

Brooks: That's it! I know where they are!

The Ronettes sing, "Frosty the Snowman" over a montage of: Brooks, on a beach, using a gold lighter to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside—Hughes, in a dense forest, using a candle to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside—Brooks, in an ice cave, using a flame thrower to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside—Hughes, in the lion's den at a zoo, using his own breath to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside— Brooks, on a truck flatbed speeding across a desert, using a wooden match to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside—and, Hughes, inside a bank vault, using a still beating human heart to melt a snowman, revealing a child inside. Cut to a hospital room with six beds and six smiling children sipping chicken soup.

Hughes: That's it. Case solved.

Brooks: One, two, three, four, five, six. Six.

Hughes: Six? Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!

Brooks: Chien de Jean de Nivelle!

Cut to the set of a small city talk show—Good Morning Bangor, Good Noon Burlington, Bon Soir New Haven. Brooks and Hughes use leaf blowers to scatter a paper snowman, revealing Helen Vendler. The snow gently burnishes the empty, still set and its array of props: a clavier, a stuffed cockatoo, a live peacock, a glass coach, a ridiculously large monocle, interior intonations, a blue guitar, a box from Estonia, a jar shaped like Tennessee, a Cuban cigar, a carpenter's iridescences, withered lilacs, square hats, mattresses of the dead, frost shriveled elephants-ears, rabbit ears, whirroos, an owlet, postcards of Vesuvius—Krakatoa—Mt. St. Helens, the spontaneous particulars of sound, azaleas and so on, a cat in a paper bag, leaden loaves, the hierophant Omega, a dish of country cheese, turquoise leaves, a golden vase filled with broken stalks, the rock, secretions of insight, a jar of plastic paratroopers, pineapples, a cricket in a telephone, red emeralds, and a Styrofoam snowman.

Brooks and Hughes embrace and exit.

Elongated pause.

Helen Vendler: I can tell you what it's not about—it's not about a snowman.

 

 

 

__

Notes:

Film 1

  • Most of the props were excavated from Stevens's poems.
  • Is desire too difficult to tell from despair? was plucked and remixed from Stevens's "Esthetique du Mal"

Film 3

  • Elsie's dialogue is a line from Keats's "Ode to Autumn"

Film 4

  • "And you, my semblables—the old flag of Holland/Flutters in tiny darkness." Stevens, from "Dutch Graves in Bucks County"
  • The thirteenth line refers to and quotes from Stevens's "The Man on the Dump"

Film 6

  • Stevens's explanation of the poem is legit, from a letter. The cigarette stuff, not so true, but genuine.

 

 

 

 

 

__

x