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torquillSomething broke loose about twenty minutes ago, and I just started crying. Sitting at my computer, nothing happening except the mental echoes of a TV episode I had just finished, and a thoughtful comment about the underlying psychology of play parties on my Facebook feed. And suddenly I was crying.
I let it happen. I'm not afraid of that sort of flood now; I know I won't wash away, and the torrent will be finite. I even knew something of why it was happening, though I'm still a little unsure of the details. I can guess, but that's all it is, because Amy doesn't have words for issues as complex and hugely simple as these.
I posted earlier tonight on FB about the fact that I'm nearing the end of the series I'm watching, and that instead of going on to one of the other shows lined up in my queue, I may simply start this one over again. I had watched a little of Millennium back when it aired in the late 90s, but lost track of it when I got sick and had to drop out of school; I picked it up this time because of its identity as an X-Files spinoff, and I felt a desire to explore the various offspring of a good series. So I watched a few episodes, once again captivated without really knowing why.
As things went on, I started to pin down what appealed to me about it. The first season is quite straightforward, but unconventional: one plot per episode, which advances with a metronome regularity that comes across as a kind of inevitability. It's soothing for me to watch, because it doesn't rely on the sort of frantic activity that other shows (even X-Files) relied on to keep up tension. This is more like a short novel in each episode, filling out character sketches and its own style of music and scenery into a kind of gallery. It lacks the rawness of Bosch, though; if it's poetry, it's the formal kind, not beat poetry.
Occasionally the metaplot would advance in breathtaking leaps (until it managed to self-destruct in the headtrip that is the season 2 finale). It was an interesting premise, with even more inevitability expressed in the constant countdown in season 2.
I finally figured out that the real reason I watched it, and kept watching even when it wobbled and lost its way (then found it again), was the lead character. Lance Henriksen isn't exactly the most photogenic actor in the world, and his voice ranges from a gravelly warmth to a hoarse rasp, but he has the sense of presence, and focus, which is the only thing that could carry Frank Black as a character. Like Mulder in the X-Files, Frank is the soul of the show with a totality that becomes evident as soon as the focus of the script moves away from him. And I find him fascinating.
Not in an animal-in-the-zoo kind of way, either -- Frank is almost entirely an average man with only a touch of clairvoyance to make him unusual. He is a loving husband and devoted father, a loyal friend, a dedicated agent of the profiling craft. He understands people in a way few ever do, and switches between cold analysis and empathy depending on the circumstance. What makes him interesting to me is how he handles his gift, and the horrors it brings him -- with a slight frown, a calculating look, as scenes of absolute horror play in his head. It conveys, without anyone having to talk about it, the impression that he is unfazed by it because he has seen it all before, thousands of times. And yet he can smile at his daughter and make love to his wife.
I haven't been able to put this series down because of Frank Black. I think that he has lessons for me, in his steady groundedness, his acceptance of difficult things, his grace, even the heat of his rare anger. He is economical with his words, keeps his internal workings to himself, but talks willingly about his gift to the people close to him, or those who coax him into opening up. He shares his thoughts with his wife, sometimes too much for even her comfort, though she's as compassionate as he is. But he has no one to impress, even if he has to work sometimes to prove what he knows is true. Above all, he has integrity and sincerity, a sense that he has learned he must be true to himself, despite the times when the consequences have driven him to deny his nature out of sheer stress (by the time he appears in the X-Files, at the end of Millennium, he's institutionalized himself three times).
Even his co-workers accept who he is -- that's understandable with the Millennium Group, but later at the FBI it's common knowledge that he sees things. They still respect him a great deal because he's a proven veteran, an exceptional profiler who has earned his place, even if he isn't completely sane. It's a nice change from the stories where unusual people are always black sheep.
In other series like this, I develop something of a romantic attachment to a strong male lead, but not here. Not because of Lance Henriksen's unconventional looks -- I have a crush on Peter Capaldi, who can put Henriksen to shame -- but because I identify with him instead. I see things other people don't, though they aren't nearly as traumatic as what Frank sees. I'm an oddball who's good at what they do, and sometimes makes unusual requests of people that I can't adequately explain. I have struggled with who I am, and what place I have in the world, and I've had to face difficult situations as a result of that. I recognize the slow patience in him, like the patience of owls, the sense of watching and observing everything. I recognize the uneasy quiet of a soul that has seen too much.
I think that I could do far worse than to become more like Frank Black.
All of this has been percolating at the back of my mind, as I watch him continuing to observe, overcome obstacles, face griefs and fears. And that comfort I derive from seeing him, like a cup of hot tea on a rainy day, laps at the feet of the current problems in my life until I realize that I'm finding some of his acceptance creeping into my own soul. That grace in the face of hardship is something that I can take in, like absorbing water through the skin, just by watching someone else exhibit it. That even as I'm escaping my problems, I'm learning how to shape myself to better cope with them.
And I feel Sam re-orienting to the calm competence that characterized em from the beginning, finding a path to the grace I've sought, and I break down crying. Out of relief, out of hope, out of grief, and simply because it's change, and change is not painless. I cry because I feel steady enough to let out some of the pain and frustration that's been building up these past few months. I cry because I know life will never be easy, a fact which I've finally had to face this last couple of weeks, but that someone else who also hasn't had it easy can show me how to face life anyway. Even if his life is fictional, it's sufficiently well-written that I can see experience there, probably from one or more of the writers. And that makes it real enough.
I'll probably watch this series again, until I feel like I've learned enough that I can put it down for a while. Like the times I go out to stare at the Man in the desert, I have to sit with it long enough to hear what it has to teach me, and then come to terms with that. Meanwhile, Frank will be there, reassuring, calm, competent, to help me escape my pain until I can cope with it.
I let it happen. I'm not afraid of that sort of flood now; I know I won't wash away, and the torrent will be finite. I even knew something of why it was happening, though I'm still a little unsure of the details. I can guess, but that's all it is, because Amy doesn't have words for issues as complex and hugely simple as these.
I posted earlier tonight on FB about the fact that I'm nearing the end of the series I'm watching, and that instead of going on to one of the other shows lined up in my queue, I may simply start this one over again. I had watched a little of Millennium back when it aired in the late 90s, but lost track of it when I got sick and had to drop out of school; I picked it up this time because of its identity as an X-Files spinoff, and I felt a desire to explore the various offspring of a good series. So I watched a few episodes, once again captivated without really knowing why.
As things went on, I started to pin down what appealed to me about it. The first season is quite straightforward, but unconventional: one plot per episode, which advances with a metronome regularity that comes across as a kind of inevitability. It's soothing for me to watch, because it doesn't rely on the sort of frantic activity that other shows (even X-Files) relied on to keep up tension. This is more like a short novel in each episode, filling out character sketches and its own style of music and scenery into a kind of gallery. It lacks the rawness of Bosch, though; if it's poetry, it's the formal kind, not beat poetry.
Occasionally the metaplot would advance in breathtaking leaps (until it managed to self-destruct in the headtrip that is the season 2 finale). It was an interesting premise, with even more inevitability expressed in the constant countdown in season 2.
I finally figured out that the real reason I watched it, and kept watching even when it wobbled and lost its way (then found it again), was the lead character. Lance Henriksen isn't exactly the most photogenic actor in the world, and his voice ranges from a gravelly warmth to a hoarse rasp, but he has the sense of presence, and focus, which is the only thing that could carry Frank Black as a character. Like Mulder in the X-Files, Frank is the soul of the show with a totality that becomes evident as soon as the focus of the script moves away from him. And I find him fascinating.
Not in an animal-in-the-zoo kind of way, either -- Frank is almost entirely an average man with only a touch of clairvoyance to make him unusual. He is a loving husband and devoted father, a loyal friend, a dedicated agent of the profiling craft. He understands people in a way few ever do, and switches between cold analysis and empathy depending on the circumstance. What makes him interesting to me is how he handles his gift, and the horrors it brings him -- with a slight frown, a calculating look, as scenes of absolute horror play in his head. It conveys, without anyone having to talk about it, the impression that he is unfazed by it because he has seen it all before, thousands of times. And yet he can smile at his daughter and make love to his wife.
I haven't been able to put this series down because of Frank Black. I think that he has lessons for me, in his steady groundedness, his acceptance of difficult things, his grace, even the heat of his rare anger. He is economical with his words, keeps his internal workings to himself, but talks willingly about his gift to the people close to him, or those who coax him into opening up. He shares his thoughts with his wife, sometimes too much for even her comfort, though she's as compassionate as he is. But he has no one to impress, even if he has to work sometimes to prove what he knows is true. Above all, he has integrity and sincerity, a sense that he has learned he must be true to himself, despite the times when the consequences have driven him to deny his nature out of sheer stress (by the time he appears in the X-Files, at the end of Millennium, he's institutionalized himself three times).
Even his co-workers accept who he is -- that's understandable with the Millennium Group, but later at the FBI it's common knowledge that he sees things. They still respect him a great deal because he's a proven veteran, an exceptional profiler who has earned his place, even if he isn't completely sane. It's a nice change from the stories where unusual people are always black sheep.
In other series like this, I develop something of a romantic attachment to a strong male lead, but not here. Not because of Lance Henriksen's unconventional looks -- I have a crush on Peter Capaldi, who can put Henriksen to shame -- but because I identify with him instead. I see things other people don't, though they aren't nearly as traumatic as what Frank sees. I'm an oddball who's good at what they do, and sometimes makes unusual requests of people that I can't adequately explain. I have struggled with who I am, and what place I have in the world, and I've had to face difficult situations as a result of that. I recognize the slow patience in him, like the patience of owls, the sense of watching and observing everything. I recognize the uneasy quiet of a soul that has seen too much.
I think that I could do far worse than to become more like Frank Black.
All of this has been percolating at the back of my mind, as I watch him continuing to observe, overcome obstacles, face griefs and fears. And that comfort I derive from seeing him, like a cup of hot tea on a rainy day, laps at the feet of the current problems in my life until I realize that I'm finding some of his acceptance creeping into my own soul. That grace in the face of hardship is something that I can take in, like absorbing water through the skin, just by watching someone else exhibit it. That even as I'm escaping my problems, I'm learning how to shape myself to better cope with them.
And I feel Sam re-orienting to the calm competence that characterized em from the beginning, finding a path to the grace I've sought, and I break down crying. Out of relief, out of hope, out of grief, and simply because it's change, and change is not painless. I cry because I feel steady enough to let out some of the pain and frustration that's been building up these past few months. I cry because I know life will never be easy, a fact which I've finally had to face this last couple of weeks, but that someone else who also hasn't had it easy can show me how to face life anyway. Even if his life is fictional, it's sufficiently well-written that I can see experience there, probably from one or more of the writers. And that makes it real enough.
I'll probably watch this series again, until I feel like I've learned enough that I can put it down for a while. Like the times I go out to stare at the Man in the desert, I have to sit with it long enough to hear what it has to teach me, and then come to terms with that. Meanwhile, Frank will be there, reassuring, calm, competent, to help me escape my pain until I can cope with it.
no subject
Date: 2016-03-26 22:45 (UTC)