What is wrong with American movies?

Tonight I went to see The Class and it was pretty freakin' awesome. It got me thinking though, about more than just how amazing teachers are and how hard it is to be one. There was something about this film that was just so real, so true, so natural. Where do we ever find this in American cinema? The Class felt like a documentary, yet without the staginess and narration. This could be because François Bégaudeau, the star, wrote the book the film is based on, along with the screenplay. So he's basically playing a version of himself. Yet everyone seems so natural in front of a camera. The script manages to be quite complex- the conversations that are had, the issues being dealt with, are not simplified. The movie offers no easy answers, no happy hollywood resolutions. Which I have to admit was something I caught myself hoping for at moments. I think this has to do with how trained I am by American films. Most Hollywood pictures are so big, so over-dramatized, even the ones that are supposed to be based on true stories. Even the "gritty" movies feel so put together, so polished. Conflicts are simplified, dialog is quick, going for the instant laughs. And of course everything builds to an often predictable climax, and ends in a nice little resolution. I was struck by how we've come to expect that's what a movie is. What about just telling a really compelling story that speaks for itself? This lack of traditional structure is something I've seen many times in French film. What a pleasure to watch- how satisfying and thought-provoking.

How can I live a life of service?

I always hear various panhandlers and beggars on the train. I always listen, even if I'm pretending not to. I *never* give. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it's because how do I choose who to give to? I don't know if I can afford to give to everyone. How do I know who's honest? Who deserves my dollar the most? Anyway, this morning on my way to work a man came on my subway car and gave his story. For some reason I could picture it perfectly. He talked about not making it to a shelter last night and spending the night on the train, his body sore today from sleeping on the hard seats. I had such a vivid image in my mind as he told his tale. He then asked quite genuinely for money, but even more so for something to eat. All I could think of was the slice of homemade bread I had in my bag. Annie baked it last night and I cut, toasted and buttered 2 pieces to eat this morning. I could only eat one however, so I wrapped the other and placed it in my bag to take with me to work. What kept me from giving it? I was afraid of being embarrassed, of the other train riders watching me, all of them looking down pretending not to hear this man. I was afraid he'd say no (I've actually had friends who've offered people food and been aggressively denied).

As he continued on his way, I was hit by a wave of guilt. Here I am going about my little life, full of so much. Despite my perhaps petty philosophical and emotional crises, I want for nothing. My basic needs are met. I suddenly felt this huge urge to give, to help those not as fortunate as myself. Is what I'm doing with my life really helping people? How can I feel the direct connection of helping others? How can I know that I'm making a difference? Just a few small thoughts for a Thursday morning in New York City...