I'm always saddened to hear of someone's suicide and Tony Scott's death on Sunday was no exception. If you aren't familiar with Scott's work, I'd recommend a favorite of mine: 1995's Crimson Tide. Scott prompted brilliant performances from Gene Hackman and Denzel Washington and built the tension between them scene by scene until you could cut it with a knife. By the time the film enters its third act and you're watching those two acting powerhouses playing off of each other, it's easy to forget that you're just watching a movie. You're on that submarine. You're sweating bullets wondering which man will emerge victorious—the man who blindly follows his orders or the man whose own sense of morality urges him to ignore those same orders. I'm also a fan of 1998's Enemy of the State—that one teaming Hackman with Will Smith—but Crimson Tide is, in my opinion, Tony Scott at his finest.
I guess what throws me the most about a man like Tony Scott ending his own life is that he was a storyteller. Now, I've already seen a slew of comments online about his success and the money that must've surely come with it, but that's not what I'm talking about at all. Money and fame are fleeting and not nearly enough to fight back the sort of depression that leads to taking your own life. But, as a writer and lover of stories, it saddens me that a storyteller like Scott forgot one of the basics of storytelling: that the next page can bring something entirely unexpected.
One of the things I love about writing and reading stories is not knowing what awaits me just a page or two from what I’m reading at the moment. Things might seem dire on page 78, but by page 112 all is well. Then comes page 238 when all hell breaks loose again just 20 pages before page 258 gives us a satisfying and happy ending.
I know, of course, that fiction is fiction and life is life, but I’ve found that same principle at play in my own life. On one page, I lost my dad and was overwhelmed with grief and the desire to look after my mom, but then a few pages later I married the woman of my dreams. When the end of one chapter brought the loss of my mother, the beginning of the next brought me the grace of my younger daughter. When the Author threw me a curve ball with the death of my brother too early in the story for me to have seen it coming, He wrote in the birth of my son who would carry his uncle’s initials and middle name into the rest of the story.
Reports seem to indicate that Tony Scott had an inoperable brain tumor and, thank God, I cannot image what getting that sort of news must be like. I don’t know how long Mr. Scott had left but, if someone said to me that I could go out of this world today—by my own hand and of my own will—or tomorrow in great pain and indignity, well, I’d want that 24 hours. I’d want my loved ones to see that I would fight tooth and nail for every second I could spend with them and then, when I had nothing left to give, I would rest. I understand that depression can warp your reality and I’m not certain how news of an inoperable tumor could not depress someone. But I wish that Tony Scott had thought about what he might’ve read—or written—on that next page.
I guess I wanted to write this out as a reminder to all who read my words that stories ALWAYS contain twists and turns—surprises both good and bad—and if you give up before the Author writes THE END on that final page, you never know what good might be coming on those last few pages. My faith comforts me and gives me a great deal of strength. Even if you don’t share in that faith, however, I hope you at least believe in the power of the story. I know your story might have you in dire straits or a great deal of pain on the pages of today. It’s my prayer that you will take your story one page at a time—that you will keep reading and never forget that you might be just a page or two away from a happy ending.
J
