Running Down the Dream: Drawing Lines Between Dream and Fantasy

San Simeon, California. Photo courtesy of Karen Daniel

It hasn’t happened in a while around me, but it isn’t uncommon for the question, “What do you think she is like in real life?” to be asked about an actress during a television show or, more often, a feature film. The question is innocuous. I mean, it makes sense. There’s a fake life on the screen and there’s a real life in the living room. Upon deeper inspection, however, the question can be telling. For many of us there does seem to be some sort of notion of a reality-beyond-reality—something obviously less than real yet very influential in how we process and see the world around us.

I was in Colorado a few years ago. It was Georgetown, Colorado just off I25. Great town for grabbing a coffee. (So is Idaho Springs. And Leadville. And Buena Vista. Every town in Colorado for that matter.) My family and I stopped to have lunch. I don’t remember anything we talked about or what we ate or the name of the restaurant. The only thing I remember was a button our server was wearing that day. It said “Reality: What a concept.”

There are moments that you remember for a reason. Like your first kiss. And then there are other moments that you remember for no apparent reason—like a server’s button in Georgetown CO. Again, the idea behind the button suggests that there is an option other than reality. It’s not so hard to conclude that we’re all aware of the fact that our lives are stories with alternate endings. What’s confusing, though, is what these endings are, how to get from where we are to a desired ending, and where the lines between fantasy and dream are ultimately drawn. But where “reality” is concerned, there is only one viable conclusion: there is no “alternate reality.”

I think we’ve always had a bent toward escapism. Before television there were feature films. Before films there were novels. Before novels there was poetry. Before poetry there was drama. Before drama there was … farming. OK so maybe that’s where the notion of “alternate reality” began—when somebody finally said, “Man I’m tired of hoeing this field.” So the farmer looked for something to get his mind off of work. He didn’t create a fictitious world loose from the mooring of what he knew. What he did was carve out a place in the real world to which he could retreat. Somewhere in there lies the difference between “fantasy” and “dream.” “And this is important why?” I can hear you asking. Agonistes believes that our newfound game-show culture in which all you’ve got to do is be willing to make a fool out of yourself on television for a few thousand, sometimes hundreds of thousands of dollars, is on the verge of dropping completely into the grips of a fantasy world; a world unhinged from the sights, sounds, textures, and–yes–consequences of reality.

This distinction fantasy and dream hit me during a recent  trip to Disney World—trust me, I’ve got nothing against WDW. It’s one of my favorite places. We were watching one of the shows at Cinderella’s Castle. There were princesses and princes. A villain of course. Good wins—at least judging by the music. Just as the narrator challenged everyone within earshot to “reach for their dreams”  my oldest daughter says to me, “But what they DON’T show you, though, is all of the doubt, the bumps and bruises, the failures, fear, and the work it takes to live the dream.” (She was 15 at the time.) Always on the prowl for a potential blog post, I was struck: that’s the problem. That’s the difference between the fantasy and the dream. More than work, I would couch the  primary difference within what a mentor of mine described as “having skin in the game.” (Also check out Karen Dill’s How Fantasy Becomes Reality.)

Here’s the deal. Being a professional baseball player, for me, is fantasy. It isn’t going to happen. If I was ever good enough, that day is gone. I could hire a coach, a personal trainer, take BP and infield until I was blue in the face, and it wouldn’t matter. I could, however, write a novel. It could happen. For that to happen I would need to confront internal enemies such as fear of failure and lack of discipline—a very healthy enterprise—and do the hard work of developing a compelling story with intriguing characters. It might not be Hemingway, but I could do it. Even if this isn’t the best example, it makes a point: chasing the dream is edifying. Remaining in fantasy is destructive.

But the distinction goes deeper. Lets consider something easily categorized as fantasy … just for argument’s sake … just picking one at random … let’s go with … pornography. I’ve written about this before. Try to look at this emotional pandemic through the edification vs destruction filter above. Pornography requires nothing of a person: no commitment, no emotional investment, no real effort. That’s fantasy. On the flipside, look at what it promises. It promises adventure, but ultimately robs you of adventure. It promises beauty, but delivers only a one dimensional veneer. It promises fulfillment, but only for moments and only leaves you wanting more. It promises control, but in the final analysis owns you.  Granted, this is an extreme example. But this can be applied to just about anything we do compulsively. Why do I watch football? What is that a substitute for? What are so many of us addicted to Facebook? What does that say about one’s desire and how we’ve channeled it?

There is a lyric in an Avett Brothers song that says, “Your dreams to catch, the world the cage”—and that’s exactly right. Our dreams are vast and indefinable, really, while fantasy is localized. The dream sets the heart free while fantasy requires us to be static and still. Yet the fantasy industry—fantasy football, a zillion cable channels, video games to name a few—remains a billion dollar industry.  Thing is, no one can choose for you. The process of separating fantasies from dreams can be a life-long pursuit. As I’ve gotten older and learned more about myself I have sensed the pantheon of possibility narrow—which has afforded me greater focus. The sum of it is that anything worth doing isn’t necessarily easy, but it must be natural—as naturally as leaves to a tree, as Keats might have said.

70s vs 80s: For the Love of the Playlist

A few weeks ago I was in a conversation—actually a debate—about which decade boasts the best music: the 1970s or the 1980s. One guy I was with is a product of the 1970s so  you know which side he took. Another is a product of the 1980s. Of course he was sure that the 1980s had the best music. Also a product of the 1980s, I am most familiar with that decade but would like to see myself as, perhaps, more what you might call objective. Or maybe not. Like many conversations, I took on the role of the passive observer—I needed material for a blog after all— while my friends waxed on the merit of each.

One of the things I thought about during the back-and-forth was, “What do we mean when we refer to an entire decade of music?” Like most of the decades, there is a little overlap. What we mean when we say “the 1970s” doesn’t really begin until about 1974. The same goes for “the 1980s.” For the sake of argument I’m going to start the official 1970s era in 1971 when Led Zeppelin released Zep IV late that year. And even though the 80s vibe was beginning to take shape pretty early in the decade with Air Supply and Kool & the Gang (yeah I said it), acts like Pat Benatar, Queen, Olivia Newton-John, and Blondie (did you know that Parallel Lines is on Rolling Stone’s top 150 all-time list?) were carrying the prior decade’s banner. I don’t think 1981 is that much different. Because of this I’m going to begin the official era of the 80s music with … drumroll … what else but Thriller. Footloose is really really close to being the quintessential 1980s release—happy, tamed anti-establishment, visual—and it was only a year later.

And on the subject of overlap, as I listened to the two throw out artist after artist it became evident that acts like Elton John, Aerosmith, Kiss, Van Halen, and others had hits in both decades. So which decade gets to claim them? It’s a judgment call. The 1970s get Elton pretty much because he was so bad post 1980. Aerosmith is a little more difficult. They probably sold more records in the 1980s so that’s where I put them. Kiss has got to go to 70s while Van Halen goes to both, somehow. Journey, Chicago, and Foreigner … I’m non-committal. Springsteen? He is a statistical outlier in this debate. One thing I know: the 80s get U2.

My 13-year-old daughter recently asked me, “Dad how can you tell which songs belong to the 70s and which belong to the 80s?” I thought about it for a second or two before answering, “Listen for actual musical instruments. If you can hear instruments then it’s probably the 70s.” And it’s true. The music of the 80s seems over produced. Even Van Halen’s 1984 takes one of the great guitarists ever and puts him on keyboards. The music of the 70s, on the other hand, had dark places, mysterious corners, and strange twists and turns that gave us room to explore. The 1970s is so much more nuanced than the 80s and so much more of, in my opinion, what real life has in store for us. It has edges and corners. While the 70s had musical corners where you could go camp out, the 80s was much more cotton candy and polly anna.

In this debate I think we’ve got to consider the launch of MTV in 1981, too. Growing up in a rural community … don’t think I don’t remember the day MTV landed on my black and white television when that guy dressed in an astronaut’s costume put the MTV flag on the moon. Remember Mark Goodman, Alan Hunter, and Martha Quinn? I mean, really, how cool were those guys. And don’t forget Nina Blackwood. Looking back, however, MTV sounded the death knell for true musical artistry for more than a decade. Think about it. Once the era of the music video hit, “music” became less the cultural ethos of a generation and more about the dance, the face, the clothes, and the shock. MTV created Boy George for crying out loud!  Also because of MTV, music ceased being the collective story. And on that note, I hold MTV accountable for almost killing the concept album, too. In some ways, MTV introduced an era of American music when music was no longer music.  With all due respect to the 80s songs I know by heart and love, the 1970s is the greatest musical decade. Not only is the artistry superior, but it’s the last decade of the true storyteller (until recently, but that’s another post).

Is this a trivial conversation to have? Good question—especially in light of our economic woes. But maybe that’s exactly this conversation is important. I’ve come to conclude that the playlist is never trivial. Right or not, the playlist has come to define us even if it’s just for moments at a time. I think most of us would agree that it’s in these moments when we feel most ourselves and maybe even most alive. And I’m not buying the position that music is mere escapism, either. Admittedly it can play that role. But more than escapism, our music gives us a means of expression and articulation—a means of expression when our words come up short. In fact, very often it’s the playlist that speaks on behalf of our deepest places. It’s the playlist that speaks for the heart.

Romance in Warren’s Flood

Ok, Ok so this isn’t about “romance” the way you might normally understand it. There’s no Valentine’s Day message, heart shape, or bow-and-arrow carrying babies. I’ll grant you that the title is a little (if not a lot) misleading.

Instead of “romance” as something syrupy sweet I will typically use the word in the Coleridge/Wordsworth sense: the awakening of the mind’s attention to the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us. In this manner as well, “romance” may take us into the darker places, the “twisted and turned” places, the surreal and the mess. More simply put (you can thank me later), “romance” in this way only points to those things that move us most profoundly and deeply. It creates an environment that opens the doors wide to possibility and opportunity, allowing us to see things–perhaps–for the first time at their rawest. It is pathos. It’s what William Wordsworth himself cited as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion.”

We’re picking up where I left off in the first in this series in a post some time ago called “The Case for  New Romanticism.” All this is sparked by the decision to pick up Flood by Robert Penn Warren to re-read. Bear in mind that, to date, I think I’ve only re-read one book – Faulkner‘s Light in August— so this is BIG! In this novel the town of Fiddlersburg TN is on the brink of being flooded as a part of the Tennessee Valley Authority project. This project ultimately led to the creation of the two largest man-made lakes in the nation, Barkley Lake and Kentucky Lake, and the Land Between the Lakes area we have today. Making this happen, of course, necessitated government buy-up of all the land that would be flooded to make the lakes. It stands to reason that within the scope of the TVA project there would be several actual and legitimate towns.

As Flood begins Hollywood screenwriter Bradwell Tolliver has returned to his ficticious hometown of Fiddersburg on the virtual eve of its flooding. He has returned for the first time in a generation. Maybe everyone isn’t like this, but in my experiences and the experiences of those closest to me, you are unable to be indifferent to the place of your adolescence, eg “your hometown.” You may love returning or you may loathe it, but rarely are you indifferent. The physical location of one’s childhood is irrelevant, right. It’s not about the place. It’s about what the place does to us. It’s about how the physical place opens up wounds, hearts, and minds. It’s about how these places drag the voices of the past into the new vernacular of a different stage in life. But through their sights and smells these places als0 remind us a day that was so pregnant with possibility, inviting us to recollect the days gone by and the journey of a lifetime, where it went, and where it is going. These are all strong moments. Romantic moments, if you will.

It’s no different for Brad Tolliver when he returns to Fiddlersburg TN with producer/director Yasha Jones for a movie project. Interwoven into Warren’s narrative–this is my favorite part–is an attempt to define the south and what it means to be “southern.” For Warren, the southern experience is one predicated on lonesomeness. But this isn’t the kind of lonesomeness that concludes in a trip to the physician and a prescription for anti-depressants. It’s more the kind of disembodied lonesomeness that leads to introspection and the kind of romanticism described by Wordsworth and Coleridge; the sort of lonesomeness that winds down a dusty gravel road to some decaying homestead with its little-used and blue-faded tobacco barns and a yard that’s seen a share of Fourth of July picnics. It’s a romantic lonesomeness. It’s what Tolliver describes as a “high lonesomeness” in Flood right before he makes his way to the bed chamber of his youth:

“Well, in the Deep South, in certain circles, upper-class circles—upper class, that is, by old-fashioned standards and not those of Dun and Bradstreet … It is the nearest even the State of Mississippi comes to Zen. It is the nearest even the State of Tennessee comes to Zen. It is the nearest Bradwell Tolliver comes to Zen, and he is coming there now because, in the flood of moonlight and memory, he is about to retire to the chamber where he, as a boy, lay and, while moonlight strayed across his couch and the mockingbird sang, indulged what the bard has so aptly termed the long, long thoughts of youth.”

And so the “high lonesomeness” works in the same way as the romance: it brings clarity. Melancholy is different from despair in that it can be both cathartic and redemptive. A lament is to be embraced, not avoided. It’s in these raw moments that we are able to see into the reality of things. Another character in Flood puts it this way, “… that moment when some place is just overpassed but still extant and waiting for the flood, that’s the time you can see its virtues and vices most clearly.”

For me this has only served as a reminder to remain in the moment, regardless of what sense of foreboding or euphoria I may detect. Life can be defined in a number of ways, but certainly one of those ways is a series of moments that are strung together like freshwater pearls on a necklace. Regardless of their shape or size, they are all pearls.

Agonistes on the Government Shut Down

Word on the street is that they’ve got a potential government shut down going on. To Agonistes it seems fairly obvious that the Dems are thwarting the process in order to vilify the GOP in an election year. Smart move given the current climate, if you ask me. I guess you got to give the democrats credit for playing to win.

On the eve of a national government shut down I can’t help but think back to the story of Westward Expansion long about the turn of the century and pushing through to the late 1930s. A century or so removed from the Lewis and Clark Expedition, the west was blown wide open to migration largely due to the railroad, but also the telegraph and prosperity. But the people weren’t really moving. As contributors to the lack of interest there was WW1 (and the 1920s were pretty comfortable for most).

Because the federal government had this huge investment in the west and a need to get people on the land, it launched what amounted to an enormous PR campaign created to stimulate movement into the area. The campaign included free trips to visit the Texas panhandle, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Colorado, and even Nebraska and the Dakotas.  Our US government published pamphlets that highlighted how this land could be put to agricultural use. Heretofore only used for ranching, the area that would later be known as The Dust Bowl only recorded about 16 inches of rainfall a year—not the 20 inches annually required for successful agricultural endeavors. But here’s the kicker: the promotional pamphlets led people to believe that there was enough rain to raise successful crops year after year.  At worst it was a blatant lie. At best it was misleading.

Of course the cowboys knew it. They knew that the land was only good for cattle ranching, not farming. And the US Department of Agriculture did too. But the people came. They responded to the lure of cheap land and the American Dream. And they kept coming. And they bought tractors and they turned the prairie over and grew more grain than any nation had before or since. What they didn’t know—neither the government nor the farmer nor the cowboy—was that the prairie grass was the only thing holding the dirt down. Within two decades the prairie was gone, the Great Depression had settled in like an unwelcome relative, and the Dust Bowl was beginning its long run into our history books as one of the single most traumatic events in US history.

Timothy Egan’s The Worst Hard Time chronicles the story of the Dust Bowl with abject detail. He describes the rabbit runs and the great dust storms of the 1930s. In vivid detail he tells the stories of the families that lived in “homes” dug out of the ground with dirt floors, no roofs or windows, with cow chips their only source of fuel for the stoves. (Can you imagine the permanent smell of manure on your skin, hair, clothing.) There were so many centipedes living in the walls that you could hear them crawling around you at night and the dust so bad that people died from a malady known as dust pneumonia. There was enough static electricity in the air to short cars and knock people down with an ill-advised handshake. Food was so scarce that people canned tumbleweed to eat in the winter months.

So what relevance does this have today? Why bring these events from first half of the Twentieth Century up on the eve of a potential government shut down? Because we made it. Not only did we survive the Dust Bowl and the Great Depression, but we went on to become the most powerful nation the world has ever seen. And to its credit, I think, the administration of Roosevelt knew it. That is, the government believed. It believed in the fortitude and heart of the American people. It believed—and the irony is not lost on me—that we would ultimately not just survive, but find a way to thrive. What they knew is that we were and remain a nation of cowboys, so to speak, with indomitable spirits that cannot be tamed and that do not accept defeat. Stuff like that made us tough … for a generation anyway. All the government of the day did was plant a seed and make a better life possible for us (and with a little half-truth, too, I guess), then stepped back and let us do whatever we could with what was available. To a large degree, this was noble.

So here is what I wonder. Should talk of the shut down even matter? Think about it. When the Founding Fathers were building the framework of what our nation would become, the question was not so much what the federal government should be, but if it should be. When James Madison and Alexander Hamilton were writing the Federalist Papers–the documents would ultimately contribute the most to the framing of The Constitution– the big question was associated with the power of the central government as it related to the state governments—not what it would or could do to help us. Their resolution was to let the balance of power remain ambiguous, thus creating what Joseph Ellis described as something like an on-going yet slow-moving revolution and perpetually re-create the federal government A/K/A “genius”. And so perhaps that is where we find ourselves.

The role of government—any democratic government—is really quite simple: (1) remove obstacles (2) protect the people. Any Charlie Daniels song will tell you that maybe we don’t even need that. Circumstances amidst the Great Depression were so outrageous as to lie beyond any help the federal government could possibly provide. It was overwhelming. There were programs that worked with varying degrees of success, but by and large it was the people that pulled themselves out of it. A nation of cowboys found a way. Yeah it was hard. Terribly hard. But it’s only in those situations that you can find out what you’re capable of becoming.

I love this nation and what it stands for. Here’s to hoping we haven’t lost any of that along the way.

The Bizarre Files

Those that know me know that I don’t throw around the word “bizarre” lightly. Not only do I limit my usage of the word to just a handful of times per year, but also keep a watchful ear on my friends to make sure they don’t abuse such a treasure. “Bizarre” is a sacred possession of the English language and is one of the few plug words—words that hold a place for a thought, circumstance, or scenario that defies explanation—that I allow myself. Although close to “surreal,” it nonetheless holds a place higher in the vernacular and lexiconial hierarchy.

That being said, the most recent issue of Smithsonian Magazine includes a picture, and the story behind the image, of then President Richard Nixon in a White House “summit” with then King of Rock of Roll Elvis Presley is bizarre. Agonistes considers himself a person with an ability to make observations and draw conclusions about the culture around us. This moment of our history, however, remains a statistical outlier and renders any effort at social commentary pointless—in fact, arrogant.

Our graphic artist and I also chose to use this photo in one of our resources for similar reasons: when worlds collide. I think this photograph suggests that a picture’s worth only begins at a thousand words. And you’ve got to read the short article that describes the events, decisions, and circumstances that lead up to this moment: a bizarre moment of Americana. Click here to read it—it’s not your typically long Smithsonian piece.

The Curious Case of Lebron James

Sometime in the last few weeks between shopping and Thanksgiving and swim practice and competitions and my day job I found an NBA game featuring the Miami Heat and some other NBA team (there are really only 5 teams in the NBA: Heat, Lakers, Celtics, Spurs, Everybody Else).

I need to make one thing clear before moving on: I’m not an NBA fan. Sure I’ll tune in from time to time, but it’s only if I think there might be some adversity like players fighting fans or a fight on the court. That’s because adversity and drama are all the NBA is good for. Well, I also like to tune in to see how former Kentucky players are doing, but I call that research in the event I’m called on to make a recruiting pitch to a potential Wildcat some day. But the world of professional sports—especially professional basketball— has done a brilliant job of training me to look to it for a source of entertainment as opposed to finding some sort of inspiration in the true spirit of competition—the best-of-the-best matching their hearts, training, physical giftedness, and wit on a would-be field of battle.

Whereas in the silliness of my younger years I might have had a favorite team comprised of favorite players I grew to know, love, and respect, now I’m only looking for the story line. Since I don’t really care who wins or loses anymore, but how funny the commercials are or how compelling the story lines are, I no longer feel terrible after a loss (or feel the euphoria of a win, for that matter, but it’s a decent trade-off. But that’s for a future post.).

Given the pomp and circumstance of the new Miami Heat, the way Lebron James handled (or mishandled) his departure from Cleveland, The Decision, “I’ve decided to take my skills to South Beach,” and their early struggles, I actually thought there was a good chance to find adversity and drama for a few minutes … and I was right. Every time LBJ touched the ball. I mean every. single. time. The crowd booed him. And this wasn’t a Boston, Orlando, or LA. That is, this wasn’t a city that cares. Rather, it was a group of people that most likely just paid the admission to come out and boo Lebron. Gotta love that. It was as close to NBA-style magic as you’re going to get on a Tuesday night!

I can’t remember anything that comes close to the curious case that has become Lebron James. Just a year ago he was the toast of the NBA, enjoying popularity, fame, and a future as bright as anyone that has come into the league. He had done a outstanding job of staying out of jail, a difficult task for NBA players, but also to his credit he had done a magnificent job managing his image, or “brand” if you will. The powder ceremony before tip-off was really cool. The sideline shows he and his Cavalier teammates would put on, well, that was just good stuff. Lebron was the coolest kid at Cool High.

But that’s exactly what makes the present reality so interesting. To go from such a “can’t miss” position to being booed—not for a flagrant foul or for being the spoiler of a team’s opportunity to win, but more the role of perma-villain akin to Lex Luther—transcends the basketball court and moves into the realm of sociology. On the one hand, who can blame Lebron for taking the easy path. He’s made millions already and stands to make millions more. When you’re not even 30 years old yet and you’ve already pretty much solved life, at least on some levels, the idea of “going to work” probably loses a lot of appeal. So why not take the part-time job, share the load with two capable peers like Dwayne Wade and Chris Bosch, enjoy the fruits of your labor, and just spend your time honing your John Madden skills and hanging with friends in South Beach, right. I mean, who can blame him. “Magic, Bird, Michael were stupid,” Lebron et al must have thought. “Why not combine forces, make it easier, and add a wing on to my house for all the championship hardware soon to come.” So why, then, the boos. Do we really care that much?

Of course not. So it’s got to be something else. (But what, Agonistes! Please tell us!)  Only if you insist. The boos and the collective outcry at the curious case of Lebron James is about betrayal. Maybe not the same cut-clear-to-the-heart betrayal as Robert the Bruce, but maybe closer than you’d think. We don’t mind it so much that athletes make more money in a year than many of us will make in a lifetime. We don’t mind it so much when they make dumb mistakes, squander opportunities, or make the occasional, yet very public, faux pas. I’d say many of us are only marginally bothered by that kind of stuff. But when it appears that you’re ducking the responsibility, accountability, and (most of all) the trial-by-fire fight required to enter a champion’s realm—that’s where, culturally speaking, we might have a problem.

Regardless of the accuracy of the sentiment, the reality is that in the world that we live in these larger than life individuals like Lebron James function as symbols of the indomitable human spirit. Most of us can’t dunk like Lebron or shoot like Lebron or run through obstacles like Lebron, but deep down maybe just maybe we realize that what he is able to do on the basketball court serves as a metaphor for how we must confront life every day—with an unstoppable spirit. What he offers, whether he wins or loses or wins the game or misses the last shot, is a physical and palpable manifestation of what it takes to remain in the proverbial game against overwhelming odds and where the stakes are off-the-charts high. So how do you feel when Maverick bugs out or when Superman makes the decision to become something less? It’s a betrayal because we expect more. It’s a betrayal because we deserve more. It’s a betrayal because the hero offers more.

Cheering Secretariat

Secretariat at the 1973 Belmont Stakes

After experiencing Disney’s Secretariat and its heavy-weight cast of Diane Lane, James Cromwell, John Malkovich, and Scott Glenn I’ve got to agree with Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun-Times:

“So why, when I saw the race in the film, did I have tears in my eyes?” he writes. “It was because ‘Secretariat‘ is a movie that allows us to understand what it really meant. This isn’t some cornball formula film. It doesn’t have a contrived romance…. It is a great film about greatness, the story of the horse and the no less brave woman who had faith in him.”

I’m surprised, to be honest, at what is mostly high-praise for a move that might have come off as a little too “feel good” and perhaps formulaic—usually anathema to Hollywood critics. I detected neither, but rather a movie that not only reminds us of our great stories at a time when good stories are hard to find, but also what is required when pursuing something significant.

My family and I couldn’t help but compare Secretariat to Seabiscuit on the way home from the theatre. For most part we agreed that Seabiscuit was still the better movie, but where the simple art of storytelling is concerned—Secretariat is hard to beat. Regarding performances, Diane Lane is great as Penny Chenery even if she does borrow from Streep’s Karen and Bullock’s Leigh Ann Tuohy. But it is Malkovich as trainer Lucien Laurin and the horse itself, as it should be, that emerge as the true vehicles of this great story.

My favorite part? There’s a scene during the Belmont Stakes—the last leg of the Triple Crown—in which the director chooses to allow the action to go silent as Secretariat opens that now-famous margin between himself and Sham. It’s during this moment that both those on screen as well as those in the theater are given the opportunity to drink in this epic, yet fleeting, moment of greatness.

In the end, as Ebert says, Secretariat is a great film about greatness—on multiple levels. It’s also cool how the Book of Job makes its way into the narrative. And I don’t remember another movie experience in which those on-hand actually cheered during the show.