In my last post on Pearl Diver, I shared my initial emotional response to this film--a response that expressed my dilemma as a writer and creative artist. I've devoted much of my career in joining other writers to create a space for Mennonite writing to be appreciated by both insiders and outsiders, not only tolerated by the Mennonite community, but welcomed. This is not an easy task in a tradition which has a centuries-long distrust of the arts--except for singing in 4-part harmony, a group art that Mennonites have embraced with zeal in the past century.
Watching Hannah destroy her manuscript on screen was symbolic for me of the pressure Mennonite artists often feel to give up on their art, their vision, because, after all, it comes through the individual--and in Mennonite culture it seems to me, the individual is only valued as a member of the group. Then, upon rereading Sidney King's essay, "The Mennonite Screenwriter," I realized that, of course, Sidney, too, is a Mennonite Writer. The Mennonite's dilemma is his dilemma, too, and that's why he tells the story so pointedly and so well.
King's first film, Shroud for a Journey, a Mennonite story produced for today's Mennonite audiences garnered thousands of viewers from this specialized audience, but it did not get any recognition from a general audience. King's second effort, Pearl Diver, made while King was still in his twenties, was an attempt to bridge these audiences. King calls Pearl Diver "something of an effort to explore Mennonite myth-making and buried trauma, as well as a few other themes that collectively will very quickly doom a film to commercial failure." King was able to exercise artistic control over this independent film because he was both its writer and director.
Pearl Diver garnered an impressive array of awards at independent film festivals in Canada and the U.S: the Best Narrative Award at the Winnipeg International Film Festival; the Crystal Heart Award at the Heartland Film Festival; and the Grand Jury Prize at the Indianapolis International Film Festival. Clear evidence that King was able to reach multiple audiences--both a Mennonite audience with a personal stake in the stories, and a substantial audience outside the Mennonite community. He did this by creating a compelling story line, and showing viewers some of the simple rural beauty he values in his heritage--although there are a goodly portion of Mennonites these days who have no connection to the family farm.
King admits that having an audience for his work feels good. And he's Mennonite enough to feel ambivalent about this: "Am I completely missing the call to . . . humble service? When is the drive for validation and recognition constructive and when is it corrupting and corrosive? Is it good when it’s about creating something of redeeming value, but not so good when it’s about creating something frivolous or disposable? And ultimately who decides what’s frivolous and what’s redeeming? Are these even interesting questions? I don’t know. It’s not really something Mennonites like to talk about." In the current film industry, he points out, it's rather ludicrous for a screenwriter to be concerned about humility--as screenwriters are at the bottom of the movie-making industry and their work often ignored or tampered with unmercifully.
In Pearl Diver, Hannah decides to sacrifice her manuscript and the money and fame it would bring her when she realizes how it would compromise her sister's mental and emotional well-being. But what about when the stakes are less clear and more murky--as in real life? What is the price of the writer's silence. Could it be that in publishing or producing her work, the writer is also making a sacrifice--sacrificing her peace of mind for a story she feels called to tell, risking the criticism of the Mennonite audience for not "getting it right?"
Sidney King deserves our admiration and gratitude for following his calling to make a film that takes on the dilemma of the Mennonite writer--the torn loyalties to craft and to communal values the Mennonite writer feels when writing about the community from an individual artistic perspective. For King's imagination contains both Marian and Hannah--and in some ways their dilemma is his. Yet he also knows that if a writer casts a manuscript into a pond, even without a photocopy, the writer will soon be creating a new manuscript--unless the writer's gift or calling has been irreparably damaged in the process.
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