'Chase a crooked shadow'

I am watching what feels like a B-movie: 'Chase a Crooked Shadow'. I have the volume turned down low. I have no idea what it is about. It is late. It is on a channel called 'Talking Pics'; am not really watching it, as such. It is on in the background as I look through some art therapy ideas, as a bedtime reading is replete and I am in need of alternatives.

There is some dysfunctional, gender biased, awkward 1950s romantic tension thing trying to happen. A good woman. A bad man. His eyes betray him, shifting and narrowing intermittently. The director has told him to "shift them like crazy." I imagine a Greek accent. (Elia Kazan?) Although the film is not really in the same league as Kazan's work. He obeys. He is shifting them. Left to right, back again... and again. He faces the camera, responding to her words, while her face is visible behind his shoulder. He heads the bill. A 50s heartthrob in a pullover, with sleeves, neatly folded over his biceps, not bunched up, presumably to accentuate his manly arms. Instead, he looks odd. I imagine past the black and white footage the colour of the jumper to be canary yellow. He looks sweaty but his arms are well ventilated.

He lights up. A cigarette appears from an invisible packet. He is adept at lighting up. Years of practice. Those long sticks of compacted tobacco shreds. He expertly pops one in between thin lips. Petrol lighter at hand. A smooth hand movement from the trouser pocket (below the camera line) to the mouth, to ignite that flimsy tobacco stuffed tube. He breathes in. DNA altering chemicals are sucked in. He exhales. It is a thick cloud of particles laden with moisture. He is cool apparently. Smoking was cool.

I am back to my notes, but look up at the tv. His eyes shift, he inhales and exhales. When the camera stops filming, he will light up another. Everyone will light up with him. Hell, the whole film crew are probably smoking as they work. As they eat, whilst driving. In the bath; in bed.

The film is in black and white. The actor looks as if he was in his late 30s. It is 1958 when the film was made. He is not with us anymore. We watch him. He breathes out. I think about art. Art with purpose.

Whilst this is playing out, I am struggling with my own much more immediate issues. The act of making. Making stuff that I consider important. I reproach myself. All acts of making, no, not just making, all acts have meaning. I am not going to attribute value or create a hierarchy. It could end up messy. Making art as important as breathing, contemplating the meaning of life compared to the intrinsic value of smoking...ermmm.. not so easy.

It is enough to wrestle with one's own life and find meaning in the acts that one commits to. All the same, I am making a personal choice, a judgment in terms of my own outcomes. And yes, it is a compulsion, this wanting to create a 'meaningful' narrative, to make a piece of work into a story worth telling. It seems almost ludicrous. Surely we can make stuff just for the fun of it? These internal conversations of mine always end up the same. With a 'Yes, but...'.

Trying too hard can kill a story, like pulling up a seedling to make sure it is taking root. So while he smokes, I agonize. The mind wanders. My story, like smoke, drifts up and stains the wallpaper. Another impasse. Tomorrow will be easier, surely. In the light of day, these things these conundrums usually evaporate.

The next day I find out a bit more about the film and feel guilty as being critical of the director and the cast. It is a big deal making anything and they really had a good go at it. Of course, my questions are still there.