Take This Waltz

Take This Waltz, Sarah Polley's 2011 film, is not an easy film to write about. In general, but especially because it hits me so terribly close.

In the beginning of the film, Margot (Michelle Williams) watches a reenactment of an adulterer being brought to the gallows. She is asked to participate in the charade by whipping the adulterous pilgrim, which she shamefully performs. There, a man laughs at her and eggs her on. That man turns out to be her neighbor on the plane home and her new real neighbor, Daniel. She instantly likes him. This is problematic, because Margot is married to Lou. She's also, at 28, scared. When Daniel asks her why she was pushed through the airport in a wheelchair despite her ability to walk, she admits, "I'm afraid of connections. In airports. The running, the stress, the not knowing, the trying to figure it out, wondering if I'm going to make it. I don't like being in between things."

Even more than scared, Margot is restless. While the film emits a quietness that's not stifling but subtly beautiful, Margot is figuratively unable to sit still. She giggles with Lou like a child, picking at his face and biting his shoulder in a marriage that's friendly and non-sexual. She wants to write but can't seem to do it. At the same time, she's melancholy. All of this pulls her towards Daniel, who is new, persistent, and infatuated. But he notices her restlessness too upon their second meeting: "You seem restless. Not just now, but in a kind of permanent way."

I, too, have this permanent restlessness. It's so strong that a film professor recently suggested, out of the blue, that I try yoga to calm my nerves. This restlessness has helped me move to Paris, Brittany, Boston, and Copenhagen all within the last five years, never more than a year in each place. I desire the new and shiny opportunities that await overseas, in foreign languages.  Even film fuels this consumption of newness--I can throw myself into a new world even several times a day if am bored with my own. New experiences are my form of adultery; I cheat on the old ones when they become ordinary.

But as one of the women in Take This Waltz so simply says, "new things get old." What Margot and I are actually scared of is this change from new to old in our lives. As a result, we avoid having a deep intimacy with the everyday. We want to spin so fast, like she does at one point with Daniel on a fairground ride, but we end up turning in circles. I think this is partly a product of our age, where the desire for adventure has a certain immediacy. We can travel the globe at will if we have the means, or connect to it from our computers. But it's also just me. I end up speeding through life with a sense of urgency because I don't know how to actually hunker down and live it.

A Danish friend once told me that a year, now, feels like the same amount of time to him as when he was five. This gave me pause. It amazed me that he wasn't counting down the days and years until some distant future became his Life, where that projection of how he imagined things would go finally, magically came true. I could blame my '90s optimism or the economic cushion when I came of age that told the world that kids like me could have their dream job. I could accuse my tiny liberal arts college of demanding its students to be exceptional in a niche, not just laudable enough with a clear conscience. But instead of blaming, I want to fix. I want to learn to sit still, to stop climbing, to see what's there, to rely on myself for happiness.

At the moment outside my window, bundles of snow weigh on the trees in a post-snowfall stillness that muffles all sound. Tonight I'll wrap myself in the snow's weight, to hold in its quiet. Perhaps that will make it last.

On Flying

Flying has become commonplace. It’s a cramped experience, with our legs stuck under the seat in front of us, and our ears and eyes stuck to consoles. Whoever described airplane passengers as cattle had it right – we are corralled, spoon-fed, plugged in and complacent. No one complains about the food, while everyone looks motionless and unmoved. Only during moments of turbulence do we feel alive again, alerted to our mortality when the plane jolts back and forth in the sky. Everything on a plane feeds fluid, like liquid, like we’re moving in slow motion. I feel like I’m non-existent above the clouds, straddling countries and identities (travelling across the Atlantic always makes me feel like I’m negotiating my American-ness).

I miss soaring. I am too seldom weightless. Sometimes, on my bike in the evenings in Copenhagen, riding back from work, I peddle hard to see if I can break the complacency barrier. I remember moments of soaring as a kid, like my stomach dropping when Emma and I egged our dad on to drive a little too fast on “the bumpy road,” or when I pumped as high as I could on a swing just to get to that split second right as I began to fall again. A plane is now the closest I get to physically soaring (I’m not the rollercoaster type), or maybe dancing to a really good song.

But thanks to the movies, I do get to soar, as often as I like. Some people say that movies are manipulation; I say they help us fly. This is why it gave me much great pleasure to watch Hugo today, as I was on a plane, flying home for the holidays. The air turbulence was jolting only for a few minutes, but the film helped me feel alive long afterwards. Hugo is a movie lover’s movie – under the guise of telling the story of a children’s adventure, Martin Scorsese is really paying homage to the magician who gave the world its first moving pictures, Georges Meliès. Hugo, the boy who helps Meliès restore his own faith in the magic of the movies, is like the uninitiated cinephile, and I am a bit envious that he gets to experience Meliès’ wonders for the first time. On the other hand, I also feel as though I’m taking a fresh look at his magic by seeing it through Hugo’s eyes.

It’s quite funny, but also perfect, that Hugo was made using the most advanced digital equipment and tools out there, when Meliès only had analog film to work with. It’s a testament to Meliès that his cinematic spectacles are still awe-inspiring, and that his sleight of hand still works today. I’m sure Scorsese has his own sleight of hand in Hugo, but in an age of digital effects, we as audiences are immune to how they work. We are all believing and complacent with our effects these days, consuming them without notice on those small screens on the back of our airplane seats. So I’m super glad to see Scorsese put Meliès back on his pedestal, because when we soar during a movie, we have Meliès to thank. 

The Intouchables and Cinephiliac Moments

Yesterday I read this article by Christian Keathley called "The Cinephiliac Moment," in which he writes about the distinct ability of cinematic moments to take hold on our emotions and never let go. We all have moments from movies that have particularly ensnared our hearts. One example from my own cinephilia is the instant Jesse catches Céline's eye in a Paris bookshop in Before Sunset, where flashbacks of their fortuitous one-night romance nine years earlier in Before Sunrise wrap the moment in a decade of history, instantaneously.

If I had to think of one film that has recently afforded me a cinephiliac moment, it's 2011's The Intouchables, the French comedy that's reminded the world why France is so good at uplifting, truthful cinema.

Philippe, a millionaire who has become quadriplegic after a paragliding accident, employs Driss, a charismatic black man from the banlieue, as his caretaker. Philippe wants no pity from him, and Driss instead offers a pragmatic and lighthearted approach to life. Throughout their exchange, Philippe helps Driss see the finer things in life, while Driss gives Philippe some vestiges of adventure. The film watches them become unlikely but hilarious friends, and the appropriate life lessons are spooned out for us as they learn from each other.

Already the entire premise is cinephiliac - that people can come from difference to help each other - so our emotional heartstrings are already taut at the beginning of the film. And with a tasteful script, an expressive soundtrack and elegant cinematography, the film is visually and aurally easy to love.

But there is one sequence in particular in which I felt that my vast love of the cinema funneled into a sharp and emotional cinephiliac moment. Philippe needs relief from his claustrophobic body, so he and Driss drive to the Swiss Alps for some fresh air, which they get in the form of tandem-paragliding.

The beauty of cinema is almost overwhelming in this paragliding scene.  Colorful parachutes outlined against snow-topped mountains, sweeping birds-eye views, perspective shots in the open air, monumental music - we feel weightless ourselves, overcome by the joy that Philippe and Driss also feel.

Moments like these in cinema close the gap between viewer and film, so that our bodies feel transported into the diegesis and we intensely identify with the characters' experiences. Vivian Sobchack describes this relationship as a "carnal" one, where what's on screen is reproduced in our own skin. I think this is possible because of the sensory complexity of film; the magnitudes of sight and sound make us feel them physically, through touch and memory. The result is a momentary bliss, where we escape our own bodily presence and replace it with the feelings that come directly from the screen.

The escapism only ever lasts a moment, but that's another thing I love about it. If you try to hold on to it, it loses its power. So, I head back to the cinema as often as I can, seeking my next emotional and sensory thrill. If you do too, try The Intouchables, and embrace the moment when it surely comes.

Is Magic Mike homophobic?

...or just heteronormative?

This question seemed to take up space like a big pink elephant in the room as I watched Magic Mike (Soderbergh, 2012) this weekend. For a film about oversexed male bodies, where are the gay men?

The film features Channing "no neck" Tatum as stripper/entrepreneur extraordinaire named Mike who has a love/hate relationship with his profession. He's 30, wants equity in the Xquisite Dance Revue where he's legendary, is saving up to start his own furniture business, and tries not to be seen as his "lifestyle" (all the while booty-calling a girl who will only see him as such). But when down-and-out Adam comes along looking for a job, Magic Mike works his magic and finds him a place in the house as a dancer. And a bromance is born. Mike portrays himself as benevolent older brother figure, but his benevolence, he worries, may be letting him slide through life with money, girls, and a good time, instead of helping him make something of himself (offstage).

With the narrative told simply, the movie leaves plenty of room for the spectacle of the male body in motion. Tatum's dance moves are mind boggling, as are Matthew McConaughey's abs. But these bodies are all straight--there are no gay characters in the film. Furthermore, who in the movie are the recipients of this spectacle? The Xquisite Dance Revue's patrons are all female. I do not think I even spotted one man in the venue on screen that wasn't working there. Now, I'm sure the film's gay audiences appreciate the strippers as much as the women on screen do, but why can't they be represented there? Instead, it's women who get hoisted onstage and receive the lap dances.  This points to the film's heteronormativity, as would a film about a female strip club with its male clientele.

What may tip Magic Mike to the homophobic scale, however, is that it shies away from acknowledging its own hints at homosexuality and homoeroticism. In one scene, Adam's sister finds his go-go outfits and wants to have a serious talk with him about his "preferences"--while Adam is shaving his legs. Funny, yes, because Adam panics, but his panic as he repeats "it's for work, it's for work" also reveals that he wants to avoid coming across as gay.

Similarly, in a particular dance rehearsal scene, McConaughey's Dallas teaches Adam how to seduce the mirror like it's a woman. He says, "you're not just stripping. You are fulfilling every woman's wildest fantasies. Who's got the cock? You do, they don't." Wait, so women are the only ones admiring the phallus in this situation? It looks more like the two of you are gyrating for each other.

Isn't everyone allowed to celebrate chiseled male bodies? 

Now, the scene is actually quite funny, because 1) Adam really can't dance and 2) Dallas is just completely over the top. But we may also laugh because neither the characters nor the filmmaker seem to realize how homoerotic the scene is. In fact, certain audiences may find the entire film funny precisely because it's more homoerotic than it wants to let on (there are penis enlargers, comments like "let's be best friends," and bear hugs). But I also think Soderbergh & co could have benefited from a bit of self-reflection. Ultimately, the film is not a satire of an over-the-top industry but a character portrait of a man being a man in an over-the-top industry...and a straight man, at that.

...Or perhaps, Soderbergh is actually really progressive and just didn't want to reinforce gay stereotypes so he consciously removed them by making everyone straight? Hmmm, not sure I can give him that much credit.

Finally, the only other film I've seen or heard about that centers on male strippers is The Full Monty (Cattaneo, 1997), which only peeked at homosexuality and turned men's bodies into comedy. So, where are the gay Chippendales? Is this purely a matter of mainstream vs. niche? I thought gay was trendy!

Holy Motors

Holy Motors. Holy shit!

Léos Carax's new film is virtually unexplainable, bordering on the divine and the absurd, but I'll do my best. Here's the trailer, which gives us little other than an eerie tone:

The film opens with a shot of a sold-out dark movie theater. The spectators are in their seats, but while we watch them, they don't watch us -- they're sleeping. Then, we watch a middle-aged man (Carax himself) rise out of bed, break a hole in his wall, and emerge onto a balcony overlooking this theater, in which a huge black dog slinks down the aisle. Fade to black, and with this prologue we know that we are in the realm of the surreal.

But quickly we latch onto a narrative. Oscar (Denis Lavant) goes off to work in a limo one morning (with echoes of his kids' words "travaille bien, papa!" trailing him). We assume that the meetings detailed in the folder next to him are the kinds typical of businessmen in suits and ties, but they're not. When Oscar emerges from the limo for his first "meeting" on a Paris bridge, he has transformed into a hunchbacked beggar shaking a can for cash. A joke? We think. A social commentary? But no. His next meeting finds him in a black motion-capture suit, dotted with white pins. Ahhh, we get it. He's a film stunt man.

But in the nine "meetings" that make up the film, this stuntman performs for no cameras, at least no cameras the audience can see. We watch Oscar contort his body and physique with makeup, costume, and sheer talent, but throughout the nine "scenes" in the film, each is autonomous. We feel we know less and less about our protagonist, and the question "who is Oscar, really?" is never answered.  The only continuity in the film is the limo where Oscar returns after each impersonation (or should we say identity? Each feels as authentic as the last), and its driver, Céline. Furthermore, as Oscar absorbs completely into each role, the scenes feel incredibly rich in themselves, albeit frustrating as we know they'll be gone soon. Among others, he is (or performs as?) an abrasive father to a teenage daughter, a madman in a cemetery who kidnaps Eva Mendes and brings her into Paris's underground tunnels, Kylie Minogue's lost lover, a violent assassin, and a dying uncle. But are the others in his "scenes" also actors? Sometimes we get hints that they are, sometimes we think he may have been living these lives simultaneously. Most importantly, though, it doesn't matter. This is a hard feeling to shake for mainstream filmgoers like me. I crave narrative continuity, perhaps because Hollywood has conditioned me.

What Holy Motors strives to propose, rather, is that a film is for watching -- that it's all a spectacle. We must be reminded of the movie-theater opening in order to remember this, otherwise we will spend too much time trying to figure out who Oscar is (like I did, until I gave up and was much happier as a result). But the beauty of the film is that itself: its beauty.

There were two points during Holy Motors where I was enveloped by giddy amazement. As a movie lover, moments like these are the reason for my addiction. First, Oscar on the black motion-capture stage as a mirage of white dots was mesmerizing. Here, a slight slow-motion effect made the difference between an ordinary body performing martial arts and a dazzling, almost inhuman array of agility, grace and speed. Images like this are achieved only in cinema; even when you see them, you almost don't believe them.

Second, as a literal "entracte," Oscar steps into a candlelit church with accordion in hand. He starts playing, and suddenly he is flanked by dozens of accordion, guitar, and percussion players. With perfect acoustics in both the church and the theater in Copenhagen where I sat, I felt actually pretty close to crying. Cinema, for me, provides that sensory blend of overwhelming sound and visual beauty. I was grinning uncontrollably, with powerful goosebumps and a near weightlessness. While it hardly does the theater experience justice, here's the scene:

So, please see Holy Motors. You may be frustrated, confused, and melancholy when watching, but I guarantee you will also be exhilarated and in awe.

The Hunger Games and its Violence

I came into The Hunger Games (2012) film last night with only the knowledge that the film (and book) was about teenagers killing each other. I knew nothing of the post-apocalyptic United States, the Olympics-gone-bad tournament pitting district against district, nor the extravagantly evil Capitol maintaining servitude and sovereignty by starving and dividing its people. It seems that "teenagers killing each other" was the story that carved through all the hype in this franchise.

And rightly so. The Hunger Games attempts a lot of heavy subjects: the evil nature of sovereignty, oppression and power, as well as human fascination with blood, tears, and love. I won't go into whether or not the film says anything particularly daring about each of these topics (and I also can't say whether the book does, as I haven't read it), but what I can go into is its depiction of violence, because it's at the forefront of the story.

The film starts in a destitute mining town, which we quickly learn is one of 12 districts under the rule of the "Capitol" in a post-apocalyptic USA. Each district is sucked dry for one resource (in District 12, it's coal) and is deprived of all other resources, leaving it under complete control of the rich and corrupt Capitol. Each year, the districts are each forced to draw a girl and boy of teen age in a "reaping" that will send them to a blood bath known as "The Hunger Games." These games keep the districts subordinate and remind them not to revolt by making the 24 teenagers kill each other during a weeks-long scrum in a mechanically-engineered forest (think The Truman Show in the wild) until only one "winner" is the only one left alive. Why this subordination technique is effective in this filmic world requires quite a suspension of disbelief, I must say, but that is a question for another post. What is effective is how the "hunger games" make for captivating cinema by featuring mainstream's favorites: youth, violence, and alternate realities.

Here's the beginning of the "games," called the "cornucopia bloodbath":

The Hunger Games isn't particularly gruesome in its actual depiction of violence (i.e. we don't see nearly as much blood as we would in, say, The Departed), but something makes it feel more violent than other films. Note how music drowns the soundscape in the above scene - can you imagine what it would be like with sound effects intact? I'd like to argue that the source of this feeling is that it's teenagers, and not adults, killing each other that made me feel uncomfortable (and also somewhat captivated). In so many films about violent adults, I think we've become so immune to blood and gore, and it's not because we've just seen it a lot. It's because the adults on screen feel really adult, without the vulnerabilities or misgivings that make teenagers question everything. Whether good or evil or a combination of both, violent adults on screen are given permission (by audiences, screenwriters, directors) to commit gruesome violence in favor of plot, heroism, etc. Purely because we believe they know what they're doing. So we allow them our own de-sensitization since we have faith in story and character.

Teenagers and children, however, aren't yet complete in their logical and emotional development, so to me it felt especially cruel and jarring to watch them kill each other in The Hunger Games. As when reading The Lord of the Flies, I was pained and appalled by the extent of the violence these kids committed in order to survive, because instinct sacrificed underdeveloped moral convictions. Katniss and Peeta may have been well characterized protagonists and heros, but it wasn't enough for me. Rather, it felt tragic that not-yet adults were killing like complete adults when they hadn't yet had time to grow into themselves, purely because the game (and therefore society) demanded it. And so forcibly inflicting violence made them grow prematurely into adopting ugly convictions they shouldn't yet have acquired. In short, I couldn't stop thinking, they're too young for this.

All of this just makes me worry, because of how much we love stories of both youth and violence on screen. If the movies now feature kids and teenagers in the grips of brutality, does that mean we're becoming more and more immune to violence that we have forgotten where to draw the line?

Beginners

Arthur the dog wins for most captivating character in Mike Mills' Beginners (2010). The adorable Jack Russell terrier shares the screen in almost every scene with Ewan McGregor's Oliver, who has just lost his recently-out gay father to cancer (and hence inherited Arthur).  Arthur provides an apt counterpoint to Oliver, who at 38 is stricken with grief, inconsolably alone, and a beginner at love. The obedient companion, on the other hand, can't be left alone for a second and instead trails after Oliver all the time--his love of humans and family is unbreakable. And while Oliver is dour and melancholy, going so far as to doodle a series of drawings he calls "the history of sadness," Arthur's longing eyes show the simple, selfless grief and love that Oliver wishes he could reach. 

I applaud Beginners. Christopher Plummer is the definition of stately as a dying gay man trying to get the most out of the life he has left. McGregor is convincing when portraying the confusion and pain of realizing that his parents never truly loved each other--and how that makes him sabotage any romantic connection he has. Plus, the non-linear storytelling and pale cinematography achieve a certain nostalgia that so many of us feel towards our childhoods and past relationships.

What moved me about this film was the intimacy in its moments. I'm talking specificity here. Many films try to achieve universal emotions by leaning on dramatic exaggerations--think of Inception, when Cobb's world literally crumbles when he says goodbye to Mal for the last time--but it's nice to see details hint at those emotions instead. For example, at one point Oliver comes into his living room to see his father and his lover napping on the floor, and his father smiles and waves quietly. That is an intimate moment of love, no sweeping music or shattering imagery needed. So when Oliver inches towards those moments with new love interest Anna (and fumbles), his characterization is inherently deeper.

More than anything, though, Beginners reminded me that it's ok to be a beginner in love of all sorts--romantic, familial, friendly. If a 78-year old man can bravely venture into an actively gay life so late, we can all muster the courage to fill our lives with love, however awkward, risky, or intimidating it may be.

Sandheden om mænd (The Truth About Men)

More about Danish film today...

It’s good to know that 35-year-old men have the same sentimental and romantic paranoia as I do. The 17-year-old Mads writes a letter to himself: “find din store kærlighed.” ("Find your great love.") As he thinks back to that idealistic promise as a 35 year-old (played by Thure Lindhardt, whose face is remarkably expressive), he feels complacent and disappointed, as if his life’s achievements haven't  quite measured up.

A storywriter for a middle-of-the-road tv program in Denmark, Mads had a dream that he would be a talented screenwriter of the world’s best movies. Instead, the categorical structure of TV narratives is boring him: a call to adventure under false pretenses, first turning point, high point, second turning point, falling action, and resolution, where the character realizes he has everything he needs from the beginning. And Mads is sick of this, both in his work and his personal life. So, out with the girlfriend of 10 years, out with the suburban house, and in with a bachelor pad and a wall of ideas for great movies.

But after a crash-and-burn relationship with a 19 year-old, a near-death experience, and a bucketful of discarded movie ideas, Mads realizes that, actually, he likes and needs the structure he was so eager to throw out the window. And the film, like a great screenplay, comes full circle.

I could learn something from him and his process. My lists, my goals, my expectations resemble Mads’s adolescent letter to himself. He wrote: “find din store kærlighed.” I may as well have written the same thing, and more, in a letter to myself at the end of high school. I may as well have written: “have a career you love, love passionately, find your soulmate, discover the world and don’t leave anything uncovered.” This letter is still in my head, constantly, forcing me to evaluate my life to its standards.

The ever-present letter, or rather list, causes me to run like mad through my life, and I know that many of my friends do the same. In the 21st century, idleness seems to give us a sour taste in our mouth, while being busy is seen as commendable. It's all about goals, goals, goals! For example, I have a dozen serious interests but lack the time to take them seriously. And it’s starting to exhaust me. But as a 25-year-old woman in 2012, the pressure to achieve may be both self-inflicted and externally validated.  

Maybe, however, it is now time for us to let a little internal achievement happen, by giving ourselves the time and the space to explore our interests deeply, and by doing a few things whole-heartedly instead of a lot of things because "they're on the list." 

On that note, perhaps I should go take a walk in a circle, so I can arrive back where I started, with a clearer sense of self.

Forbrydelsen's Sofie Gråbøl

Yesterday I watched this great interview with Forbrydelsen’s (The Killing) Sofie Gråbøl: 

While the interview focused mostly on how she assumes different roles (and I’ve never been as interested in acting as in narrative), two feminist things stuck out in particular:

1)  Women sometimes have a hard time being present

Two times Gråbøl mentions that too often in party settings, women busy themselves as hostesses: preparing aperitifs, checking on guests, making sure glasses are filled. Men, however, tend to be more still. She believes the difference lies in the fact that women put others above themselves, while men are more able to let people come to them. It’s the divide between moving and being, and perhaps I can learn from this. 

I’m not suggesting a gender-role overhaul, but rather a bit of deeper awareness for my own life, at least. When I’m attending to guests and bouncing from conversation to conversation, I only punctuate the surface of the relationships with people at the party, whereas people who sit and talk can dig deeper. In my continual desire for excitement, maybe it’s actually better to really talk to someone at a party instead of hop-hop-hopping to feel like I’ve fulfilled my hostess duties and gained the instant high of talking to a lot of people.

2) Sarah Lund needed to be conceptualized as a man before she could be acted as a woman

Gråbøl tends to play characters who give everything, emotionally.  They cry, they scream, they run, they laugh to the full extent of their being. With Sarah Lund, it’s the opposite. She gives nothing, and instead viewers come crawling to her, wanting to peer inside her and unearth those emotions.

When it came to Sarah Lund, Gråbøl apparently had a hard time digesting the character at the beginning, even though the role was created mostly for her. She seemed impenetrable – the bridge from character in the written screenplay to the physically acted personnage was too vast. It wasn’t until she started observing some of the physical movements of some of the men on set that she could envision Sarah Lund realistically. The jerky arm movements, the angled walking, the clenched hands – these were all things Gråbøl needed to absorb before Sarah Lund could become a complete character. However, the character, in Gråbøl’s mind, is definitely not a man. The acting process, though, required her to move through a masculine mode in order to arrive at the complexity of playing a female detective whose dedication to her job, familial fuck-ups, and accepted loneliness resemble masculine characters.

This gender-bending deep character is what’s important to me in Forbrydelsen, because Sarah Lund is so problematic, both as a woman and as a detective. She’s incredibly unconventional in both regards, which makes her fascinating to watch. Søren Sveistrup writes the plot points especially to draw attention to the battle between personal and professional life. For example, how many times do we see Lund answer her cell phone when she’s trying to connect with her son, and thus ruins the moment?

Such is the modern woman’s plight in a man’s world (and the police force, with its hyper-masculinity, is one of the worst of these places), and I’m thankful that female characters like Lund are accurately portraying that never-ending paradox: when women try to have it all, we give something up. I think we ultimately have faith in Lund, however, because she’s unconventional; this is what causes her to take the risks needed to catch the criminals, even at the expense of her family or romantic life.

I hope other women can be similarly inspired by Lund to test out the waters of unconventionality.

Note: much of the inspiration for these thoughts comes from Gunhild Agger’s article “Emotion, Gender and Genre: Investigating The Killing.” 

Friends With Kids

After years of toying with the idea, I have decided to write often, about film. For a long time I struggled with the mode, tone, venue, lacking what I thought was a structured purpose for a blog. But then I thought: I love film because of its emotions. So why not just write about film and feelings? Be warned: you will find little academic theory in here, and even less film criticism. This is purely an outlet for me to write about how film makes me feel. 

As there is no “perfect film” to start with, I’ll start with one I saw this summer. Friends With Kids, a rom-dram-sometimes-com starring Jennifer Westfeldt of Kissing Jessica Stein. 

She also wrote and directed, which makes me inevitably think we are peering into her mid-30s worried mind, but so be it. She decides to have a baby with a male friend of hers while they watch their married friends struggle with both romance and kids simultaneously. The latter seems to them a surefire way to ruin a marriage, so they say, do the baby-raising together and leave the romantic excitement for other people. Um, worst idea ever, I thought at first, both for real people who, once baby in hand, realize the need to rely completely on the other to get through the sleepless nights, and also for a romantic comedy. What viewer is going to believe that two friends with no romantic connection are enough to carry a love story?

But slowly, the film got me pondering and emotionizing in a good way. Jon Hamm and Kristin Wiig’s tiresome marriage and Maya Rudolph’s heartfelt mom dance made me peer into my own life. I, and a lot of 20-somethings in my generation, are so conflicted about marriage and kids. Whether or not we want to settle down right away, we believe that family is important but that we shouldn't settle for a mediocre mate. The message of the film (well, not the obvious one, which was that maybe your best friend, if male, could end up being the love of your life) therefore seemed to be a warning against kids in first relationships (unless those relationships are sexless?). Better to hash out your immature commitments with a first spouse so that you either learn from the divorce or stick it out for the long haul, and while both have relatively happy endings, the meaty stuff in the present is going to suck. 

Similarly, like the male friend Jason in the film, I may be somewhat brainwashed by the media messages that emphasize newness and excitement over compatibility and familiarity when it comes to dating. In fact, I definitely am. And while that fades fast, I think it's almost addictive to want to hold on to newness and excitement. Ideally we would all feel excitement turn gracefully from attraction into contentment with someone who feels right. But how do we overcome this culture of instant gratification when films of our generation (and actually, of all generations), take less than two hours to tell the story of people falling in love?