Many years ago, while I was still an undergraduate and before I was married (and maybe before I had even met my future wife), several of us — including at least two of us who were studying classical Greek — got together, in lieu of less worthwhile activities like our studies, to make a film that we named Oedipus Wrecked. No expense was spared, up to a limit of perhaps $9.37. And the very latest cutting-edge technology was employed to make it a truly first-rate production: a hand-held Super-8 Braun movie camera, as I recall. Turning our noses up at mere sound, we opted for hand-held, hand-lettered signs to advance the story, scrawled with a Magic Marker on sheets of paper.
We filmed in exotic locations, too. I played the mad prophet Tiresias, for example, in a scene filmed in a BYU chemistry lab. (I freely grant that, in the original play by Sophocles, Tiresias isn’t actually mad. So much the worse, though, for the unimaginative Sophocles.) And the pivotal confrontation between Oedipus and the Spinx — a minimum $100 donation to the Interpreter Foundation is required before I’ll explain why, unlike more conventional productions, ours didn’t feature the Sophoclean Sphinx — took place near the shore of the Provo River. The young woman who portrayed the Spinx in our version of the ancient story, a fellow Greekling, married our cinematographer. (He was our cinematographer by reason of the fact that he owned the camera. Were they already married then? I can’t remember.)
Anyway — trust me on this — the film Oedipus Wrecked represents one of the cultural treasures of Western civilization.
Unfortunately, like so much great art, Oedipus Wrecked is vulnerable. At risk. Having been filmed with a Super 8 camera, it exists right now in only one copy. And the whereabouts of that single copy are currently uncertain. Our cinematographer is confident that he has it. Somewhere. (There may be a certain significance, even perhaps a rich and deep symbolic meaning, in the fact that, today, he’s a psychiatrist. Given his professional training in the field of mental health, he may be the perfect custodian for the film.)
Anyway, two or three weeks ago, completely unexpectedly, he contacted me and invited me and my wife to their home for a meal. And, today, we had that (excellent) meal, and that very enjoyable time, with them. We haven’t seen each other for many, many years. Perhaps even — it appalls me to consider the possibility — for something like four decades. They lived out of state for a number of years, we’ve been very busy, life happens. Many of you will know how this goes, if not, perhaps, why.
The passage of time continually astonishes me. The other day, for example, while I was doing some undemanding things and my wife was gone with friends up to Yellowstone, I had the television set tuned to a showing of the Disney animated musical film Beauty and the Beast. I was halfway listening to the music and working away when a question occurred to me. I immediately looked the film up on Wikipedia. But, while finding the answer to my question, I also noticed that the movie appeared in 1991. 1991! That’s twenty-seven (27) years ago. Nearly three decades. If somebody had asked me, I might well, without thinking, have said that it was about ten years old.
Time passes faster and faster as I hurtle ever deeper into geezerhood. And that’s sobering.
But what also occurred to me yet again today is that one of the very best things about the life to come will be the reunions. I’m looking forward to them.
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