Lessons from The Artist

I recently watched The Artist on DVD. I had already seen it in the theater with my daughter (we both loved it), so I was anxious to know what my wife and son thought about it. They found it moving, mesmerizing, daring, clever, and worthy of its best picture Oscar. Amazing, isn’t it, that a silent film can win best picture 85 years after The Jazz Singer, the first feature talkie? Even more astounding is that such a film could hold the attention of two teenagers from beginning to end, even prompting my son to remark, “That’s one of the best films I’ve seen this year.”

There are many reasons to appreciate and enjoy The Artist: story, acting, music, cinematography, sparse but imaginative use of sound, etc. In fact, a few scenes in this film will live on as some of the most poignant moments in movie history. I’ll never forget the image of pedestrians hurrying through the rain and unwittingly trampling a poster promoting George Valentin’s unpopular movie. Or Peppy’s whimsical encounter with Valentin’s tuxedo in his dressing room. Or that electrifying tap-dance finale. These belong alongside such enduring images as the “Here’s looking at you, kid” scene in Casa Blanca, the crop duster’s pursuit of Cary Grant in North by Northwest, and a tuxedo-clad Godfather discussing “business” in his study.

The Artist, however, offers more than just images. It offers lessons. Lessons on how to live, how to succeed, how to communicate. Here are just a few:

Adapt or die.

George Valentin was indeed an artist, but he was also a purist. He failed to accept that times were changing. Technology was advancing, and the audience was yearning for this new phenomenon of “talkies.” Valentin wrongly assumed that adapting to change would mean betraying his artistry. He chose to eschew new technology and keep his feet firmly planted in the silent era.

But people were flocking to the talkies (especially films that featured Peppy Miller, the girl whose career Valentin helped launch), and they ignored Valentin’s most recent silent movie. As Peppy’s career ascended, George’s descended. Then along came the Great Depression, plunging him into bankruptcy. His failure to adapt sent his career into a seemingly unrecoverable tailspin.

Think of all the technology to which we’ve had to adapt, just in the past ten years. What if you refused to carry a cell phone or use email? What if you shunned the computer, because you thought it ruined artistic penmanship? Consider movies nowadays. Can you imagine anyone today thinking that the only legitimate medium for special effects is stop-action photography? The old Ray Harryhausen monsters, jerkily swiping at vehicles or grasping at fleeing warriors, were magical in their day. But they were the forerunners of more advanced and realistic CGI effects.

Don’t get me wrong. I still pick up a pen and hand-write a note now and then. And I’m a huge claymation fan (the works of Nick Park and Aardman Animations come to mind: Wallace and Gromit, Chicken Run, etc.). But these fill a novelty niche. Ironically, The Artist is a silent film that tells a story about the demise of silent films. It works, and it’s wonderful. Just don’t look for silent films to become mainstream. Technology marches on.

I once watched a special on the making of The Wizard of Oz and was amazed at how they pulled off the effects. The tornado, for example, was a giant sheet of muslin cloth shaped into a cone and connected to machinery that caused it to jerk and twist. I marveled at the imagination and ingenuity that scene required. Moviemakers had to use whatever was lying around; they couldn’t just create something ex nihilo on the computer. Yet, if The Wizard of Oz was being made today, I can’t imagine the effects crew refusing to use CGI because it somehow inhibited their artistry.

My point is that adapting to technology doesn’t necessarily mean the end of artistry. Even “hands-on” artists, such as painters and sculptors, display their works on the web. Technology doesn’t have to rule us, but it can serve us. Even us creative types.

There’s a business application here, too. Think of once-great companies with innovative products (BlackBerry, America Online, Blockbuster, Kodak, and others), who failed to adapt to shifts in the market and changes in consumer habits. George Valentin has a warning for us all, artist and businessperson alike: Adapt or die!

Care about People.

Hollywood is big business; always has been. Studio bosses, especially in the early days of moviemaking, have been known to be downright ruthless at times. What makes The Artist so charming is that the characters, especially Peppy Miller, really care about people. Peppy could have jumped on the fast train to success and left George alone at the station—and no one would have batted an eye. After all, that’s how the biz goes.

Peppy, however, does the unexpected. Throughout the film, she is constantly trying to help George, keep him involved in the industry he loves, and keep him from losing everything—especially his self-worth. In the end, it is her unflagging friendship that puts him back on the screen, and back in the business. It’s the happiest movie ending I’ve seen in years.

An executive I respect recently retired from the telecommunications company for whom I work. As people reacted to the news, it was clear that most of them hated to see him go. Those who worked closely with him summed up his career this way: “Brilliant guy. Hard worker. Really cared about people.”

Just as technology doesn’t necessitate the loss of artistry, neither does success mean we have to stop caring about people.

Tell a great story.

Everyone has a story to tell. Novelists. Moviemakers. Companies. Employees. Everyday people. The current advice from career counselors is that your resume’ should be more than just information; it should tell a story. It should take prospective employers on a journey—the journey of you. One sage suggested that a resume’ should clearly portray a character who’s involved in a plot, should reach a high point, and yet leave the impression that there’s more of the story to be written.

So, anyone with a story to tell can learn something from The Artist. George Valentin travels from riches to rags to riches. From success to failure to success. From pride to humility to gratefulness. From purist to realist. And every stage of the journey is a feast for the senses. I’ll never forget the scene that takes place in the offices of Kinograph Studios. George has just left a meeting in which it became clear that the studio’s executives are moving into the era of talkies—without him. As he descends the staircase, he runs into Peppy, now Kinograph’s new rising star. As they talk, Peppy is standing above George on the landing, while he is several steps below her. It’s a visual reminder that her career is on the way up, while his is on the way down.

The images, action, dialogue, emotion, even the silence, are there to serve the story. I would rather see a silent film like The Artist—a masterfully told story—than any disjointed, plot-deficient, CGI-laden assault on the senses.

Stories are all around us. They’re in our resume’s, corporate brands, family histories, dreams and goals. Do you know your story? Are you telling it? The Artist offers a lesson for all of us: Tell your story, tell it with skill, and make it memorable.

If you haven’t yet seen The Artist—perhaps because you just can’t imagine sitting through a silent film—pick up the DVD. You might be surprised at how much you like it. You might even enjoy it so much, you won’t be able to keep silent about it.

Now, this is how to market a movie!

If you want a lesson on how to build anticipation for an event, check out this new teaser poster for The Dark Knight Rises, the final chapter of the Batman trilogy scheduled for release in summer 2012.

Makes your heart sink. What are we to make of it? Will Batman die? Surely not. Director Christoper Nolan isn’t known for delivering light fare or happy-sappy endings (remember Memento, Insomnia, The Prestige?). But then again, he’s not the Coen brothers, either, who are more than content to let the bad guy win in films like No Country for Old Men.

And we’re talking about the Caped Crusader here. It might do to leave us thinking that Batman died in The Dark Knight (as it is, having Gotham turn on him was hard enough) and then bring him back in the final chapter. But I simply can’t fathom Nolan ending the trilogy with Batman’s demise.

I’m holding out for a happy ending, for Batman’s return and redemption, for loose ends tying together, and for the good guy winning. But I have no doubt that the journey will be a rough one, especially with Bane involved. He’s the hulking brute you see walking away in the poster. He’s a chemically-enhanced one-man wrecking crew. In the comics, Bane broke Batman’s back, paralyzing him.

But the Batman will prevail. On what am I basing my optimism? First of all, look at the text: “The Legend Ends” doesn’t have to mean that Batman dies. The legend does end with this film, meaning that the trilogy ends. The Dark Knight Rises will be the final installment of the Dark Knight legend. Second, what sense does “The Dark Knight Rises” make if he doesn’t get knocked down first? His triumph will be all the more fulfilling if his enemies think they’ve won.

What, then, of the shattered mask? And what does Bane’s ostensibly confident departure signal? Following are the only scenarios I’ll let myself consider:

1. Bane thinks he has killed Batman and walks away. But Batman is only hurt. He’s nursed back to health by Alfred, then rises to defeat Bane and the rest of Gotham’s criminals.
2. The person in the bat suit is killed, but it’s someone else, not Bruce Wayne. With the real Batman having gone rogue, an impostor steps up to try and do Batman’s job—with tragic results. The real Batman, drawn out of hiding by this tragedy, takes on Gotham’s scum and cleans up the city.
3. Batman really does die, but he’s brought back to life by Ra’s al Ghul (who, surprise, survived the train crash in Batman Begins). Ra’s places Bruce in the Lazarus Pit and revives him, after realizing that he and Batman must work together if Gotham is to be saved.
4. Batman is lying injured in a dark, wet corner of the city—dying. A young boy, an orphan, finds him, drags him to safety, and nurses him back to health with the help of friends. Once Batman’s health returns, he trains the boy to be his partner. That’s right—Robin! The two team up to shut down the bad guys.
5. Catwoman is there when Bane crushes Batman. Watching the Dark Knight suffer, she has a change of heart. She regrets being part of the evil that has overtaken the city. Plus, she feels some empathy for Batman, being a troubled character herself. So, she kneels down beside the Caped Crusader, appears to take his pulse, and announces to Bane that he is dead. Bane smugly walks away. In secret, however, Catwoman nurses Batman back to health. Now allies instead of enemies, the two unite to take on Gotham’s crime leaders.

Back to my opening sentence about knowing how to build anticipation. Look at all the speculation (by just one person) generated by one poster. One poster with a powerful image and seven measly words. Want to build some anticipation for an upcoming event, product, or announcement? Maybe the producers of The Dark Knight Rises have something to teach us about combining emotion and simplicity to create a compelling message.

I know what I learned: I’m getting in line early for the first midnight showing of The Dark Knight Rises.

Don’t lose that low-tech creativity!

I have a confession to make.

I still write letters occasionally. The old-fashioned kind. The kind you create by scrawling words on paper with a fountain pen. The kind you crease, fold, slip into an envelope, slap a stamp on, and drop in a mailbox. The kind nobody writes any more. I’ve also been known to doodle and draw.

No, I am not a Luddite. In fact, I’m somewhat of a geek. I enjoy technology and wouldn’t want to live without it. My smartphone is an extension of myself. I would be lost without it (or at the very least, a lot less efficient and productive). But there’s something about working with low-tech media that keeps my right brain active and infuses my life, even my digital life, with creativity.

Maybe it’s the feel of the writing (or drawing) instrument in my hand. Perhaps a pen gliding over paper provides a satisfaction than can’t be experienced when tapping keys or clicking a mouse. Or is it a sense of freedom that I feel—the sensation that my hand can carry out my brain’s wishes immediately, unshackled from computer hardware? I’m not sure how to explain it. I just know that I need to maintain that low-tech connection—in the same way I need to keep real books alongside the Kindle. There’s something about the heft of a bound volume, the texture of the cover, the sound of real pages turning, that immerses me more fully in the story.

Skills like penmanship, pottery-making, drawing, and painting get us down into the trenches of the creative process. They require something besides digital ones and zeros. They require flesh-and-blood digits—fingers that feel, grasp, curl, knead, and shape. I would argue that maintaining such a low-tech connection actually causes us to live more effectively in a high-tech world.

In a commencement address to Standford graduates in 2005, Steve Jobs related how a calligraphy class he once attended provided the inspiration for the beautiful fonts used on the first Macintosh computer. And throughout his amazing career at Apple, Jobs maintained that symbiosis between artistic beauty and technological functionality.

Carmine Gallo, in his book The Presentation Secrets of Steve Jobs: How to be Insanely Great in Front of Any Audience, reveals the ironic truth that Jobs, an icon of the digital world, planned his famous product presentations with pen and paper. Says Gallo, “Steve Jobs has built a reputation in the digital world of bits and bytes, but he creates stories in the very old-world tradition of pen and paper” (p. 3). Gallo goes on to explain that Jobs would storyboard the “plot” of his presentations before ever picking up a “camera” (i.e., the presentation software). Sketching out ideas with pen and paper first has a way of bringing clarity and creativity to the final digital presentation.

And who would think that screenwriting has anything to do with business management? Yet businesspeople of all stripes are paying hundreds of dollars to attend screenwriting workshops by Robert McKee, the author of Story. The art of telling a compelling story in a creative way apparently has its applications in the business world. Think about how such a skill could benefit business: pitching prospective clients, reporting the quarterly numbers, writing up performance reviews, planning and presenting company-wide town halls, advertising and marketing.

I was talking with a co-worker one day about how much I enjoyed writing with fountain pens, and I was lamenting the loss of penmanship as a taught skill. He responded, “You know, computers are never going away. If my kid has to choose between a class on penmanship and one on computers, I know which way I’m going to direct him: computers.”

I understand what he was getting at: If you’re going to survive in the computer age, you have to learn to use computers; stick to pen and paper alone, and you’ll be left in the dust. But why should we have to choose between excellent penmanship and computers—especially when Jobs and others have proven than one can enhance, even inspire, the other?

I’m not saying we should sell our laptops and use the money to buy stationery; I correspond more by email and texting than any other methods. But I still use pen and paper occasionally for notes and letters. And when I’m planning presentations and speeches, I often start by sketching out a graphic or two, connecting thoughts and ideas with lines and arrows, etc. That low-tech approach helps me see where I’m going, helps me experience the journey more fully. And more often than not, it provides the raw material for my digital workshop (i.e., the keyboard and screen).

So, don’t throw away that pen, stationery, and sketch pad just yet. If you haven’t used them in a while, pull them off the shelf, blow off the dust, and try your hand at some old-fashioned writing or drawing next time you’re planning an article, speech, presentation, or project. And let low-tech take your work to new heights.

An example of crisp, clear communication from . . . a podiatrist?

Compile a list of professions that require crisp, clear communication, and podiatrist isn’t likely to be on that list. Well, since yesterday, it’s on mine. Right up there with journalist, attorney, preacher, and teacher.

I’ve always appreciated doctors who excel at packaging diagnosis and treatment options in layman’s terms. But the guy I saw yesterday for nagging toe pain was one pithy physician. In fact, of all the people in his office with whom I came into contact, he was the most pleasant conversationalist. His speech was concise, confident, humorous, and laced with metaphor. By the time I left his office, I had fully understood my problem, thought through the treatment options, and scheduled surgery. To be fair, I had already done my research on the Internet before I saw him. It was, however, encouraging to receive confirmation in such a clear and memorable fashion.

About two years ago I noticed some discomfort in my left big toe after jogging. I just wrote it off to age and the fact that I’ve been running on concrete over half my life. The pain has escalated recently, however, so that it hurts even to walk. After my GP ruled out gout, he recommended a foot specialist.

The podiatrist took a set of X-rays and performed a thorough hands-on exam of my left foot, including a range-of-motion test. First, he explained what I was seeing on each picture. Some pretty nasty stuff! My big toe joint was almost completely filled in with calcium—unlike the other joints, which had plenty of space to move. And growing up and back from the joint was a wicked-looking bone spur. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the dorsal fin of a shark. “That thing is not only hindering movement, it’s probably pressing up against the ligament that runs over the top of the toe,” he explained. “So, you’re getting both stiffness and pain.” He provided the medical term for all this, but that didn’t really matter. It’s basically arthritis of the big toe joint, it hurts like the dickens, and it’s fixable.

So he laid out the options, both non-surgical and surgical. Orthotic inserts, cortisone injections, etc., would manage the pain in the short-term, but structurally the joint would continue to stiffen, and the spur would continue to grow. There were two surgical options. The first was what the doctor called Woodworking 101. “We go into the joint,” he explained, “we take some files and chisels, and we chip away at that spur, clean out the joint, and restore normal movement to the toe.”

“Sounds fun,” I said.

He explained that it would be a day surgery, with a local anesthetic and a Michael Jackson cocktail (I know, twisted but funny). Option 2 was a complete toe joint replacement. “Only advisable for the most severe conditions, and you’re not there yet,” he said. “Besides, while that gets rid of the pain, it permanently limits motion, so you probably wouldn’t be able to run anymore.” He added that surgical option number 1 was a common procedure, and that I would be running again in eight weeks after surgery. “You might have to do it again in 12-15 years, based on my experience,” he said. “But this is probably the best option to get you back to a normal life.”

So, Woodworking 101 it is. I’m scheduled for surgery later this  month. A shame that it’ll be during the holidays, not to mention my vacation time, but I’ve met my insurance deductible for the year. Might as well get ‘er done now.

What’s the point of exposing my metatarsals to the general public? It’s to show once again how important it is to be clear, crisp, concise, creative, and memorable when you communicate—no matter what your profession. You might be an expert in your field, but most of your readers (or clients, patients, customers, etc.) probably aren’t. Sure, it also helps to be good at what you do; no one wants a podiatrist who can turn a phrase but can’t trim an ingrown toenail. But make yourself understandable to those outside your circle of expertise, and you’ll only add to your success.

Gotta run (hobble, rather). I need to go practice for my post-surgery convalescence, which amounts to reclining in front of the TV, snapping my fingers in the air, and shouting out my favorite foods and drinks. There will be lots of people hanging around our house for the Christmas holidays, so I should have plenty of waiters and waitresses. So far, my family isn’t buying in to my grand vision for recovery. They say that if I’m too demanding, I’m likely to be served an extra strong Michael Jackson cocktail.

Steve Jobs and the Impartiality of Creativity

The incredible life of Steve Jobs, which ended on October 5, taught us—and will continue to teach us—many profound lessons. Among them:

• Follow your gut.
• Great ideas, no matter how crazy they sound to everyone else, are worth fighting for.
• Design matters every bit as much as functionality—in fact, the two are inseparable.
• It takes more work to be simple than it does to be complicated.
• The Beatles were as much a paradigm for business as they were a model for musicians.
• If you have to choose between art school and LSD . . . (well, never mind).

If I may add another, Jobs’ life taught us that when it comes to occupations, creativity is impartial.

Have you ever caught yourself saying (or heard others say), “I’m just not the creative type?” That statement might be true, if you’re only comparing your creative skills to those of accomplished artists, writers, and sculptors. But creativity, being an interdisciplinary skill, doesn’t limit itself that way. It doesn’t discriminate based on how you earn a paycheck. It’s possible to exercise creativity as a nurse, an attorney, a teacher, a salesperson, a clerk, and, yes, even a technophile.

Linda Naiman, founder of Creativity at Work (www.creativityatwork.com) defines creativity as “the act of turning new and imaginative ideas into reality.” Nothing in that definition limits creativity to artists. Creativity can show itself in a new business process, an innovative product, a better teaching method, a new way to tackle problems, etc.

Creativity is a universal language. Any profession understands phrases like “I have a great idea,” “I see things differently,” and “We can do better.” Is the soil of some professions, and of some environments, more fertile for creativity than others? Of course. But that doesn’t mean we can’t cultivate creativity at some level, wherever we are.

Few people will ever have the impact Steve Jobs had on the world. But we can all make a personal pledge to “think different,” wherever we are, whatever we do.