And not everything in War Horse works. There’s a two-dimensionality to some of the characters—perhaps because we don’t spend enough time with them (and because the story isn’t really about them in the end), perhaps because of casting. Some of the interactions don’t ring completely true. The early scene between Albert and his buddy Andrew, for example, feels like a rejected scene from the Shire. But in the end these weaknesses are transcended by what the story is really about, and there is also a larger sense that we are watching a fairy tale, and the characters are no less two-dimensional than a Pinocchio or Peter Pan.

What the story is really about is that in war everybody loses, but against the backdrop of an incomprehensible hell goodness stands in stark relief. War (here World War I) is more than just the backdrop of War Horse; it is the subject. Spielberg chose a war that resonates in our time, a war of ambiguity, of faceless adversaries, of interminable duration, of confusion and a prevailing sense of senselessness. Perhaps Spielberg simply painted this war as ambiguous, but it’s true that there is no Hitler here, no Holocaust, no clear moral imperative to rally other than patriotism. There is no demonization of any nation or side here. There is simply war—bloodshed and gunfire and pointless suffering.

That is what our attention is directed at, and in the foreground is a series of vignettes, characters tangled in the unmerciful barbed wire of war. Here is the British officer who promises to look after a boy’s horse, only to be undone with enemy gunfire; here are two German boys trying to escape combat, only to be executed as deserters; here is a French girl who wants to ride, only to die in some vague way connected to the fight; here is her grandfather who will pay any price to cling to the shadow of her memory, only to find himself squared against a British soldier—not in combat, but in devotion. In war, everyone loses. Victors limp and bear the scars left by extinguishing a life; two good people stand in opposition over a valued horse, whether in No Man’s Land or in the auction ring.

War pits man against man, and he doesn’t always know why or who he’s fighting. It calls on human beings on both sides to murder. It leaves no one unscathed, whether man or horse. Caught up in the senselessness, men try to adopt bravery, deny cowardice, to fight with steel and valor. The smallest acts of compassion or courage stand as solid silhouettes against a blood red sky. In War Horse, war is revealed as nothing but hell, and every tiny flicker of heaven (displayed by gestures of kindness, sacrifice, loyalty, and humility—from the offer of wire cutters to the mercy of a coin toss) gleams all the brighter. The epitome of this contrast is Joey the horse—galloping through hell, showing no partiality, inspiring goodness and grace in every camp he passes through. Nor can he escape the cost of war, ensnared as he becomes in the very bowels of the fight. No one escapes, everyone loses, but the redemption is found in the contrast, in every bit of beauty seen against the mess. The goodness hardly justifies the war—it is simply more vivid because of it.

Jim Henson was something special. Like Walt Disney, he had a massive imagination and the entrepreneurial gumption to bring it to life. The inimitable voice of Kermit, Rowlf, Ernie, and others, he created a distinct brand of entertainment—part wordplay, part sarcasm, part slapstick, part irony…all heart. Along with Frank Oz, Henson authored a world where felt-and-fur puppets interacted effortlessly and convincingly with the real world. The Muppets rode bicycles, drove cars, cooked, danced, bent iron bars in half, and broke the occasional human heart. Jim Henson brought a lovable family of misfits and drama queens to life, and we never believed for a minute that they weren’t real. He built an enduring piece of Americana entertainment, and imbued this goofy band of characters with such aching warmth and love that the term “Muppet” will always mean something far more meaningful and transcendent than “puppet.”

I was always aware of the shift that happened when Jim Henson (and Richard Hunt) died, drawing a line before A Muppet Christmas Carol and on. Not only was Kermit’s voice different (along with several other central characters), but the Muppets began assuming the roles of other characters—albeit with a Muppety spin. The timbre and quality of latter projects was admittedly inferior to the authentic, earthy zest of the Henson era, but I still found much of the same humor, warmth, and zaniness in them (Christmas Carol is an unparalleled Yuletide gem), and it was still largely the same people and voices underneath the characters. For me, as long as Frank Oz was involved it was still certified Muppets.

Then the franchise got sold around to different companies, eventually bought by Disney, and languished in embarrassing made-for-TV specials for years. Frank Oz took his hands out of Miss Piggy and Fozzie Bear, and I lost all interest.

News of The Muppets swirled around long before 2011, and the (annoying) campaign of parody trailers and ubiquitous TV appearances built anticipation for an unusually long period of time. I didn’t find the parodies funny, and I saw nothing in the glimpses of the film to get my hopes up. I was mostly ambivalent about the prospects, if not a little bugged by what seemed like yet another failed opportunity to do something special with these great characters.

Then the critical buzz began to overwhelmingly counter my blasé assumptions about the movie. Critics were almost unanimously praising the movie, lifting it to the darling status typically reserved for Pixar. (Even Kevin Clash—Elmo himself—assured me that they “got it right” when I shared my worry.) My expectations altered course, and I was actually excited to see the movie on Thanksgiving day—to see my beloved Muppets given their due on the big screen once again, and wash away all the mediocrity they’ve suffered over the past decade or more.

All this is to preface why I was so disappointed with The Muppets.

The movie simply didn’t work for me. That’s the most gracious way I can put it. It wasn’t a terrible movie, it wasn’t as bad as some of the junk I’ve seen the Muppets in, but it didn’t work. It promised to be a reverent reanimation of what the classic Muppets did so well, and (for me) it didn’t keep its promise. It was clearly created by fans; if anything, it almost sagged under the weight of all the Muppet Show / Movie in-jokes and self-aware references. I appreciate all that, on paper, but the execution was void of the charm and magic of the very thing at which the movie kept looking over its shoulder.

Yes, it bothered me that all of Frank Oz’s classic characters are now voiced by new people. It really bothered me that one of the last original guys standing, Dave Goelz (aka Gonzo), was given all of about three lines (or perhaps, like Oz, it was his choice to step back and play a diminished role). What resulted was predominantly imitations of the key characters that comprise the Muppets, and while that doesn’t necessarily spell doom (iconic characters like Goofy, Donald Duck, Winnie the Pooh, and countless others have been re-voiced to varying degrees of success), it prevented me from getting lost in the Muppet world, and contributed to the general vibe I got: that in fact the movie was just an imitation of a Muppet film.

The jokes, the human cast (does it get any more innocuous than Rashida Jones?), the Ben Foldsy songs, the Enchanted dance numbers—they all felt like they belonged to another movie. The story centers, at least initially, on Jason Segel’s character and a new Muppet (Walter), and really hinges on these two for a long while (Kermit and the gang don’t enter the picture until several sequences in). And because I failed to find Segel (or Amy Adams) appealing, and found Walter to be the most boring, anonymous Muppet ever created, the story was nearly dead on arrival. Once the real Muppets came on the scene, things picked up a little and steered closer to true Muppet territory, but again, they felt kind of like imposters. A few jokes worked (I liked Zach Galifianakis’ Hobo Joe, for instance, and Gonzo’s “destroy plumbing business” button), and the movie certainly had moments (it was special seeing a spot-on recreation of The Muppet Show opening, and how can you go wrong with “The Rainbow Connection”?). But more jokes fizzled than fired, elements like the Jack Black cameo felt lazy, and when the movie wasn’t piling up acknowledgments of Muppet heritage it was operating like a silly family movie from a completely different franchise.

I’m probably giving this way more thought than it’s worth. (Although, Jeffrey Overstreet’s thoughtful and touching reflections on the Muppets and their role in his development have inspired me to dig deeper into my love for Kermit and Company.) I’m just perplexed as to why this movie made a “rainbow connection” with so many fellow Muppet lovers (and is drawing praise from almost every film critic), when it missed my receptors by a country mile. I am truly glad there are still Muppet fans out there, and that a group of them made this movie in an effort to celebrate the warmth and nostalgia of the fuzzy troupe. ‘A’ for effort, as they say. But I wanted this movie to stoke the old Muppets fire in me, and it didn’t. I saw a bunch of kids lovingly paying homage to a great, great thing…but it wasn’t the real thing. The hands and voices have changed, and the enterprise has changed with them. The movie itself offers what might be the best metaphor for what I found: a Muppet tribute band.

We were first struck by the charm of the cafe (clean, a looming glass pastry display, quaint seating, a chalkboard announcing “Now serving dinner!”), then the friendliness of the employees. The baked wares looked delicious enough, and we settled on splitting a chocolate croissant and a breakfast sandwich. Of course I ordered a large cup of coffee—dark, for here. We paid and stepped outside to enjoy our breakfast in the California morning air.

I can make no claims to being a coffee connoisseur. Though employed as a Starbucks barista for half a decade, I was a late bloomer to the delights of brewed coffee—only arriving at my current love by way of the commercial route of flavored creamer. But I know when coffee tastes great and when it doesn’t; I like my coffee bold and unapologetic. I’ve been to far too many reputable diners and breakfast establishments that compromise their tasty solids with weak, namby-pamby coffee. I may not be a connoisseur, but I do have high standards.

With the afterglow of too many episodes of Twin Peaks in my mind, I held up my left hand, palm out, as I took my first sip of the swirling, steaming brew, tan with cream. What splashed my tongue was something so absolutely unexpected in its pleasure, all the more rich for its surprise. Bold and dark, strong and smooth, this coffee walked—no, danced—the razor’s edge between the snares of weakness, bitterness, and burntness. In the duration of one cup, I had boldly crowned a new king: Equator Coffee.

The croissant and sandwich were no less delectable; it was no fault of their own that they failed to inspire my heart to fall to its knees in adoration like the coffee. The sandwich—generous portions of eggs, bacon, and fresh tomato housed within succulent scratch-made bread—was incredible. Since that Saturday, we began going every Saturday with religious fervor, and I’ve discovered many other favorites (number one the buttery almond croissant, simultaneously dense and airy). There has been no going back from Heirloom, and I have found no equal. I immediately began verbalizing and tweeting exultant proclamations about Heirloom and Equator, with no ulterior motive other than the joy bubbling from my heart that demanded sharing.

Two weeks ago, after a long and somewhat frustrating job search, my wife became employed by this amazing bakery, and now we are there far more often than every Saturday. The coffee is no less exquisite than that first day, and I’ve never had a bad cup. I fear that, with her saturation and behind-the-scenes perspective, my wife may one day burn out on Heirloom’s delights. But may it never be so for me, a devoted lover and spreader of the good news of Heirloom. May it never be.

Another aspect of this that we’ve gotten used to, and I dare say even learned to enjoy, is owning no permanent furniture. We move to a new location, then beg, borrow, or buy off Craigslist whatever we need: bookshelves, chairs, a coffee table, a desk. With the exception of fabric-centric items like couches and mattresses—where the unknown variables of previous ownership range from foul odors to sentient bacteria—I’m perfectly content to use only second-hand objects to rest my food, clothes, or rump upon. We buy these items on the cheap, and when we’re ready to move again I have no qualms re-peddling them on Craigslist and recycling them back into the great circle of lower-middle-class life.

The benefits of this pilgrim style living are many, but one of the key downsides I’ve found is that, when we move into our new location, it hardly feels like a home. Stuff—be it furniture, art, decor, or simply the particular arrangement of clutter—is often what makes a house feel like home. We took to California with us only what we thought we’d need and little else. Thus, gone are the bookshelves teeming with varied and colorful old spines. Gone are the drapes and curtains that warm up a lifeless room. We left behind all that we didn’t “need,” but I’m learning that it’s all those needless things that make me feel at home.

So the dilemma now becomes, do we simply accumulate more “new” stuff to populate our empty apartment and transform it into a happily cluttered nest? Or do we open the door every day to a depressingly spare monastery of blank walls and an open floor? Hoarding is one vice that I am able and only too willing to let go of, but I’m starting to miss the pleasant domestic side-effects of being a pack rat.

By schmoozing, I mean glad-handing, sweet-talking, or sycophantically approaching someone who I think can elevate me in some way. It can include asking for favors or privileged access, or simply the act of talking to someone. Schmoozing can be for the purpose of advancing my career, worming through the right channels to get access to the top dog, or maybe just for bragging rights. These are all temptations, some more seemingly “legitimate” than others.

I struggle knowing where the line is between appropriate networking and schmoozing. It’s a simple fact that “who you know” often plays a huge role in getting the jobs and opportunities you want. There’s nothing inherently greasy about making beneficial connections. To avoid being a schmoozer, I do my best to put myself in the celebrity’s shoes, to avoid coming across like a used car salesman, and erring on the side of not being pushy enough. I actively keep my distance at times, or wait a little longer to call back, or discard that drafted email.

But beyond the pitfalls of the more accepted act of networking, too often I crave the sweet fruit of posture and position that I think comes with chatting up so-and-so or displaying the personal note so-and-so sent me. I hanker to just call X person up and see if they can do lunch…and I question my motives. Ideally I want to be friends with these amazing people, but am I approaching them as I would a true friend…or as a film music god with enough clout to make my follow-up tweet glisten in the sun? Am I arranging for a meet-up out of pure curiosity or enjoyment, or am I doing it just to fill my ego bladder to bursting?

Not only is schmoozing a reprehensible characteristic (and reputation) to have, but it can do serious long-term damage to the relationships I’m trying so hard to cultivate. Must…resist…the schmooze.

I recently waxed grateful about Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, a film of such a caliber that several critics praised it as the reason cinema exists. And while Inception is, in many ways, a crowd-pleasing summer blockbuster—replete with huge special effects, car chases, and bulleted ski sequences—where The Tree of Life is a quiet, poetic art film, I believe they share in common that laudatory comment.

For in no other medium could you achieve the alchemy of magic that these films concoct. While most films are novels that have sprung to life or simply more open-spaced stage plays, these two works rely on the unique combination of moving images, music, and effects achieved only in film. Both are non-linear, moving in directions and in the order of a deeper level of the mind. The Tree of Life travels into the deep recesses of memory—biased, half-remembered, elusive. Inception transports us into the equally slippery and half-remembered channel of our dreams. How do you tell a story that is not only about memories and dreams, but one that evokes the very nature and feeling of those things?

Through the miracle of cinema, these films do just that—one quietly, the other with blaring brass. After watching The Tree of Life I felt as if I had been washed in the memories and potent emotions of my childhood. When Inception ends, it is like waking from a deep, dream-filled sleep. A good book can certainly possess hypnotic qualities; theatre, music, and art carry the power to transport. But only in cinema can there occur this incredible chemical reaction created by music, performance, visual art, and words. And while many films inspire, delight, and move, The Tree of Life and Inception are in that rarified class of the medium: the reason film exists.

But even without AdSense revenue and comment quantities that shrink the scroll bar, this experiment has been one of great and varied personal value. For the last year (with the exception of a few slothful interruptions), the blog has been my tri-weekly finger scales, my public excuse for sitting down and coaxing thoughts and syntax out of my gelatinous brain. Year one of The Greiving Process coincided (and perhaps fueled) my increasing determination to pursue a proper career as a writer. I used the content of this blog to apply to the creative writing graduate program at Notre Dame, and while it failed me in that endeavor, it did see me receive entry to a journalism program at USC (take that, creative writing!).

The Tree of Life begins with a tragedy, before we really care about the characters to whom the tragedy happens. Then, after watching a married couple grapple with their fresh grief—crying out to God for answers—we are jettisoned back into time to the beginning of the universe, where God’s enigmatic response begins to take shape. We witness the birth of all life, God speaking something from nothing…and then we return to the small Texas family, where we watch the birth and growth of the individuals whom the story is concerned with.

That’s a brief, inadequate, back-of-the-DVD-box summary of the film. What cannot be so easily summarized is the way in which Tree of Life vibrated on the same frequency as the invisible organ inside of me, the one stamped with eternity. The film opens with a passage from The Book of Job, and the narration throughout is packed with echoes of scripture—particularly scriptures wherein man cries out to God in confusion, sorrow, and anger. “Where were you when I needed you?” “We ask God to send healing for our wounds, and instead he sends flies.” “I can’t do what I want to do, and I do what I hate.” A young father strives after the wind of fortune and success, and starts to lose his family in the bargain. A mother is drawn and quartered between devotion to her husband and the affection of her sons. A boy is suffocated under the weight of his father’s authoritative cruelty, and embarks down the path of sin—against his own desires—to escape.

In other words: life happens. Life in all its mess, confusion, heartbreak, and glory. We chase after that which promises us happiness, and trample the only things—the only people—that really matter. Sometimes we lose those people before we had the chance to beg forgiveness, to tell them that our life was empty without them. And yet there remains the chance for release, for redemption. To let go of the weights and scars we drag from the past, and cross the bridge to something more beautiful—back into eternity.

The Tree of Life so exquisitely captures the evasive lightning of what it feels like to be a child. To grow up, to meet baby brothers, to run in circles on the front lawn at sunset. To love parents, yet also fear them. To discover death for the first time, to discover hatred for the first time. To timidly cross the Rubicon of sin and selfishness, and feel hopelessly unable to return to innocence. To stare into the heavens, looking for God, and finding nothing but silence. And then to discover God hiding in the tiny feet of a baby, in the marvel of white clouds pluming out of an oceanic sky. To find God in the people you took for granted, in the simple pleasures of family, in the room next door.

Perhaps it’s because I’m one of three brothers, or because I was homeschooled (and thus spent most of my growing up years with my family)—but The Tree of Life felt like a portrait of my early memories. I recognized the toy trucks; I remember sticking a flashlight in my mouth to see my cheeks glow red in the darkness; I remember the accompanying shame of first giving in to my selfish appetites; I remember hurting my favorite people. The film’s style is like going back to birth and running through disparate and half-remembered memories—which, to me, makes it much more profound than a standard plot. However it did it, Tree of Life bypassed my “movie brain,” and went straight for my spiritual jugular. To the place of memories and dreams, of guilt and joy. It spoke to my very core, where eternity and the things I love deepest are buried and—too often—forgotten. It made me remember the best and most important pieces of my life—and it taught me never to forget them.

For a film as unorthodox and open to interpretation as Tree of Life, subjectivity in response and opinion is inevitable. There is no conventional plot. Most dialogue is spoken (whispered) in poetic narration. And there are lengthy passages of (seemingly unrelated) visuals that require patience and an open mind. Still, after having heard sundry waves of feedback, I was surprised at how accessible the film was. Once you get beyond the more “galactic,” character-less moments, you have a fairly straightforward story about growing up—and all of the accompanying joy, suffering, confusion, temptation, and redemption therein. Only, that story is told in a more visual, organic style than the typical movie narrative.

I don’t know how to extract the essence of my feelings about The Tree of Life without gushing, without tripping over my words in breathless praise. I could easily laud Malick’s filmmaking genius, or the performances, or the superb use of music (unoriginal though it may be). But I think it would be better, and more honest, to talk about the film in terms of what it did inside of me. That’s where the subjective part comes in, and it’s why many people would strongly disagree with my opinion of the film. But this Tree put down roots deep into my spirit, and its impact on me—both in what it taught me and powerfully reminded me of—has been enormous. I wanted to love it, and I did. But I loved it for reasons I didn’t know to expect. Who knew that it would find its way past my head and my heart? Who knew a film had directions to my soul?

In Part Two, I’ll discuss in depth what The Tree of Life did to me.

Why is it that the typical music lover of our day is seemingly so reluctant to consider a musical composition as, possibly, a challenging experience?…Most people seem to resent the controversial in music; they don’t want their listening habits disturbed. They use music as a couch; they want to be pillowed on it, relaxed and consoled for the stress of daily living. But serious music was never meant to be used as a soporific…It is meant to stir and excite you, to move you—it may even exhaust you.

Copland’s statements are in the context of discussing the “contemporary music” of the 1950s—with its serialism, atonality, and the like. “Serious” concert music that defied the forms and palatable harmonies of times gone by. I admit that I’ve always held a very zealous attitude towards such music that would probably make Copland shake his head in professorial disappointment. I harbor very strong feelings of loathing toward music that wallows in atonality, that rejects traditional melodies, that attempts to redefine music as simply sound. But I’m afraid I’m rather picky, because I also don’t like the very traditional, very musical works of, say, Bach (too stuffy).

The reason I love film music so (though “film music,” as a genre, is quite an amorphous term) is because I love the sensibilities and language of 19th-century symphonic music that so many film scores speak in. I love strong melodies and clever development. I respond to the narrative structure of a good film score; it is a tone poem, an opera, and a symphony all in one. I love how a good film score tells me a story, dazzles my intellect, and gets stuck in my head. I guess those three criteria might, loosely, define why I listen to music. Or at least, why I listen to film music and why I prefer film music to all other forms.

The reasons I listen to “popular” music are different. Catharsis is probably the primary reason; channeling happiness, anger, falling in love, or a broken heart into a 3-minute experience that captures my feelings so well and so hummably. Another reason is the purely visceral, aesthetic pleasure of a catchy song—something to sing along with at my loudest volume or interact with physically (beating the rhythm on the nearest hard object or wailing on my air guitar). I suppose these reasons bleed into my reasons for listening to film music. Perhaps my motives are just as amorphous as everything else.