Because everyone loves a good story
I, like so many other would-be authors, have an unfinished manuscript collecting cyber dust in my laptop. I’ve spent months and months on that sucker, but no matter how many times I tackle it from a different angle, it always feels like it’s missing something vital. It’s a decent burger, but it needs some awesome sauce, and apparently I’m fresh out. So it sits unfinished.
Maybe you can relate. Or maybe your unfinished manuscript is an abandoned house project, a neglected side gig, or another disregarded dream. Today I want to share an article with you that can give you the extra nudge to keep going—one step at a time.
In addition to my half-baked novel idea, I also have loads of picture book story drafts. I’d love to publish something beautiful for kids, so I joined the Society for Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), a international organization whose name is pretty self-explanatory. I’m also part of a fantastic critique group of talented ladies who are in various stages of the writing process. They’re an inspiration and a motivation.
Unfortunately, I’ve been genuinely swamped with building a new house, packing up my current house, homeschooling my son, managing my toddler, and making sure everyone has the food, clothes, fresh air, stories, excursions, and attention they need. Just a day in the life.
So lately I’ve been showing up to my critique group meetings with little or nothing new to share. Am I busy? Sure. Have other successful authors been busier? Absolutely. While my current schedule may prevent me from churning out a full-length masterpiece this month, it doesn’t have to prevent me from writing a few good sentences every day or two. That’s a manageable amount that can add up to a whole story eventually.
And at this stage of my life, it’ll have to be enough.
So today I wanted to pass along a short article by author Jonathan Rogers. He shares how training for half-marathons helped him learn the discipline of writing when he doesn’t feel like it. When he doesn’t want to run another mile, he determines to run just as far as the next telephone pole. And then the next and the next. When he doesn’t feel like writing another page, he determines to write the next sentence…and the next and the next.
Rogers cites a book that’s been influential in my writing journey as well: Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird. She gives the same suggestion about how to press on when you aren’t very motivated: just do a little bit. And tomorrow, do a little bit more. Just write one inch of decent material—no more and no less. It’s a small thing that can add up to a big thing.
So whether you’re struggling to write a book, run a marathon, or organize your stamp collection, I hope today’s post fuels you with the motivation you need. Just tackle it one sentence, one pole, and one stamp at a time.
The finish line is closer than you think.
There are two types of people in the world: those for whom rest is the default setting, and those who see rest as the enemy. And they usually marry each other.
Entropy pulls especially hard on the first type of person. They have big ideas and start projects with an admirable amount of energy. They explode off the starting blocks and are out of sight. But pretty soon, the thought of finishing the race feels daunting. Next thing you know, they’re napping under a shade tree in the company of Aesop’s hare. The race is abandoned, never to be resumed.
Meanwhile, the second person is still going. They’re not the tortoise, though; they’re a different breed of hare, more akin to Alice’s White Rabbit. Spastically scampering here and there, they consult their watches and bemoan how late they are. There’s never enough time to get everything done, even though they haven’t broken pace in 26 weeks, 3 days, and 9 hours. But they’re determined to finish the race or die trying. Most likely the latter.
Is one way superior to the other? While my actions blink like a neon arrow pointing to the second way, my heart knows it isn’t true. But that doesn’t mean the first way is better. Actually, they’re both pretty crummy approaches to life. Want to know the name of a third and better way? It’s called Sabbath.
I’m studying the book of Mark in my morning Bible reading, and I came across a beautiful reminder at the end of chapter two. It says, “The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath. So the Son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath.” In context, Jesus was putting some religious leaders in their place about the Sabbath commandment. Without dismissing the importance of the law, Jesus reminded them of its purpose: the Sabbath was made for man.
In other words, Jesus was reminding them that he, of all people, knows the importance of the command to keep the Sabbath day set apart. After all, he was there when the law was made. That’s why he’s also qualified to comment on the purpose of the law. The Sabbath was made for man. For man’s benefit. Because God knew man needed it.
What does it mean that the Sabbath was made for man? It means that the God who created our frail little bodies out of dust and breath, who holds us together with the word of his power, who sees exactly how limited we are—this God knew we would need rest. And so he gives us a command to help us.
Furthermore, God himself rested. He created the world in six days and then took a breather on the seventh. Was he exhausted? Nope. But he knew we would be, and so he showed us what it looks like to rest intentionally and regularly. And then, in case we thought it was just a nice idea for someone else, he commanded us all to follow suit.
So if proper rest is a command and a necessity, then why is it so hard for us? Because Satan likes to distort all good things, even rest. He bends our hearts toward sloth or frenzy. That’s why Sabbath is really an act of faith. We can truly rest when we believe that our obedience will result in God’s provision.
The Bible is full of evidence that this is true. God proved it in the wilderness when Israel enjoyed leftover manna instead of working to gather more on the Sabbath. He proved it at Jericho when he knocked down the city’s walls on the seventh day while Israel stood by and watched. He proved it at Midian when he dwindled Gideon’s army from 32,000 to 300 and still wiped out the hordes of enemy warriors for them. Again and again God has proven that if we obey him, he will provide—even in the area of rest.
So is God planning to strike me down if I cook a meal or cut the grass on a Sunday? No, I don’t believe so. The point of this passage in Mark is that God cares more about the motivations of our hearts than a set of external, man-made rules. The Pharisees had oodles of specific tasks that people were forbidden to do on the Sabbath, but Jesus refined their understanding of the law’s purpose: it’s not there to threaten us but to help us thrive.
Our hectic laboring and refusal to rest are really a form of self-sabotage. God designed us to work hard and rest purposefully, and when we abuse that design, we can’t flourish. Our refusal to rest is also a way of proclaiming ourselves the lord of the Sabbath. We think we can determine what’s best, but only the Maker has that authority. He has kindly decreed a day of rest for each of us, and we disregard it to our own detriment.
I don’t know which end of the Aesop’s hare/White Rabbit spectrum you fall on, but I do know the command is the same for all of us: work hard, and then rest in faith. Take heart, my friend. A day of rest is coming for those who love the Lord. When we dwell with the lord of the Sabbath, our hearts will truly be at rest—finally, perfectly, and forever. Let us labor to enter that rest.
It’s that time again—the beginning of a new year of homeschool—and I’ve already been through the full spectrum of emotions. I’ve cycled through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance within a 10-minute math lesson, and we’re only adding 2+3. I’ll tell you what—teaching little people isn’t for the faint of heart.
I taught high school for 11 years, and the challenges of expressing big ideas were totally different from those of communicating fundamental information. It seems much harder to input information from scratch on a nearly-blank slate. And because I’m his mom and he’s my kid, there’s more familiarity and frustration than in a normal teacher/student relationship. When he confuses the sounds of G and J for the 27th time in a row, it’s hard for me to keep a note of incredulity and impatience out of my voice, and I know he’s ready to tell me to “jo gump off a bridge” too.
But there is a better way…or so I’ve heard.
Last year as I embarked on homeschooling for the first time, a sweet friend gave me a book called Teaching from Rest: A Homeschooler’s Guide to Unshakeable Peace by Sarah Mackenzie. She said it was transforming her approach to teaching her own four children. As she’s doing a lovely job, I figured I’d better read the book in hopes of a similar transformation.
I did, and it has—or at least it has the potential to change my approach, if only I can remember and apply all the truths inside. Today I wanted to share just a couple of quotes from the book in order to encourage you and remind myself. If you’re not homeschooling at the moment, don’t worry. Some of these ideas apply just as well to whatever vocation or task you’re tackling. If you are homeschooling, I hope these encourage you like they do for me.
When I’m tempted to lose my cool when we’re not making progress as quickly as I’d planned, this reminder comes in handy.
When I focus on being diligent rather than rigorous, my measure for success is not, “Did I check off lesson 97 today?” I am going to want to check off lesson 97 at some point. But if I can’t do it today because my child is not achieving understanding, I don’t need to fret and worry and wring my hands.…When [the child] doesn’t understand the day’s lesson, it isn’t a setback; it’s just God showing us our marching orders for the day. My child doesn’t need me to fret and fear; she needs me to love and guide her with grace.
Ouch. Needing to check off lesson 97 is my factory setting. I’m a list maker, a list checker, and perhaps a list worshipper. When my son’s frustration or confusion or straight-up hyper inattention prevents me from checking off lesson 97 today, it really messes with me. I feel that tightness in my chest, the narrowing of blood vessels in my temples. We. Must. Accomplish. This. Now sit down, five-year-old, and display an adult’s level of focus so we can do all your lessons in one go!
You can imagine how wildly successful this approach is.
But while it’s important to finish lesson 97 at some point, there’s no point in forcing him to finish it today if he’s already burned out. Do I want him to learn diligence? Of course. Does he need to master the information in lesson 97 so he’s not confused when we get to lesson 98? Definitely. But it won’t help if I yell at him to focus when a short break and a fresh approach would most likely solve the problem. God gave me grace to try that yesterday, and my son later finished the whole lesson in the sunshine on the back swing. See? Miracles can happen.
And even when we finish lesson 97, is that really the be-all and end-all of school? Is a completed textbook really the sum total of our labors?
The true aim of education is to order a child’s affections—to teach him to love what he ought and hate what he ought. Our greatest task, then, is to put living ideas in front of our children like a feast. We have been charged to cultivate the souls of our children, to nourish them in truth, goodness, and beauty, to raise them up in wisdom and eloquence. It is to these ends that we labor.
I was talking with another friend and homeschool mom yesterday about our own school experiences. While we graduated from different places, we had similar experiences: our enjoyment of learning wasn’t because of our time in school; it was in spite of it. I’m sure we both had good teachers for many classes, but I know I fell between the cracks of the teachers’ interests.
I was too ordinary for advanced classes, too smart for extra help, too good for discipline, and too odd for teacher friendships. They plodded along through lessons while I doodled, wrote notes, or read my own books during class. As long as I wasn’t a disruption, that was good enough for them. And what can you expect from an underpaid, overworked teacher in a class of 35? I hate to admit it, but I’m sure I did the same thing when I was a teacher.
But it’s pretty hard to fall between the cracks in homeschool. At the moment, all my efforts are split between two humans, only one of whom is my pupil. The other is a tiny, tea-spilling, paper-ripping tornado. I can see my son’s strengths and weaknesses (unfortunately, the feeling’s mutual), and I have a decent idea of what he needs to focus on. But is my job simply to ensure he has a good fact base stored in his cranium by graduation? Surely not.
Poet William Butler Yeats says, “Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.” Much more than instilling information in my children’s minds, I want to instill a love of learning in their hearts. When my approach is one of stress, frustration, and sheer grit, I may be filling their pails with water, but it’s dousing the fire underneath. This Smoky-the-Bear approach wins the battle but loses the war. That’s why I’m thankful for books like Teaching from Rest that remind me of truth.
If, however, I can model the joys of learning in general—not just of specific subjects or facts but of learning as a natural, daily activity—then my kids will be well on their way to a successful education. At the end of the day, the outcome of their educations isn’t up to me. In the words of a wise wizard, “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” And that, my friends, is quite enough.
In the world of film, there are plenty of recurring motifs: light, darkness, time, seasons, weather, and colors, to name a few. But one of the most common is that of water. It’s prevalent as a motif because it can have so many different meanings based on the context.
In Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet, the director uses water as one of his major motifs. But instead of using it to signify a single truth, he uses water’s changeable nature to depict the opposing forces of peace and death. These seeming opposites actually go hand-in-hand in many ways, and Luhrmann capitalizes on this truth. Both calm water and turbulent water—and even lack of water—add a depth of meaning to the film.
Toward the beginning of the movie, we see hectic preparations for a costume party at the Capulet mansion. Decorations are being set up, food is being delivered, and Lady Capulet is rushing around half dressed, yelling her head off for Juliet. Meanwhile, young Juliet is submerged in her bathtub, blissfully unaware of the chaos. We see her serene face under water, her hair swirling slowly around her. In fact, she almost looks dead. But she’s found peace in the chaos.
Later on, Mercutio gives Romeo a pill that intensifies the dizzying madness of the Capulets’ party. To clear his head, Romeo submerges his face in a sink full of water. It’s a clear echo of Juliet’s underwater peace earlier in the movie. When he stands up, he sees Juliet through a big tropical fish tank. The beautiful fish are swimming peacefully together, but Romeo and Juliet are separated by the wall.
Soon, however, the two lovers are swimming peacefully together in the Capulets’ pool. Romeo professes his undying love to Juliet, and although she’s worried about the families’ reactions if they find out, she returns his confession of love. But we know a storm is coming. The lovers embrace underwater, submerged and at peace, enjoying the calm before the storm.
So if calm water communicates peace, a lack of water points to uneasiness. This tension is palpable in several scenes. After the prologue, the very first scene we encounter is a fight between the Montague and Capulet boys. There’s no peace here; rather than calm water, we see images of heat and fire. It’s a sultry summer day. Tybalt is smoking throughout the scene, and his smoldering cigarette sets fire to spilled gasoline and lights up the whole gas station—aptly named Phoenix Gas. The spark of this fight ignites the anger and tension that intensifies throughout the film.
The story is set in Verona Beach, and you can tell it’s a sweltering town. But the dry heat escalates exponentially when Romeo is banished to Mantua. While Verona Beach is right on the water, Mantua is a desert. It’s hot, dry, and dusty. Everything is parched. Because of Romeo’s foolish choices, he’s been banished from his city and his bride. There is no peace here. The arid climate reflects the unrest of Romeo’s heart.
The unrest in Mantua is preceded by disaster in Verona. A fight on the beach begins as threats and accusations but ends in two murders. Tybalt (Juliet’s cousin) stabs Mercutio (Romeo’s friend.) Romeo takes revenge by shooting Tybalt. As this scene unfolds, dark clouds roll in, thunder rumbles, and wind howls. But as soon as Romeo pulls the trigger to shoot Tybalt, the rains descend. Death has overwhelmed peace.
In the first scene, Tybalt says to Benvolio Montague, “What, drawn [your sword] and talk of peace? I hate the word/ as I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.” Mercutio refers to Tybalt as the “prince of cats” because he’s fierce and apt to “scratch” with his sword. We always see Tybalt smoking and brooding. But when Tybalt finally gets killed, he falls backward at the feet of a giant Jesus statue, Tybalt’s arms outstretched in the shape of a cross. His body plunges into a pool of water and is still. His quarrelsome soul is finally at peace.
But at that moment, the clouds open up and unleash a pouring torrent of rain on Romeo, the murderer. There will be no peace for him, and more death will come from his actions.
Romeo and Juliet secretly spend their wedding night together in Juliet’s bedroom. In the morning, though, Romeo has to sneak away to Mantua because of his banishment. As he’s climbing out her window, he falls into the pool below. Juliet sees him from her balcony and considers how he looks dead at the bottom of a tomb. Her premonition won’t be unfulfilled for long.
The star-crossed lovers take their lives in the silent, lonely church. They lie together on their death bed, united at last. Luhrmann flashes back to the times when they were happy and in love, and his final shot is of the young lovers kissing underwater the first night they met. Together in death; together in peace. The families’ foolish fighting can’t separate them anymore.
The epilogue declares that “a glooming peace” has settled over the families. The prince lectures them, observing, “See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,/That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love.” The families vow to honor the memory of the lovers and drop the feud at long last. It’s too late for Romeo and Juliet in life, but they’re finally together and at peace in death.
While the story itself is powerful, the imagery of Luhrmann’s film adds another layer to the enjoyment. The movie is strange enough to lack universal popularity, but I’m always a fan of a good retelling. I say hats off to you and your motifs, Mr. Luhrmann.
Today, in lieu of a normal post, I wanted to share a cool literary resource with you: a classic read-aloud list. I’ve loved reading as long as I can remember, and now I’m thrilled to see that my kids are well on their way to feeling the same. I’m spoiled and blessed to be able to homeschool my kids, and while it sometimes makes us all want to pull our hair out (or each other’s), it’s also an awesome way to have nearly-unlimited reading time with them throughout the day.
I chose to use the Classical Conversations approach to school, and we’ve really enjoyed it so far. For one thing, it offers a lot of resources—one of which I wanted to share with you today. And while I wish CC was paying me for saying all this, I’m just telling you about it because I hope you find it as helpful as I do.
Whether you have young children, old children, medium children, or no children at all, this book list is for you. Surely you know some kids who could use a story! And even if not, why don’t you browse this list and see how many titles you’ve never read for yourself. Personally, I don’t care to admit that number here, but it’s never too late to fix it.
If you do spend time with kids, grandkids, nursery kids, neighbor kids, or any kids, I challenge you to start reading aloud to them and see what happens. I’ve read board books to infants, chapter books to elementary kids, and picture books to high school students, and it’s taught me that a well-written story is a joy to kids of any age. If you start reading to your kids regularly, it will quickly become a highlight of your time together.
This summer I’ve enjoyed reading to my kids more than ever before. I’ve always read to my kids from the time they were itty bitty, but this summer we’ve really ramped it up with chapter books too. We spend a bit of time most days reading nursery rhymes, fairy tales, picture books from the library, Winnie-the-Pooh, Beatrix Potter, and a whole string of young reader chapter books like Beverly Cleary’s Henry and Ribsy series, Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and E.B. White’s Stuart Little.
And guess what? Even my three-year-old daughter usually sits and listens. My son will inevitably ask for another chapter until we run out of time or his mother runs out of energy. As a reader, I’m thrilled to see them enjoying stories. It makes me even happier that I get to have a part in it.
So if you’re interested in reading to your kids but aren’t sure where to start, here’s a short list of picture books and chapter books to choose from. It’s certainly not exhaustive, and I think you can find even better picture book lists from other resources, but it’s a great place to begin. Check it out, and see how reading aloud can change the dynamics of your family!
How do you like to watch a movie? Wearing jammies and eating snacks, obviously. But I mean, do you like to shift your brain into neutral and let the story go in one ear and out the other? Do you sit in rapt silence lest you miss any dialogue? (FYI: you’re probably about to join Club Subtitles. I’ll save you a seat.) Do you talk through the whole thing? Do you look forward to the movie, get all comfortable, and then fall asleep immediately? (Also guilty as charged.) Or do you watch with your analyzers on maximum so you can glean all the goodies that the director stuck in there?
If you’re normal, you probably enjoy a combination of these movie-watching styles depending on your mood, your company, and the film itself. I usually alternate between full-blast analyzing and sound asleep in a matter of moments. Welcome to 40.
You may not always be on high alert for motifs when you watch a movie, but there’s no way on planet earth that you could watch Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet and not notice the religious imagery. I mean, he stuffs your eyeballs full of holy relics every few seconds. Last time we looked at why he chose to include so many religious elements. Today we’ll see how the final scene is the visual and thematic crescendo to this cinematic masterpiece.
The story of Romeo and Juliet is a tragedy. It begins with the couple falling in love and ends with their deaths. Everyone knows this. But Luhrmann’s motif of religious icons highlights the theme that Fortune—a.k.a the stars, fate, the saints, or God—is the force behind their deaths. Shakespeare himself starts the story by sketching out the plot and highlighting the role of the stars. In the prologue, he says:
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;
Whose misadventured piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents’ strife.
In other words, the feud will stop eventually, but it will be at the cost of the lovers’ lives. Their death will “bury their parents’ strife.” Did it really need to get to that point? The prologue says that “the continuance of their parents’ rage,/…but their children’s end, naught could remove.” Their death is the only thing that could stop the feuding families. The lovers are described as star-crossed, since Fate would do what it takes to make peace between the families.
So who’s to blame here? Is it Fate? The families? The lovers? In a word, yes.
While Shakespeare and Luhrmann draw attention to the role of Fate in the story, it’s also true that the characters themselves are responsible. After yet another public brawl between the families, the prince warns Capulet and Montague that the next fight would result in capital punishment. “If ever you disturb our streets again,/Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.” The families are warned, but that doesn’t stop Tybalt from fighting Mercutio and Romeo from killing Tybalt as retribution. The law cannot turn a blind eye to their violence.
But, in my opinion, the one who is most to blame is not Fate but Romeo. When you study the play itself, you see that Romeo is rash, impulsive, immature, and foolish. That’s to be expected since he’s only 16 years old—and Juliet’s only 13! I guess it was more common for people to get married when they still had braces and pimples back then. A few more years would have eliminated much of the melodrama. Even so, Romeo had plenty of warnings. If he had listened to them, these deaths could have been avoided.
The priest warns Romeo several times to slow down with Juliet, reminding him that “these violent delights have violent ends/And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,/Which, as they kiss, consume.” Juliet herself cautions Romeo at the beginning, reminding him of the imminent danger between their families. But Romeo never stops to think; instead, he acts impulsively throughout the play, right up to the moment of his totally preventable and unnecessary death.
So there you have it. It’s not a popular or romantic take on the story, but it’s the truth. It was Romeo and Juliet’s choice to disregard wisdom, but it was Fortune’s decree that they pay the price for their families’ hatred.
With that in mind, let’s see how Luhrmann crafts the final scene to show the young lovers’ sacrifice to Fate. Juliet has followed the priest’s advice and taken a poison that makes her appear dead. Romeo gets half this news, hearing only that she’s dead. He rushes to the church and locks himself inside. The torrential rain, blaring police loudspeakers, helicopters whirring, and sirens screaming are immediately silenced in a hush of holiness.
Romeo slowly turns to find the church aisle lined with blazing, neon crosses leading to his bride laid on a bed like an altar. The whole front of the church glows with thousands of candles lit in prayer for Juliet’s soul. She lies resting in peace, a mirror of the Mary statues beside her.
Her heartbroken husband joins her on her death bed and takes poison himself, dying just moments after Juliet wakes up. The timing makes you want to scream. Surely Fate could have spared them a few seconds. Instead, Juliet watches as Romeo dies.
Reality slowly sinks in. Juliet sobs in anguish, but she’s completely alone. Her voice echoes off the church walls; her only answer is her own cry. As she holds Romeo’s gun to her head, Juliet looks up at the heavens—toward the forces who have brought them so much suffering—and she pulls the trigger. And so a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.
The camera slowly zooms out, revealing the blood-spattered lovers at the center of a cross of candles. Their lives were the ultimate sacrifice that eventually brought a “glooming peace” between the hateful families. Did they sacrifice themselves willingly, or did Fate drive them to it? In Luhrmann’s interpretation, they were the puppets of Fortune, led to the slaughter and abandoned in the end.
But there is beauty still. The families finally make peace, and Luhrmann shows Romeo and Juliet getting what they wanted all along—to be together forever. Their souls slowly rise above the cross on the altar, and the final shot is a flashback of the young lovers embracing in the water. Why is an underwater kiss the final image? We’ll attempt to answer that next time.
Ready for a deep dive into some themes from a cinematic masterpiece? I know I am. Call me nerdy, but this is the kind of stuff I get really excited to talk about. Join me, won’t you?
Last time we contrasted the dramatic forms of comedy and tragedy. If you were even semi-conscious in high school literature class, you probably remember which category the story of Romeo and Juliet falls into. Even though it’s a tragic tale, there’s still great benefit from studying the play and, yes, even a masterfully-directed film adaptation like Baz Luhrmann’s.
Two of the most pervasive motifs in this movie are religious icons and water. Today we’ll ask the question, “What kinds of religious imagery did Luhrmann use, and why on earth did he use them so much?” Later we’ll see how he uses water to highlight the ideas of strife, death, and peace.
So what are religious icons, and what’s a motif? Glad you asked. A religious icon is a picture or statue of someone like Jesus, Mary, or the saints. Some religions use these images in worship, so an icon is basically a focal point for religious devotion.
Now, a motif is a recurring idea that adds depth of meaning throughout a story. It keeps popping up—sometimes so subtly that you don’t even notice it—but when you think about it later, you realize that it was underlining the theme the whole time. In this movie, for example, the constant barrage of religious icons is a motif that highlights the role of the stars—or Fate—in the tale’s tragic trajectory.
The original story of Romeo and Juliet is set in Renaissance Verona—a hotspot for Catholic tradition. Luhrmann catapults the story into modern-day Italy, setting the film in late-1990’s Verona Beach. The city is much more secular, and religion isn’t overtly valued anymore, but religious vestiges remain.
And Luhrmann makes sure these remnants stand out. In fact, he crams every transition and clutters every scene with holy pictures, statues, shrines, and candles. The movie starts out with a view of the city, focusing on a giant statue of Jesus between the opposing skyscrapers of Capulet and Montague. Another looming statue features Mary overlooking the city. Much of the music is religious, too—a children’s church choir blesses the union of the young lovers, while “Requiem Aeternam” haunts the death of Mercutio. Even the title foregoes “and” in favor of “+” in the shape of a cross: Romeo + Juliet.
The characters themselves—especially the Capulets—also put a high value on religious icons. Juliet’s room features a shrine with dozens of saints and candles. At the foot of her bed is another collection of statues. Ironically, several of the characters’ pistols are adorned with pictures of Mary or Jesus, and some have little golden crosses dangling from the bottom. Tybalt’s vest is emblazoned with a gigantic picture of Jesus, and the priest has a massive cross tattooed on his back. None of this is remotely subtle.
And to make the religious motif as pointed as possible, Juliet attends her family’s costume party dressed as an angel, and Romeo arrives dressed in knight’s armor. When he gets a chance to speak to Juliet for the first time, Romeo kisses her hand and launches into an elaborate analogy of a pilgrim kissing a shrine at the end of his pilgrimage. I’m telling you—wherever Luhrmann could possibly squeeze in a religious image, he made sure to do it.
But why all the religious icons in every nook and cranny of the movie? Because Luhrmann recognized Shakespeare’s theme of fate. One of the major ideas of the play is that Romeo and Juliet are “star-crossed lovers.” Because they’re from warring families, their love was never meant to be. Even in Shakespeare’s day, some believed that the stars you’re born under have a direct influence on your destiny. Geminis shouldn’t marry Virgos, Aries should steer clear of Taurus, and Romeo should have left Juliet alone.
But Luhrmann didn’t interpret this as modern-day astrology and horoscopes. Instead, he interpreted Shakespeare’s fate, fortune, and stars as today’s religious saints. The one arranging matters behind the scenes isn’t an ancient Greek god or an astrological sign. Rather, God himself is Fortune.
We see this theme in several key lines. The prologue begins by telling us that Romeo and Juliet are “star-crossed lovers,” showing a torn picture of their wedding band over those same words. The camera immediately flashes to the statue of Jesus between the warring houses’ skyscrapers.
In a rapid montage of clips, the movie establishes the rampant violence and destruction between the families and intersperses close up shots of the Jesus and Mary statues. Those figures are just as prominent as the rest of the characters throughout the movie. So the stars—or the saints—are blamed for the eventual deaths of the young lovers right at the outset.
Romeo also blames fate for two more deaths that precede his own. After Tybalt kills Romeo’s friend Mercutio, Romeo is blinded by rage and a desire for revenge. He chases Tybalt to the center of the city, where Luhrmann shows Romeo shooting Tybalt in the heart repeatedly with Tybalt’s own gun. As Tybalt dies, his arms stretch out in the shape of a cross, and he falls backward at the foot of the towering Jesus statue. Romeo drops the gun, and the camera zooms in on a picture of Mary on the pistol’s grip.
As the weight of his actions sinks in, Romeo screams up at Jesus, “I am fortune’s fool!” He’s fortune’s toy or plaything. God and the saints have rigged events for his destruction, and he feels like a puppet in their hands. Despite his accusation, his only answer is a thunderclap and a downpour of rain.
For this murder, Romeo is banished to the dusty wasteland of Mantua where he waits to hear from the priest, who had promised to help reunite the newlyweds. Instead, his manservant arrives and informs Romeo that he’s just seen Juliet stretched out dead at her own funeral.
Romeo’s shock quickly turns to fury. He falls to his knees, turns his face to the sky, and screams, “Then I defy you, stars!” He will no longer be fortune’s plaything. He’s going to be with Juliet if it’s the last thing he does.
And, of course, it is. Romeo, enraged at being the puppet of fate, decides to end the game by ending his life. Next time we’ll see how Luhrmann styles this scene to bring his motif of religious icons to a resounding crescendo. You won’t want to miss it.
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