Jane got a movie? About HER life?
Dang.
Yet another career milestone to aspire to. Or perhaps a perk of being dead 200 years? Okay, okay, in 200 years I doubt I'll care whether or not my books are remembered, cherished, beloved by millions, and made into miniseries. My daytimer doesn't run that far into the future. It's from Staples.
But it doesn't hurt to dream. And maybe prepare a bit.
It's my understanding that Jane Austen didn't leave a juicy, tell-all autobiography. There is official record of her life-- where and with whom she lived, when she died, when and with whom she published. And a few letters and some personal pennings. And of course, the fact that she never MARRIED, which by the standards of the day means she probably never had. . . you know. . . "thex." But almost everything else in the movie was gleaned from what she would have had to have known or seen in order to have written the books she wrote. Hmmm. Now I'm not an expert on memoirs or autobiographies, but I don't think that qualifies the movie in anybody's book as "truth," much less "fact."
Which means. . . in 200 hundred years they won't care about the "facts" of our lives, either. What they'll want is a good rock 'em, sock 'em story. So, since we have no idea whose books will survive and become the stuff of legend, I suggest. . . we all leave them a story. Write up an autobiography that's the way you'd like it to be and salt it around in places it's likely to survive-- attached to wills, in lock boxes-- or, hey!, on the internet. We've got fabulous imaginations, I bet we could come up with some killer autobiographies.
I can hear your necks creaking as your heads shake. [I have just decided I have supernaturally terrific hearing. (Note to self: establish early on in autobiography-- perhaps as the reason for decidedly un-stellar elementary school career)] And I can hear the gasps. This is not lying. This is spin. Which is an altogether different thing. Just ask anyone in Washington.
I can just see in now-- Betina, blissful child of the backwoods, at one with nature. . . cruelly ripped from her environment and forced to go to SCHOOL. . .where they made her sit in cramped little desks and write her letters over and over. She yearned to return to nature, but was constrained to live her entire life in hideously artificial houses with indoor plumbing and dishwashers and sleep-number beds. (Are you crying yet?)
Okay, so I'll work on it. Maybe there's still time for me to do some shocking, juicy stuff that will be memorably cinematic.
What about you? How would you fictionalize your life? What would be the high and low points? Would you be a Gone with the Wind or a Carrie? Oooooh-- better yet-- who would you like to play you from today's crop of actresses? Personally I'm hoping they cryo-freeze Michelle Pfeiffer so she'll be available to play me. . .
Cough, cough.
5 comments:
Oh, clever, Betina! Yes, to creating our own autobiographies to be found by a major Hollywood producer and splashed across the big screen. (Which may be a holo-screen by then, eh?)
I get Angelina Jolie cryo-frozen to then be thawed to play me. And of course there was that brief affair I had with Johhny Depp, which certainly, the actor could play himself. :-)
M
My childhood high and low would be one and the same moment...sixth grade. Mr. Byrd decided my friends and I talked to much (gasp!) and we were each put in a corner of the room, with our backs to the rest of the class. For this Goody Two Shoes it was shame...and heaven. I stacked my fiction books against the cinderblock wall and when I finished classwork I was able to sit and read undisturbed. Oh, the joy!
The only interruption to this bliss was when Mr. Byrd decided =he= wanted to talk. My corner was the one right behind his desk and he found me entertaining, I guess.
Hmmm. Not sure what my highs and lows are, but I have this feeling that my best in life is yet to come.
I'd like Lucy Lui to play me. Silly, I know, I'm not chinese, for some reason I identify with her.
Hmmm... just thinking about autobiographical stuff is funny. Why do we remember these things?
For instance, I met my husband on a blind date when I was sixteen. I was wearing a halter top and in the backseat because my girlfriend was riding with her boyfriend in the front of the two-door car. As we arrived to pick up my eventual hubby, he ran out of his house to the car, opened the door, squeezed the upper half of his body through the opening for the introduction and came face to boob with me. There was more of me than would actually fit in the halter. Future hubby did not have a problem with that.
Christie, Deb. . . It seems like everybody has those stories that just won't die. . . triumphs, humiliations, curious connections between us and people or places that we can't explain.
Michelle, you may have to arm wrestle a few people for the rights to Angelina. Helen, I love Lucy Liu. But I'm sticking with Michelle.
And I think I'd be more a "Divine Miss M" Special than a full movie!
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