me when I first heard of Barbie: that sounds like a 2 hour commercial for Barbie

me when I saw the online reaction to the movie: hmm it might be worth watching

me after I watched Barbie: that was a 2 hour commercial for Barbie.

My So-Called Adult Life through Film

Some people find comfort in family and friends, others in less healthy habits like overindulging in food or shopping or alcohol. Then there’s me and my kindred cinephiles, who find nothing more reliable and cozy than to hide under a pile of blankets, prepare a bowl of popcorn, compile a selection of movies, and press “play.” This habit of finding solace in cinema served me well the past eight years of adulthood. I can even chart the changes in my life by the movies that felt like a warm jacket in the emotional winters of my 20s.

In my college years, I found solace in two stylish movies: the Vogue documentary The September Issue (2009) and the Wes Anderson family dramedy The Royal Tenenbaums (2001).

I loved the style and drama of the behind-the-scenes Vogue doc. At the time, my first semester as a college freshman, I still had dreams of acting on the big screen, or working as a fashion photographer as my “back-up” plan. Not only did I use the movie to unwind from my theatre classes and distract myself from a terrible heartsickness, I thought I was studying for my future career. I looked up to Anna Wintour, Grace Coddington, and Andre Leon Talley, like mentors who lived on my laptop screen and in the pages of magazines at the grocery store. For a little over an hour, I shared in their posh struggles. I “tsk”ed at Mario Testino’s flightiness and Sienna Miller’s stubbornness. “Why didn’t you take more photos for the cover, Mario? Just cut your hair, Sienna! It’s the September issue, people!” I’d mentally accost the persons seemingly sabotaging the project. I sided with Coddington when she butted heads with her longtime workplace champion and challenger, Anna Wintour. But above all, I loved lingering on set with Coddington, eating pastries with models in Versailles and researching photography books from the roaring ‘20s. While the internet has repeatedly “cancelled” Grace Coddington, my 18 year-old self basked in her whimsical attitude towards fashion, beauty, and storytelling. I hope some of that whimsy rubbed off on me.

Later in college, during my History major years, I spent all day in class (or skipping class) and all evening either working at Blockbuster or rehearsing for a small show. My fragile mental state wreaked as much havoc on my self-esteem during this time as it did during my early college years, but at least this time I could point to my accomplishments and plead my case: “Look! I’m productive!”

In the strange (but not always unpleasant) smelling aisles of my Blockbuster, I shelved movies and, for recommendation purposes, took note of which of my favorite movies were back in stock. I even lent my personal copy of Anderson’s Rushmore to an unpresuming hipster couple, who returned the movie a couple weeks later with a sweet note and a five dollar bill. As one of the perks of working for near minimum wage, I could rent ten free rentals a week, as well as rent new releases over the weekend before their official release. With this wealth of discs at my fingertips, I discovered a lot of new favorites over my year and a half under Blockbuster’s employ, but repeatedly returned to Anderson’s The Royal Tenenbaums.

Everyone relates to dysfunctional family dynamics, unless they’re lying. But the familial aspects of the Tenenbaums’ story didn’t stick with me the way the characters’ malaise did. Adopted sister Margot soaking in a bathtub for days, her husband simply stating his wish for death, Richie Tenenbaum taking care to shave his beard before slitting his wrists. The family’s simple melancholy, expressed without melodramatics but rather matter-of-fact statements and actions, struck me. The bluntness of the script, communicating an overall sadness in a straightforward fashion, felt foreign but welcome to my depressed self. I considered myself a powder keg in my adolescence, always the one to spout off my cruel thoughts at the expense of the feelings of those close to me. The way the Tenenbaums expressed themselves, clearly but calmly (save for maybe Ben Stiller’s Chas Tenenbaum), while acknowledging big and uncomfortable feelings, seemed new and exciting. A different, maybe better, way to express myself without exploding from the inside out every other day. While it would take a bit longer before I found the key to bringing a sense of stability to my inner life (it’s called managing expectations and setting boundaries), I found comfort in the Tenenbaums’ home.

A couple years later, after living in LA for a few months, I enjoyed renting movies at South Pasadena’s local video store, Videotheque. Located just a couple exits from either of my jobs and always open late (when the traffic conveniently dies down), I spent my evenings after stressful closing shifts roaming the store’s shelves of DVDs. I tried to mix things up: pick one movie from the horror section, one from a director’s stack of movies, and one from the silent or classic sections. (Videotheque’s organization system spoke to my movie-loving heart, though sometimes I noticed errors, like the silent film The Great Gabbo misleadingly sitting in the Greta Garbo stack.) It was in Gillian Armstrong’s filmography that I discovered a movie that brought me a great deal of comfort in lonely Los Angeles: Starstruck (1982). The pink and glittery spine of the case caught my eye. (As anyone who’s seen me drive around in my little pink car can attest: I adore the color.)

I returned to our Glendale apartment and holed up in our bedroom with my rental selections, including Blue Underground’s aesthetically pleasing release of Starstruck. Jo Kennedy, an authentic punk singer, stars as Jackie in Gillian Armstrong’s New Wave musical about a young woman aspiring to stardom with the help of her clingy cousin/manager, Angus. Ms. Kennedy brings an insane amount of style and showmanship to the role’s musical numbers, whether in a club and wearing a kangaroo suit or on the counters of her family’s diner. The absurdity and overwhelming joy of Armstrong’s follow-up to My Brilliant Career served as a welcome antidote to my low morale, the result of feeling defeated by my part-time work and lack of creative output in one of the world’s most artful (but also corporate) cities. I embraced Kennedy’s bright hair and gutsy interpretations of even brighter pop songs. Starstruck nearly gave me a cavity after indulging on such a sugary confection of music, attitude, and style. It gave me a cinematic epiphany: movies could be colorful, youthful, and a treat for my senses, the same senses that adore the color pink, ‘80s synthesizers, and over-the-top fashions.

Once I returned to Iowa from my all too brief time in California, I felt like I was back at square one. I knew we could make enough money to keep a roof over our heads, which was a blessing, but also, it felt like I reached the end of the road at the ripe old age of 24. I felt wasted, like all the things I had to give rotted away before I even had a chance to share them. During this bleak time of reflection, I returned to a movie that I initially disliked upon my first viewing: Noah Baumbach’s Mistress America (2015).

When I first saw Mistress America in theatres, I walked out of the theatre afterwards to terrible news for my acting career: I had auditioned for a dream role and instead earned a part written for a girl half my age, with less than ten lines. I wonder now how that particular strike to my ego affected my initial impression of the slapstick Noah Baumbach/Greta Gerwig collaboration. Thank goodness I gave the movie a second chance and re-watched it on some streaming service.

Now, as a 20-something, I could relate to the story of Mistress America: a young college freshman, Lola Kirke’s Tracy Fishko, struggles to find her place and gravitates towards an older, seemingly wiser woman, Greta Gerwig’s Brooke Cardinas. Upon my first viewing, I hadn’t really related to either of the main characters. I existed in the awkward space between graduating college and finding my footing, neither in Tracy’s world nor Brooke’s. Upon my second viewing, my life had changed significantly and I had begun a chapter of my life in which I recognized that artistic stagnancy meant emotional death. I saw so much of myself in the character of Brooke Cardinas: dabbling in every hobby that caught my interest and confidently proclaiming my opinions on the facts of life when, on the inside, I felt confident about absolutely nothing. I began to frantically grab at straws to feel like I brought something worthwhile to the world: a business plan for a horror shop, a draft of a local theatre newsletter, a local film newsletter, several drafts of scripts, notes upon notes upon notes on potential theatre projects.

The quick banter of Mistress America, full of zingy one-liners, initially turned me off to the movie. I wrote the script off as “trying too hard,” when later in my 20s, I relished the fantastical intelligence of the dialogue. Yes, no one actually talks like that, but god, I wish they did. The manic pace of Baumbach and Gerwig’s characters matched the pace of the marathon in my brain, where I ran a personal race to create something worthwhile.

Now I wonder, in the next few years, what movies I will look back at and think, “Wow, how did that movie find me when I needed it the most?”