The Director by Jess

There was a film-maker with us that day,
He had come, naturally, from L.A.
Though he dressed in black to show his sorrow
For all of those that must beg or borrow,
Not any of his money would he lend;
He had earned it and it was his to spend.
His friends were rich and sophisticated,
Dealing with low class was what he hated.
Everyday people made him so tired,
The wealthy were who made him inspired.
Why, then, did his films (I can’t understand)
Portray the struggles of the common man?
He was a true artist, it seemed to me;
He knew just what people wanted to see,
And what actors would make a film a smash,
And what kind of plot brings in the most cash.
To be an original was his aim,
And so, to show it, he would do the same
As everyone else who was in the arts.
He was not a director without smarts.
  

The Director’s Story

      In the kingdom of a faraway land there once lived two poor sisters, Hisolde and Helga. They were both fine painters, but it was Hisolde who was considered the finest painter in the land.

      Now it came to pass that a new king arose to the throne, and, to begin his rule with an act of good will, he proposed a contest.

      "Whoever paints the best portrait of me," said the king, "will receive ten acres of land and twenty sacks of gold."

      This was an enticing prize, especially to the two poor sisters, who began working on their portraits at once. Helga painted the king sitting on his thrown, with his dogs at his feet. Hisolde painted the king riding his horse in the countryside in front of the castle.

      When they were finished, Helga went to look at her sister’s work. She was greatly angered by what she saw, for though her painting was so lifelike it looked as though you could reach in and pet the dogs, or take the crown off the king’s head, Hisolde’s portrait was much more beautiful. Helga was certain it would win the contest, and she ranted about the unfairness of it.

      "I will never be as good an artist as Hisolde!" raged Helga. "I practice and I practice but it doesn’t matter. She will always be better than me. And now, she will have that gold and that land because of a gift she was born with. I’m the one who worked for it, I earned it, it should be mine!"

      So one day, when they were in the forest gathering fire-wood, Helga took a dagger from her pocket and killed her sister. Then she dragged the body to the edge of a clearing and left it there.

When the time came to enter paintings in the contest, Helga submitted Hisolde’s painting as her own. And the king, when he saw it, thought it was the finest painting he had ever seen, and said he wished to speak with the artist responsible for it, and so Helga was brought before him.

      "It is said that your sister is the best painter in the land," said the king, "but there must be some mistake, for your painting is truly the finest I have ever seen."

      "Ha! Compared to my paintings, Hisolde’s were like scratches a hen makes in the dust," replied Helga.

      "I can see, for this painting makes all the others I’ve seen look pale and drab by contrast. But tell me," said the king, pointing to the picture, "why is the sky in this corner so red, like blood, and why are there those ominous clouds, as if a storm is coming?"

      "Those are the hardships and sorrows of the old times, now fleeing in the face of Your Majesty’s rule," said Helga.

      "Ah, good, good," said the king. But then the smile faded from his face, as he pointed to the picture again and said: "But those people, why do they mope around in despair and woe, with their heads bowed, as though mourning?"

      "They bow their heads out of respect for Your Highness."

      "And what of these evil looking dogs, who stand there snarling at me?"

      "They are barking joyfully at the coming of Your Lordship."

      "This portrait no longer fills me with joy," frowned the king, "but with dread and foreboding. Look, that beautiful girl in that clearing at the edge of the wood, why does she lie there as if dead?"

      "She represents the slumbering nation, waiting to be awakened by Your Greatness."

      "Alas, I fear no king could wake her. See? There, a bloody dagger lies in the grass beside her. Who has done this?"

      "Her sister," Helga said in a soft whisper, as though very far away.

      "Helga, where is your sister?" asked the king.

      "I don’t know."

      "Perhaps we will find her in the clearing at the edge of the forest, as this painting suggests."