Three Men and . . . a Column

Everyone knows a film major. And everyone knows that being friends with a film major isn’t always easy. You go to see Harry Potter with your film major friend and all they can do is babble incessently about how amazing a particular shot was, when all you care about is if Harry and Ginny will have ginger babies when they finally procreate. So, this semester, The MUSE is letting Boston University seniors ‘-‘- and film majors ‘-‘- Evan Puschak, Sam Stratton and Justin Suriano share their thoughts on film, art and life in a proper outlet

My dear artists: welcome back from the season of change: has there been time enough to romanticize the summer?

I find myself a senior, and restless. I ask: where am I? Where am I going? The wheel that has always decided the rhythm of my existence begins its final revolution, and at what a time! My soul has sprouted wings. (Has yours?)

We’ve reached the age when many of us will inherit the true desire for learning and self-improvement. It’s no coincidence that this happens at the end of our educational tenure, as it coincides with the acceptance (not the realization) that the educational system is not conducive to learning, rather a series of checkpoints and arbitrary goals. While some await a life of checkpoints, others glimpse the first light of a new reality they are not morally prepared for. Frantically, they reassess their worldview, rearrange, revise, and they should.

Unfortunately, the inheritance will be sporadic. Artistic rivalry will fester in the pubescent treatment of late development as weakness. We’ve been through this before. I don’t know of what use it will be to point out that intellectual growth like puberty is something we all go through in our own time. I hope we can maturely evolve. Yet, it takes only one charismatic cynic to inhibit the spiritual growth of the group.

We seem doomed to repeat these follies: we will continue to fight each other in the spirit of some invisible competition. Beware this sinful malady, I warn; ‘That virtue should become the victim of treachery is, no doubt, a mournful consideration; but it will not escape your notice, that these evils owe their existence to the errors of the sufferers’ (C.B. Brown, Weiland). We seek others to blame, to accuse, to pick apart and destroy. These are defense mechanisms. The fearful will mock our introspection, label us pretentious, indulgent, self-important, until they have abated our desire for self-improvement with social pressure. What kind of strength is needed to oppose friends driven by secret grievances?

Do not let them shake you: we must nurture each other. We must build up our collective courage. Beware the ones who accuse you of taking life too seriously. Beware those who shout ‘pretentious’ into the face of art. Beware the mockers; they are dangerously insecure.

As best I can, I will hold back the mob, and try to give you some space to breath, to express. All I ask in return is your sincerity, and your belief in mine.

How amazing the realization: we can do something great. We have that option! You are Leonardo Da Vinci. You are Henry James. You are Martin Scorsese. If you don’t want to step up to the responsibility, don’t worry; this year will be full of a million chances to be a coward, a million chances to perpetuate the notion that the artist is lazy or indifferent or fake.

My dear artists: Where are you going? Is there any reason not to open every window and let your soul blanket all Boston? As a brilliance, against falling dusk’hellip;