The Earnest of Being Important

Actor, Colin Renfrew, has a face created to carry mutton chops of a Dickinsonian era. He is to the manner born, in his aspect, and fits nicely with the cast of THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST. No one, in fact, is earnest. That is the comic point of the movie, based on the play by Oscar Wilde—there is no one named “Ernest” and all the characters are just play-acting.

I walked out on a live production at the local college. It was so boring, the way it was staged with an exaggerated lack of blocking, that there was more head-nodding than applause. I walked across the street to a fashionable coffee shop and had a piece of chocolate cake to put the second act to shame!

I did better with the Colin Renfrew version. I actually stayed awake a lot longer, with only a big nap in the middle, but I was conscious at either end. I came to understand that “Ernest” or “earnest” was a label to aspire to for a couple of young cads toying with the hand of love. As the story progresses, they become earnest, but does Ernest become himself?

Ernest Hemingway has a very true and masculine name. Much like his career. Poor Ernest became a literary superstar before his works were allowed to become great. He was untouchable before he learned the fine art of craft or submitted to the careful skill of editing. He loved his stories the way he loved himself. He imbued his tales with emotion beyond the words on the page. If only the editors had not been so afraid of his aura.

Despite how much I agree with Stephen King's sentiment that the first draft should be viable, my favorite Hemingway books are the ones published posthumously. Ouch. Would that no one says that about my works. True at First Light and Garden of Eden have the necessary craft to solidify the structure, and make the structure bear meaning beyond the flimsy members of the pages. Hem got lucky with Sun Also Rises. Islands in the Stream (of consciousness) could have been a great book. As it is, it's a classic because it's by Ernest Hemingway. Ernest’s novels lack craft, though I’m sure he meant well.