Film Analysis: Bridge to Terabithia

Hero: Jess Aarons
Mentor: Miss Edmunds
Threshold Guardian: Leslie, Jess's own thoughts and misgivings
Herald: Leslie. "Don't let the Terabithians Hear You."
Shapeshifter: Jess's Dad
Shadow: Scott Hoger
Trickster: Janice Avery
Ordinary World: Boring day-to-day chores, surviving the sixth grade friendless.
Call to Adventure: Leslie Burke beats Jess in the race; later she invites him to create a magical kingdom with her.
Refusal of the Call: Jess resists imagining, questions Leslie and doubts his own creative ability. "Enchanted Rope?"
Meeting With the Mentor: Music class with Ms. Edmunds, who praises his artwork and encourages Jess. "Have you taken Art lessons? You're Really Talented." --and-- "Jess, Don't let those other kids push you around."
Crossing the Threshold: Jess calls the pinecones grenades, he and Leslie build the treehouse.
Tests: Jess must find and return his father's keys; He and Leslie must confront & defend themselves against the Giant Troll (Janice Avery), Jess's chivalry to Ms. Edmunds in order to protect himself from Scott Hoger.
Allies: Leslie (His best friend), Maybelle (younger sister and confidant), Prince Terrian (P.T. the dog), later on Janice Avery.
Enemies: Scott Hoger (School Bully), Janice Avery (Frightening Eighth Grader), Jess's Dad (Imposing and Demanding).
Approach: Falling Tree impales the tree house (survival), Heightened Bullying (Maybelle's twinkies stolen, ketchup packets) and defense, Ms. Edmunds invites Jess to the Museum.
Ordeal: Leslie is killed by rope-river accident. Jess Must cope with his aching heart and confused emotions.
Reward: Jess is able to endure with his remorse and is still able to imagine.
The Road Back: Jess's father comforts him, Jess begins building a 'bridge' to Terabithia.
Resurrection: Jess calls Maybelle to come to Terabithia with him.
Return with Elixir: Leslie lives on in Jess's memory, Maybelle and Jess continue to imagine in Terabithia. "Can there be purple flowers?"

Hero's Journey

Josephine Katherine Lawson (Jo, for short) has always dreamed of becoming a famous vocalist, and has kept a secret passion for Juilliard school of music locked away in her list of possibilities. She has diligently sought to please her demanding mother by following in her older sister's scholarly footsteps and sustaining her own teen job at the local creamery. But Jo quietly holds grandeur plans of escape from the same-old of Galveston, Texas. When a written invitation asks Jo to attend a young musicians scholarship convention in New York City, Jo leaps for the opportunity and spends half her life savings to go. Jo is faced with difficult peer competition, tests of music theory, and challenging auditions during her week stay at the convention. Though veering from the family norm of logically minded professions, Jo at last finds fulfillment in her aspirations and earns a full-ride to Juilliard. Her parents at last accept her differences and support her openly.

Hero: Jo, 16 years of age, Galveston Resident and Middle Child

Ordinary World: Regular High School and Creamery Job (Regular old hometown)

Call to Adventure: Invitation to Muscial Convention

Special World: Scholarship to Julliard, major in vocal performance

Hero

Name: Josephine K. Lawson (Goes only by Jo)

Age: 16

Religion/Gender: Christian (no particular denomination), Female

Physical Description: Five foot four; long and curly brunette; no acne but lots of freckles;

Parents: Devout Catholic Mother and Inactive Father; Jo is very close to her father but struggles with clashing views/opinions concerning her mom.

Siblings: Has an older sister attending Harvard Law (Juliet, 23) and a younger sister (Janae, 13) who plans to attend college with a computer science major.

Style of Dress: Conservative; revels in buying high heels and hiking boots.

Hometown: Galveston, Texas

Family/Marital Status: Wants to marry in the future, hopes for two or three kids.

Life's Ambition: To attend Julliard school of Music with her talent in voice.

Favorite Ice Cream Flavor: Strawberry

Fondest childhood memory: Earning an award for excellence in musical composition (elementary, age 9)

First Love: Joey Brooksen, who gave her his fruit snacks every day for a week in the fourth grade.

Greatest Fear: Being forced to join a convent

Strongest desire: To become a successful vocalist

Job: Local Ice Cream Parlor (Server Girl)

Identifying Marks: Slash of hairless skin through her left eyebrow (result of a childhood curling iron accident)

Mannerisms/Gestures: Widens her eyes whenever she is excited or incredulous; Snaps her fingers absentmindedly when she is making a trivial decision; ALWAYS taps her toe to the radio (even elevator music).

Favorite Quotes: "History will be kind to me; for I intend to write it." ~Winston Churchill

"Sharp rocks at the bottom? Bring it on." ~Emperor's New Groove

"Dancing. Even if one's partner is barely tolerable." ~Jane Austen, Pride & Prejudice

Favorite Movie Lines: "Anybody want a peanut?" ~Princess Bride

Favorite Songs: Symphony No. 9--Beethoven

Fallin' For You--Colbie Calliat

Dies Irae--Mozart

Santa Fe--Newsies

Defying Gravity--Steven Schwartz, Wicked

Favorite Candy Bar: Whatchamacallit

Favorite NBA team: Boston Celtics

MVP (Most valuable possesion): Her i-pod

How he/she feels about love: Hopes for a long courtship (a year or more), beginning as simply friends. Wants nothing to do with infatuation or flighty marriage; wants absolute certainty in her decision. This also holds Jo back from starting any relationships, however.

Reading . . . Writing

Book . . . . . .
Pen . . . .
Paper.
I curl up with a paperback
And read quietly for hours
Laboriously I scratch Ideas
My brow spouts cold sweat showers
I yawn and set my book down
The story puts me fast asleep
I struggle over the sentence
I've been wording for a week
I crease my brow in thinking
The story grasps my full attention
My hand cramps as I speed write
My own adventure weaves suspension
I fly in freedom winging
As the story sweeps blue skies
My fingers drag enduring
Try to keep the writing alive
It's easy just to read away
And enjoy a sea of words
But when it's my pen scratching
I create my own bright world
I can't decide the ending
In a book or play I like
But I make my own adventures
When I find te time to write.

Short Story Adaptation

"I'm sorry, Joseph. You've developed arthritis in both patellas, and I'm afraid if you continue marathon training it will only cause greater bone deterioration."
The doctor's words felt like a stifling cloud in Joseph's mind. Joe quietly murmured a thank-you to the doctor, stuffed the prescription bill in his pocket, and trudged out of the office.
Before long, he found himself driving into the parking lot of the city cemetery.
Joseph pried his white-knuckled hands from the steering wheel and folded them across his chest. His graying auburn hair hit the headpiece on the fraying seat. His lips parted in a slow intake of air, releasing in gusts.
In, out.
In, out.
Joseph's broad shoulders sagged as he softly shut the Chevy door and trod through the clean-cut lawn. After passing several rows of headstones, he paused.
"Hey, dad." He murmured. "I've got it too. Guess it's just a family gene, idn't it."
Saltwater droplets began to dribble from his gray eyes.
"Dad!" he exclaimed mournfully, sinking in sorrow toward the gray stone. "Dad, what am I supposed to do?"
He tried to remember, remember what dad would've said to cheer him up, as he always did. . .

"Dad!" I asked with urgency.
"Dad, look at my fingers!"
The tall, dark figure of my Daddy whipped around backwards, his left hand holding a razor to his cheek. Creamy foam smothered the rest of his face, and I could barely make out the red lines of his lips through it.
"What is it, son?" Daddy asked, his big old blue eyes popping out at me in concern.
"Daddy, what's wrong with my skin?" I exclaimed. I stood up in the tub, where frothy pools of water seeped off my body and into the drain. Shivering, I hopped out toward him and outstretched my hands.
Those two, big ol' blue eyes inspected the ends of my raisin-looking fingers.
"Now those, son, are wrinkles." He said matter-of-factly.
"Wrinkles! I'm doomed!"
He grinned at me, grabbed a fluffy green towel, and draped it tightly around my shoulders before hoisting me up to the counter top.
"You know, son, they aren't anything to be afraid of," He said while tousling my wet hair. "I've got wrinkles," he said, tracing the lines next to his eyes, "But it just means I've been well loved."
"What do you mean by that?" I asked curiously.
"Well, my wrinkles come from caring about you, and from taking care of your mama, and from working hard at work."
"Really?"
"True as can be. They might not look pretty, but they mean I've got a lot of blessings. Growing old, it just means you've had a lot of life to live and time to love."
. . . .
Joseph's tears slowed to a stop; he wiped his eyes. Those images of his memory played in his mind again and again. He patted the top of the headstone while whispering a "Thanks, Dad." Joe's Chevy rumbled up the drive and away into the suburbs in the afternoon light.

Blurbs from Song Stories

Wrinkles (Diamond Rio)

37 year old Joseph Fairbanks, husband and father of four, is a successful businessman and long time athlete. A recent development in arthritis, however, has limited his ability to participate in marathons and charity runs. At first frustrated with this new physical challenge and still grieving from the loss of his father a year before, Joe reflects on his memories. He comes to a peaceful resolve on his situation when he remembers the life lessons he learned as a child.

There Goes My Life (Kenny Chesney)

Jake Harley married his High School Sweetheart the week after graduation, with plans to travel the world, attend a prestigious college, and become a successful business man in the automobile industry. He thought he had nought to worry about but doting on his wife and easily paying the bills. When he discovers he is the soon-to-be father of a beautiful baby girl, his dreams spur quickly to a halt. Jake feels at first caged and limited as well as confused in the responsibilities of guardianship. As he measures up to responsibility, however, Jake realizes that his daughter's life is the best decision he's ever made.

Forever & Always (Taylor Swift)

Jo (Juniper) Bellant is a tomboy in her senior year of high school. She's never dated much, acting as an independent and carefree woman--until a certain young man moves into her small town. Drew Lawson is assigned a seat next to her in Physics, and as their conversation blossoms into friendship, Jo knows she has finally found a man worthy of her love. After dating a blissful few months, the gossip around the school meanders to Drew's head. He decides though he loves Jo, their differences outweigh their comparable traits, distancing himself from her. Heartbroken and confused, Jo picks up her guitar and strives to find a way through the tragedy by pouring out her emotion into song.

Concrete Angel (Martina McBride)

Lily Jewkes is a fourteen year old city girl, trapped in an emotional confine of her abusive home. Lily is struggling to find a way to overcome her insecurities about boys, growth spurts, and junior high drama while hiding the physical beatings dispatched by her father. Lily finds refuge in a tutoring center for struggling math and science students, finding mentor Judy Lunz, a senior in high school. Lily must compose the courage to escape the hand of her father and confide in both Lunz and the police.

All I Want (Steven Curtis Chapman)

A tragic car accident leaves Rick Swenson, age eight, parent-less in the states. Having moved recently from Canada and having no living family relations, he is forced to jump from foster home to foster home in Conneticut while a permanent family is found. Two years later, with no familial success, Rick decides to give one last plea for a family in a letter to Santa Claus. Skeptical of Santa's existence and afraid of consequences from his naughty behavior, Rick hides the letter in his school binder for nearly two months. Only a week before Christmas, Rick mails the note. come December 25th, Rick receives a surprise call from the foster care facility. The next months of his life are spent adjusting to a life with a new family and learning to appreciate the tender mercies God offers.

Song Story: Wrinkles

Title: Wrinkles
Artist: Diamond Rio
Link to Song Lyrics

Plot: A grown man reflects on a memory from when he was a young boy. Frightened by the pruny appearance of his fingers from the bathwater, he worriedly relates this to his Dad, who is shaving by the sink. His dad explains that "Those are wrinkles, they ain't nothin' to be scared of!" The young boy wanders down the hall after listening to his daddy and enters his parents' room. He hears his mother complaining about her own wrinkles/age, so he decides to take his Daddy's advice and passes on the motto "Those are wrinkles, they ain't nothin' to be scared of!" He completes the story with his outlook on life now that he is grown and starting to recieve real wrinkles; contiuing to keep to the lesson his father taught him.

Characters:
Grown Man (Main character)
Young Boy (Main Character)
Daddy (Father to boy)
Mama (Mother to boy)
Audience (Main Character is talking directly to audience)

Conflict: Main Character is concerned with wrinkles and the physical problems/disabilities that accompany old age--such as wrinkles, gray hair, arthritis, etc. His parents are also concerned originally, before they express their new philosophy.

Theme: Acceptance of aging;
As long as you're living right and loving life, don't worry about 'wrinkles.' They're just a product of time and true love!

Setting: Happy family Suburban home; begins in the bathroom (specifically a hot bath, then to the hamper and sink), progresses down the hall to the master bedroom. Setting of the Character in Adult life is ambiguous.

Six Word Memoirs: My own philosophies

#10--Andes Mints on my Grandma's Table.
#9--I'm gonna worry, but not now.
#8--Lost a fight with a Goldfish.
#7--Prevent regret before you feel it.
#6--Seventeen, College Plans, time to fly.
#5--Car stopped at a forked road.
#4--Fingers raw from pressing six strings.
#3--Blue eyes, free skies, heavy sighs.
#2--One lane highway ahead, no exits.
#1--American Stars on my father's coffin.

Grand Theft Poetry: The Choice

Two choices diverged before me.

I listed the pros and cons for each upon my notebook page.

As I did so, I asked myself for the thousandth time;

"Why must I choose between the places that most determine my future?"

I blocked out the second option with one hand so I could focus solely on the first.

Soft music tantalized my thoughts as I soaked in the pros and cons, options like a melody careening through my mind--the notes smiling at me like an old friend.

I shook my head, trying to clear the temptation, before removing my hand from the right side of the page and planting it firmly on the left. The music stopped.

I gazed at the second.

Mountains unconquered, unfamiliarity, and promise lurked dangerously in this choice. It was not what my eager eye and willing ear wanted me to opt for.

With a large sigh, I took them both again; holding them like a balance beam, my mind the weighing lever teetering back and forth.

From which scale could I glean the most potential and success?

Only if you knew! My thoughts hackled mercilessly.

I took a breath, and unsteadily, crossed the second candidate into an incomprehensible mess of pen marks.

I reviewed my final choice, the first, with satisfaction and peace.

I had done well,

Perhaps this was the path more traveled by--but the best for me.

The one to make all the difference.

My Flaming Converse Shoes (Bad Poetry Revised)

I stroke the fabric of your withering all-star frame.

Red, red, red shoes.

And who'd have thought?
I had boring sneakers previously,

Before you.

And then I saw an ad, a colorful array of Converse shoes splayed out upon the page.

Lots of colors, but my eyes could only focus on one pair.

Red. Red. Red shoes.

I took a chance, stepping outside my normal fashion realms.

And suddenly I realized--

Who cared about my disproportionate bony toes,

When enveloped inside a stylish crimson case?
Adorned with

brand

new

fresh

white

laces. Beautiful!

Red, Red, Red shoes.

I remember you dangling beneath me,

On a roller-coaster inside the magic of Disneyland Park, soaring over the mickey mouse hats beneath us.

I remember afternoon walks after a rainy day, when the air is thick and fresh with moisture.

unreservedly we leapt into the joyous wet of a thick mud puddle.

Perhaps the best of all, was when I wore you on a date,

with that handsome young man;

I remember you taking me out on the dance floor,

Pulsing with confidence--Vibrant with flame,

and I didn't care if I wasn't a student at The Pointe! I let my feet fly anyways, graceful or not.

Red, Red, Red shoes.

And here you are now, after all those memories.

Trashy, beat up, worn, and beautiful.

And I'll still wear you, as long as you last,

My flaming converse shoes.

Very Bad Poetry: A sonnet to my shoes

Thine utter crossing laces

doth fray upon my feet

The stench that emanates from you

smells of rotten beets

I dream of days up mountains

and steps in fresh manure

Tears well at thoughts of bubblegum

their stickiness you lured

I have to sigh in thought

at the grand trail of scuff marks

Upon tile floors and wooden gyms;

the squeaking like birds--larks.

I stroke the fading fabric

of your withering all-star frame

I hope you'll not forget me

For I'll always remember your fame

For as long as I have you

In mud puddles I'll leap

And smash the wand'ring red ants

that beneath your soles creep

There's not so many folks with love

enough to make a verse

For my trashy, tattered, beat and worn

disgusting pair of Converse.

The Impulse: Train Station

M: Jessica, it's so good to see you again! I can't believe how long it's been.
W: Me neither. Who knew that three years could pass so quickly . . .
M: What are your plans, now that you've finished your undergrad and all?
W: Well, you remember how much I enjoy writing.
M: Yeah, I remember that little notebook you used to carry around.
W: The one you stole from me every so often; wehre you wrote your name all over on random pages? And hearts with our initials inside?
M: Yeah, that one. Anyway, go on!
W: You're blushing!
M: Go on!
W: You know I'm teasing. It's my job. Anyway, I'm leaving to Massachussets to pursue a career in journalism.
M: So fitting, for you. Someday, when you publish a pulitzer, I'll have bragging rights.
W (laughing): What do you mean?
M: You know, when this fabulous piece is raved about in newspaper columns and the news, and the whole literate audience in America booms "Who is Jessica W. Renaldi?" I'll pull out my yearbook, point to your picture, and show everybody that I know you-- that htis grand work was written by none other than my friend.
W: Well, I doubt that will happen for quite a while, if at all. But I appreciate the flatter nonetheless, Jake. (pauses, and mutters under her breath) my friend.
M: Jess-- (pauses; steps forward and back, shuffling, before lokoing back up at her, a faint smile on his face), do you ever wonder waht might've been?
W: I don't know what you mean.
M: I think you do, Jess.
W: I thought you stopped calilng me that.
M: What?
W: Jess. You haven't called me that since . . . since . . .
M: Yeah, I know when. But why not start back up again? Old habits die hard, and all that. And I missed you. I miss you. I can't hardly believe I'm talking to you now, while you're waiting for your train to take you across the country.
W: I can believe it. I can also believe that the old habits need to be left with the past. It's not worth it to me. I can't endure it again, Jake. You weren't the only one that was hurt by the distance.
M: I suppose you're right. But that doesn't mean my feelings have gone away in the least bit.
W: Jake, the distance--
W: You say it like it'll all be fien. Like we won't mind being apart, that our love will 'conquer all.' But it's time for me to move on. That was 1930, jake, and now its 1933. It has to be this way.
M (kisses her cheek, and whispers in her ear): I understand.
(uncomfortable silence)
W (feigned nonchalance): So, what are your plans?
M (looks down at his business suit): Well, judging by my stuffy garb, I think I'll be continuing on as a lawyer.
W: You'll do wonderfully!
(Train whistle)
W: That's my ride. I'd best be off. It was good to see you, really, it was.
M (picking up her suitcases and helping her aboard): You too. Good luck in Massachussets, Jess. Keep in touch.
W (with a sad smile): I think for both our best interests, I'd better not.
M (mournfully): Bye.

Four Alarm Fire

From my perspective in observing the painting, I pictured the man as an actual firefighter looking at a painting of a fire he actually fought. Here are what I believe his thoughts are:

I'm standing here at the museum

In uptown center street.

I cam because I had to see,

I had to see what Mack painted.

Last I saw him, he was walking

out of the Hospital. Healing. His face was

mangled, a long rough bubble of skin

hardened across his left jaw and ear,

where smooth pink skin once was.

His hands recovered, thankfully.

He leads me to this spot,

Where he pats my shoulder and leaves me a while

Leaves me to think,

But I can't think,

I can only remember.

I remember that fire, in '04

Its flames licking, eating up the dark

Swallowing the linen bed-sheets,

and devouring an oakwood cradle.

My gear rests heavily on my shoulders

A resistance to my speed

But protection from the heat.

I smell the cloud of thick smoke

racing to my lungs,

and the blinding confusion

of the ceiling above

crashing down around me,

landing in charcoal heaps at my feet.

I remember finding Mack passed out;

A man with rolling eyes and flimsy limbs,

Incapacitated on the smoldering floor.

I lift him over my shoulder, and rescue him,

diving--searching--crashing my way

out of the biting cold night air.

He groans through ember lips, "My baby.

My baby, Jean.

Save my baby."

I go back in,

I try to find the oaken cradle.

There she is, somehow protected

Her blankets just beginning to singe

I carry her, crying, away.

I never heard such a lovely cry.

She was alive, every sound she made,

It meant she was alive.

And here she comes, interrupting my reverie,

grabbing my leg.

"I'm here, Jean," I say, and lift her up.

She hugs me, and laughs.

I never heard such a lovely laugh.

"Thanks, Joe." Mack says, patting my shoulder again.

I stare into the fire once more,

the thing that destroyed Mack's home and nearly

so nearly took his life.

But from that burn

Grew friendship and renewal.

There is hope again.

--Genevive Louise Noette

Inside a Book

Here is an introduction to my writing, a poem:

Inside a book

The best place to be on a rainy day,

One thing so amazing it sweeps you away

A land of adventure tucked between a few pages

An old rune castle not walked through for ages

A fearsome black stallion you valiantly ride

Or a tall strong knight you fight beside

Out of window on high falls maiden’s hair

The dungeonous crags of a dragon’s lair

Venturing the world and incredible sights

Enjoying breathtaking northern lights

The heat of a battle—your heart starts to race

A Pegasus flies with endless grace

A whole new world we can explore

All we must do is open the door

If books are something you do without

Then in many grand times you are left out

I’ve been enchanted in many adventures

Through forbidden castles I have ventured

A horse ride, a battle, a wild goose chase

Inside a book is my favorite place.

My Introduction (Continued)

After completing my degree in English, I decided to move back to the comfort and familiarity of the small-town woods and backroads where inspiration for my writing is plentiful. It is here that I write, quiet and reserved from the bustle of an industrious mankind. I send in my works from time to time to be published, the ones that succeed give me purpose and satisfaction. I keep up with the latest news and literary pieces (at least, those of merit, anyway) to increase my understanding of opinions and ideas, so please do not judge me as ignorant.

Sit back, reader, and enjoy. But please--DO critique me. My love of words can often blind me to error, and you are not yet impaired by bias.

Thank you, and have a most marvelous evening.

An introduction to myself: Genevive Louise Noette

Good Day to you, reader, whomever you are. I welcome you to this blog, my personal 'notebook' of sorts. Before all else I must inform you that the only think I enjoy more than a well-crafted book is the pleasure of my own pen. Writing is my release and my joy. I hope to convey that passion for words with you.
As for my beginning . . . I was born to a countryside family in Massachussets, the second daughter of James and Lucy Noette. An elder sister, Dawn, preceded me in birth by two years; and a younger brother, Jake, followed me two years later. We grew up in a small town, with space to run and acres of wood to explore. I applied myself in my studies, a virtue my sister shared with me, but Jake did not. We grew very close and remain so today.
I developed at an early age a love of nature and animals, a theme you will discover throughout my writing.
I attended Harvard university as an undergraduate in English.
--To be continued--