The Oscars and my Movie Binge

The Oscars are tonight and for the first time ever I’ve seen enough of the movies to classify myself as an informed viewer.

I’m not a huge movie person. I get antsy. The thought of giving up an afternoon or evening to sit in front of a screen has not always appealed to me.  But recently, that changed. In part because of the cold, gray weather, my increased mobility and the stack of complimentary movie passes I’ve accumulated.  But I believe the real root of my recent movie binge stems from the feeling I get when entering the cinema and exiting my own day. It’s the high ceilings and the smell of popcorn. The ticket collector with waxed eyebrows, dressed in a black suit. And the smile we exchanged when he rips my ticket in half, hands me the stub and says, “enjoy the show.”

This year’s line up taught us a few more things about our distant and recent history: the Emancipation Proclamation, the Iranian Hostage Crisis, the anticipated yet sudden death of Osama Bin Laden. In the Boston Globe, Ty Burr reflects on Hollywood’s motive for stretching the truth and the less-than-pleased reactions from historians. It’s a worthwhile read and forces us to ask ourselves why we go to the movies, what we gain from them and the ways that they can make us a little bit better and a little bit worse.  

In the films based on true stories—Zero Dark Thirty, Argo and Lincoln—the key moments are allegedly not true at all. In Argo, the plane took off without much questioning. The difficult-to-swallow torture scenes that opens Zero Dark Thirty may not have actually happened. And in Lincoln, the two Connecticut senators who dramatically yell “nay" in opposition of the amendment voted in favor of it.

Like all storytelling, the point of movies is less about truth and more about the art of capturing the viewer. Historical films, when done well, allow us to see a side of the story we had not considered before by forcing us to remember what we’ve chosen to forget and giving us something to think about when the lights come back on.

Enjoy this fun and fancy evening.  They are all worthy of celebration. My final vote goes to Argo. 

The MFA’s Postcard Age

The postcard “Craze” took hold of the early 1900’s, before Twitter and Facebook, automobiles and airplanes and the widespread use of light bulbs. The world embraced them for the size and convenience. They were easier to send than other types of mail, carrying fashion and feeling in less than twenty-four square inches. The Postcard Age, an exhibit appearing at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, unveils the larger narrative of the postcard. The display, donated entirely by Leonard Lauder, forces us to think about the meaning of the cards, which were inherently created to fly around as separate entities, as a whole.

The exhibit, made of a mere 400 cards from Lauder’s 120,000-collection, is grouped by trends and categories. There is a wall for amusements, showcasing the drawings of the Eiffel Tower before France knew to keep the building as a permanent fixture; mountain landscapes; circuses and carousels. There is a section dedicated to the women’s suffrage movement and another wall displaying the cards sent to soldiers during World War I.  There is a space for the fitness and recreation fads that were spurred by the six-day workweek and a wall displaying famous images from the early days of advertising and technology.

It was these cards, stacked in piles and public places and sent across the country—that educated us about new traditions, activities and products. One set features fashionable women performing various home-making activities during the years when electricity was making its way into everyone’s household.  She blow dries her hair, prepares the coffee and applies powder to her face by lamplight. Without saying a word, the pictures imply that to be desirable and loved, women needed electricity. Years later, electricity is no longer a part of the discussion. It’s simply a part of our lives.

As with anything, the view of many is more powerful than the view of something on its own. The Postcard Age is a compelling collection that allows viewers to contemplate art, economic development, gender issues, love and war at the same time. When taken in together, they make us realize that nothing in our history truly stands on its own.

For me, postcards have served as an attempt to capture the essence of an experience before I have to leave it behind. I purchased them Disney World when I was seven years old.  I bought a bag while traveling Thailand, of Ayutthaya’s ancient ruins and of the colorful tuk-tuk’s that carted tourists around.   Every time I placed the stamp on the upper right corner before sending it the recipient, I’d think: “this just doesn’t do it justice.”

And was true—it didn’t. Our view of the world is much bigger than a postcard could ever emulate. But, if we could look at all of our postcards at once, tacked up on one big wall, I’m sure we’d feel differently. As we keep moving forward into our never-ending desire for efficiency and more—postcards serve as a reminder of what has struck our fancy, caught our attention, and of all of the tiny things that make us who we are.

What We Found in Nemo: Reflections from the Blizzard and Catherine Brunell’s "Becoming Catholic Again"

It’s February 10, and Jamaica Plain is now easing its way back into regular life. The cars along my street once again look like cars; the 39 bus made its first trip from Forest Hills to Back Bay Station; and my roommate bought a full gallon of milk and bag of apples from the now-open grocery store. The snow is melting into thick, gray slush and forming ankle-deep puddles on the crosswalks.

Earlier, I walked around the neighborhood and snapped pictures with my phone. I am not a photographer, but it was afternoon too beautiful not to capture. Throughout the short journey I found a six-foot pile of snow surrounding a traffic light, Jamaica Pond half frozen over and a couple carrying cross-country skies in route to the Arboretum. The sun was bright and for the first time in a while, I enjoyed simple the act of breathing. I had a sense that everyone walking around me was doing the same. There we were: seeing our neighborhood in whole new way.

The night before the blizzard commenced I went to see Catherine Brunell, a “pastoral minister of the everyday” read from her new book Becoming Catholic. Again. Brunell is living a life that her radical, social justice-loving, Jesuit University-attending self never imagined living: motherhood in the suburbs with youth-soccer centric schedules and SUV-dominated rush hour traffic. Her book is about her faith and the ways in which the Catholic Church continues to strengthen and erode it. At the end of each chapter she invites readers to apply the questions she’s held very close to her heart to their own lives and spiritual journeys.

During her reading, Cathy recounted her experience traveling to a friend’s wedding in New York City, which included a late departure, a tearful goodbye to her three year old, and the moment when she realized, two hours away from home, that she’d left her dress behind. It was a perfect dress—one she’d dug out of her closet from high school and paired with borrowed gloves and jewelry. She takes the reader through the explosion of inner-voices that followed, pin-pointing all of her personal shortfalls that contributed to this new reality. But no matter how hard she thought about the reasons why she left the dress behind—there was no changing anything. As time passed the noises in her head went with it. She phoned a friend who came to the rescue, armed with a stunning black cocktail dress from the Bloomingdale’s sales rack. In the end, the wedding was beautiful, because she allowed herself, even in her incompleteness, experience it.  She writes: “We miss huge moments in our lives and in the lives of others because we are so busy trying to reassure ourselves that we are OK.” Her oversight became a cause for celebration and an invitation to let go.

The book, which I’m halfway through and enjoying, fits well with the mindset that emerged in Boston this weekend, amidst the closed storefronts and derailed public transit system. Brunell reminds us that we do not become our best selves in the checked-off items on our to-do list and we are not defined by our unmet goals.  But instead by embracing, however fully or reluctantly, each day—complete with its slept-through alarms, forgotten outfits and never-ending mounds of snow.