Howl & Some Thoughts on the Writing Process

I just finished two films about writers: Howl (2010) and Sylvia (2003). The first features James Franco, Jon Hamm (of Mad Men fame), and David Strathairn (of Good Night and Good Luck). James Franco plays the famous Allen Ginsburg and the movie cuts between an interview, an obscenity trial (Ginsburg was not on trial, but his publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti, another poet as well, was), Ginsburg reading his epic in a smoky bar, and animations drawn from the poem. The second features Gwyneth Paltrow as the tragic Sylvia Plath and Daniel Craig (of James Bond fame) as her unfaithful husband, Ted Hughes.

I enjoyed both films in their own way. Howl, I think, was a selfish film in that it seemed to be more about the artfulness of it all, and thus about James Franco's ability to make film. If I didn't know anything about Franco and his pursuit of MFAs and PhDs as well as his Museum of Non-Visible Art (don't ask), I probably wouldn't have been as irritated. But all I could think about through the entire film was how much was trying to be done: a portrayal of Ginsburg as the writer, a historic account of puritanical 50s America, and a feat of animation in which poetry literally becomes imagery. There was so much going on; the movie became a portfolio to Franco saying 'look at all the different things I can do, I'm an artist not just some one-dimensional man, some actor.' Perhaps most frustrating was Franco as Ginsburg hammering out line after line of "Howl" with ease at the typewriter, vomiting up lines thick with metaphor with ease. It simply is not how writers, even great ones like Ginsburg, write or wrote.

Sylvia, by contrast, nailed the writing process. We see both Plath and Hughes hunched over at their dimly lit desks at night, grabbing their hair in frustration, thesauruses thrown open, searching for the right word. Hughes might find some inspiration from his bike rides, but he doesn't compose great work unlike Franco's Ginsburg who, with what seems like a few short wandering around Brooklyn (though admittedly there is greater depth to the plot), wrote "Howl." Plath as well slaves away, slogging through the crap to get to the good stuff all while raising children. We can't help but be impressed by the accuracy of the writing process, appreciate how much Plath's and Hughes's struggle for great writing (and greatness) mirrors our own.