Our Own ‘Little Red Planes’

For me, it’s a black motorcycle. When I conjure up an image of my father, I see a tattooed, leather-clad biker hurtling down an empty highway on a midnight-black cruiser.
As he pursues that elusive freedom promised only by the open road, he is somehow able to tame the asphalt by channeling the power of the 102 cubic-inch engine roaring beneath him. His horseshoe mustache flits about effortlessly in the wind, as if to say “I don’t need a comb; the comb needs me.”
My own picture may be unique (it probably is), but we all carry around these iconic images of our fathers because they resonate with something deep within us—some profound longing that must be captured in pictures and sounds because it exceeds the capacity of our words. These images do not offer a straightforward description of who our fathers are or once were. Rather, they evoke a sense of what our fathers mean, reminding us that, in some way, every day of our lives is lived in their shadow.
Little Red Plane traffics in these kinds of poignant images. It has no dialogue because it needs none. All it needs is that image of a young boy dusting off his bright red biplane, or the storm cloud that ushers the boy and his father into a deadly dogfight. Words would be an unnecessary addition to that final salute between the father and his child, or the bittersweet smile on the face of the now-grown teenager as he awakens from his reverie. The film needs no words because we already understand: fathers matter. Whether they own a “world’s best dad” coffee mug or are absent from our lives, they matter. Even when they remove themselves entirely, they still affect us–deeply, profoundly, ultimately.
It is perhaps for this reason that I stared for quite some time at the card I purchased for my dad this year for Father’s Day. On the front was a picture of a motorcycle. The image already said more than anything I could ever write. My dad is a part of me in ways I might never fully understand, for good and for ill. He is a part of my imagination, the way I picture the world. Not as it is, but as it could be—as it should be. How do I put that into words?

I am unaware of the gifts my daughters might be handing me this year, but as I consider my life through their eyes, I wonder what lasting images I am imparting to them. How am I shaping their understanding of life and the world? I cannot say with any kind of certainty, but my hope is that, much like the little boy racing through the woods while pretending to fly, the pictures of fatherhood that my children hold in their hearts will expand rather than restrict their imaginations. I want them to see the world as a place that, while certainly daunting, is filled with possibility, hope, and love. And I want them to lean into that reality with a wide-eyed sense of wonder that allows no room for cynicism or despair. That may be overly idealistic, but in truth, it’s exactly what a black motorcycle has meant to me. So if I accomplish nothing else in my short time on this earth, I will consider my life a success if I can do something similar—if I can leave my children with an image as elegant as a little red plane.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

What are the primary images that come to mind when you think of fathers or fatherhood? Would you say they are life-giving or restrictive? How have these pictures of fatherhood shaped your life?
What kind of words would you use to describe what it means to have or not to have a father? What kinds of emotions does a film about a father and his son evoke for you?
In your mind, what is the value of fathers in our contemporary society? What do you make of the increasing levels of fatherlessness that many people face?  In other words, do fathers matter?

Watch Joey Jones’s film, “Little Red Plane” »

Kutter Callaway

Dr. Kutter Callaway is the Director of Church Relations and an Affiliate Assistant Professor of Theology and Culture at Fuller Theological Seminary. His theological musings are typically focused on film, music, and contemporary culture. He contributed to Halos and Avatars (2010), the first book on theology and video games, and Don’t Stop Believin’ (2012), a dictionary of religion and popular culture. His most recent publication, Scoring Transcendence:Contemporary Film Music as Religious Experience was published by Baylor University Press in January 2013.

Kutter teaches courses for Fuller’s Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts, one of which takes place at the Sundance Film Festival each January in conjunction with the Windrider Film Forum. He also serves on the editorial board for the Journal of Religion and Film and is a regular contributor to Reel Spirituality. When he is not watching, talking about, or writing about movies, Kutter loves to spend time with his wife, Jessica, and his two daughters, Callie and Mattie.