Woe be to Dreamers
the perils of late nights and netflix
I have very recently, as in the last several months, taken a late night course in the study of romanic movies. I’m a fairly poor student, both in my tendency to miss class and a failure to respond with any thought-out reflection that might leave the impression I was in fact learning anything. Well, enough of that.
Tonight’s choice is “You’ve Got Mail”. I’ll admit, I’m drawn to the witty repartee and the warm fuzzy feeling produced by watching the oh-so-charmingly ordinary Tom Hanks and the perky child-like girl-next-door Meg Ryan wander around New York within mere yards of each other and yet only connect via a keyboard. It makes me wonder if it is the feeling of safety (as only such anonymity can bring) that gives them the courage to reflect on their life with the other. Do we all simply need someone to listen? Isn’t that why I blog? Maybe the sense of someone understanding and responding isn’t altogether necessary, and yet those words, that eagerness at finding the other’s reply drives them to continue. I am fascinated, intrigued by the subtle suggestion that your “someone special” is around the corner, if only you bothered to look.
The other movie that finally caught me sitting still for is the Notebook. I’ll only say that I can understand now why women love this movie and men won’t admit any affection for it. Why is it hard for people to admit they might want that kind of love? Because everyone hopes and no one believes.
Romantic movies (or the classic phrasing “a chick flick”) has never been my favorite genre; I tend to prefer action, comedy and science fiction, the occasional drama, and good old B-movie. I like Coca-cola with my popcorn and I do not hesitate to shout, scream, cry or otherwise demonstrate my reaction to a good film. But romantic movies have always left me in a bizarre state. I couldn’t give over to them, let go of the analysis and breakdown of every conversation and seemingly impossible quickness of affection. I still have difficulty with this, but I’ll admit, I’ve learned the joys of a contented sigh and the wistful smile. At the cusp of a birthday, when I have had little time to reflect and consider what it means now to be a whopping 29, at the very least I can sit late at night, take a break from work and think “some day”.
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