Cloud Atlas, in that both are totally free of cynicism, totally unafraid to lay themselves bare for their audience. So few films and so few filmmakers are willing to do that that I cannot help but be thankful for the ones that are.
More than this, though, I am thankful for the empathy Paul Thomas Anderson shows in Magnolia, both for his cast of wounded, deeply flawed characters and for those of us who see ourselves in them. There is no single character in the movie with whom I directly identify; I have never been a drug addict like Claudia Wilson Gator (Melora Walters) or a wealthy TV producer dying of cancer like Earl Partridge (Jason Robards), a lovesick former quiz kid genius struck by lightning like Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), or a misogynist motivational speaker like Frank "TJ" Mackey (Tom Cruise, giving the best performance of his career). I don't need to see myself specifically represented on screen to still be able to understand how the characters in Magnolia feel. When the movie breaks with reality two-thirds of the way through so the entire cast can join together to sing Aimee Mann's "Wise Up" -- still one of my favorite sequences in any movie ever -- I'm right there with them. No matter what our circumstances, no matter our pain, we are all connected in that moment. It is precisely our pain, in fact, that connects us. And it's not going to stop.
I'm writing this during one of the worst and most difficult times of my life. I was hospitalized about a month ago and have been in constant treatment ever since. This isn't the first piece I have attempted to write since that episode, but provided I'm actually able to finish, it will be the first piece I've actually successfully written during this time. After the episode and my stay in the hospital, I didn't know how to proceed with anything. I didn't know what to say or how much to share. I haven't wanted to talk about what I'm going through but I also know that I can't continue to write without acknowledging what's happening. We experience art through our emotions, which means I'm only able to discuss art through that lens. To try and talk about movies while denying my emotions felt not just dishonest and inauthentic, but totally fucking impossible. And so I've been stuck in this place for weeks, paralyzed by depression and my efforts to recover, unsuccessful as they have been so far.
This series came along as it has for the last several years and I put out a call to all of our writers for contributions. They started coming in and were some of the best pieces I've read from our team, full of all the wit and insight and passion that makes everyone writing for this site who isn't me so special and valued. The whole time, I still had no idea what movie I would attempt to write about or even if I'd be able to write at all. Then I hit upon Magnolia, a film that has too greatly intimidated me up until this point, and it seemed like it finally might be a way to give thanks for a movie that means a great deal to me while still feeling everything I'm feeling. It's the perfect fit for a boy in need of a tourniquet.
I know that for the people who don't like it, Magnolia feels like a three-hour slog through pain and misery. For someone like myself, currently in the grip of crippling depression, it feels accurate and true, reflecting the world back to me the way I'm experiencing it. The movie ain't short because life ain't short. Life is long. But there's something powerful and healing about the movie, too. I chose to keep so much of what I was feeling and experiencing to myself for a long time, fearful of being a burden to those who care about me or making them worry about me when they all have their own battles to fight. Going through life that way doesn't make anything easier, though. It just made my brain lie to me and made me feel alone. Magnolia tells me I'm not. My pain may be unique to me, but it is not unique. My own fractured relationship with my father is just one of many, as the film is littered with bad dads and damaged sons. I spend my days now in treatment, surrounded by other people enduring some similar version of what I'm living with, and though we lead separate lives and may feel isolated in our individual pain, we are connected in this way. It may not be a rain of frogs or a group sing-a-long, but it's a start.
A start is what I need and what is offered in the simpulan seconds of the film. It's what makes Magnolia truly transcendent -- the moment I was chasing during those five theatrical screenings in 1999 and have chased on every subsequent viewing. Claudia Wilson Gator, the movie's most fragile character, is visited by Officer Jim Kurring (John C. Reilly), the decent man who wants to be with her but whom she pushed away, feeling unworthy of his love. ("Now that I've met you, would you object to never seeing each other again?") He tells her she is a good and beautiful person and he won't let her run away as Aimee Mann's "Save Me" plays. Claudia, finally seeing she is loved and full of hope for the first time, looks directly into the camera and smiles. Cut to black. It's as perfect an ending to a movie as I've ever seen -- one smile rewarding three hours of hurt, telling us that things won't always feel bad. There is hope for Claudia, and there is hope for every one of us hurting, too.
So now then.
I'm not alone. I never have been. It's a lie that the voice of depression tells me, but it's a lie that the voice of depression makes easy to believe, too. Throughout these last weeks, difficult as they have been, I have had the love and support of the people I care about. In the words of Jim Kurring, sometimes people need a little help. My closest friends are all here on this site, and every one of them has stepped up and reached out to be here for me. My family continues to check in on me and let me know they care. Erika continues to move the world, devoting her entire being to taking care of me and giving me cover from the moment I was admitted to the hospital all the way to tonight, when she was the one encouraging me to write this piece and believing in me when I can't do the same. She's the one who gives me hope. The one who saves me. I am thankful for her. I am thankful for everyone behind the scenes at FTM, and to you too, reader, for continuing to visit the site and for being patient as I try to find my way back and return to normal. I don't know what the future holds or how I will begin to feel better, but for right now Magnolia makes it a little easier to feel this way. If Claudia Wilson Gator can find her smile, well maybe I can, too.
More than this, though, I am thankful for the empathy Paul Thomas Anderson shows in Magnolia, both for his cast of wounded, deeply flawed characters and for those of us who see ourselves in them. There is no single character in the movie with whom I directly identify; I have never been a drug addict like Claudia Wilson Gator (Melora Walters) or a wealthy TV producer dying of cancer like Earl Partridge (Jason Robards), a lovesick former quiz kid genius struck by lightning like Donnie Smith (William H. Macy), or a misogynist motivational speaker like Frank "TJ" Mackey (Tom Cruise, giving the best performance of his career). I don't need to see myself specifically represented on screen to still be able to understand how the characters in Magnolia feel. When the movie breaks with reality two-thirds of the way through so the entire cast can join together to sing Aimee Mann's "Wise Up" -- still one of my favorite sequences in any movie ever -- I'm right there with them. No matter what our circumstances, no matter our pain, we are all connected in that moment. It is precisely our pain, in fact, that connects us. And it's not going to stop.
This series came along as it has for the last several years and I put out a call to all of our writers for contributions. They started coming in and were some of the best pieces I've read from our team, full of all the wit and insight and passion that makes everyone writing for this site who isn't me so special and valued. The whole time, I still had no idea what movie I would attempt to write about or even if I'd be able to write at all. Then I hit upon Magnolia, a film that has too greatly intimidated me up until this point, and it seemed like it finally might be a way to give thanks for a movie that means a great deal to me while still feeling everything I'm feeling. It's the perfect fit for a boy in need of a tourniquet.
A start is what I need and what is offered in the simpulan seconds of the film. It's what makes Magnolia truly transcendent -- the moment I was chasing during those five theatrical screenings in 1999 and have chased on every subsequent viewing. Claudia Wilson Gator, the movie's most fragile character, is visited by Officer Jim Kurring (John C. Reilly), the decent man who wants to be with her but whom she pushed away, feeling unworthy of his love. ("Now that I've met you, would you object to never seeing each other again?") He tells her she is a good and beautiful person and he won't let her run away as Aimee Mann's "Save Me" plays. Claudia, finally seeing she is loved and full of hope for the first time, looks directly into the camera and smiles. Cut to black. It's as perfect an ending to a movie as I've ever seen -- one smile rewarding three hours of hurt, telling us that things won't always feel bad. There is hope for Claudia, and there is hope for every one of us hurting, too.
I'm not alone. I never have been. It's a lie that the voice of depression tells me, but it's a lie that the voice of depression makes easy to believe, too. Throughout these last weeks, difficult as they have been, I have had the love and support of the people I care about. In the words of Jim Kurring, sometimes people need a little help. My closest friends are all here on this site, and every one of them has stepped up and reached out to be here for me. My family continues to check in on me and let me know they care. Erika continues to move the world, devoting her entire being to taking care of me and giving me cover from the moment I was admitted to the hospital all the way to tonight, when she was the one encouraging me to write this piece and believing in me when I can't do the same. She's the one who gives me hope. The one who saves me. I am thankful for her. I am thankful for everyone behind the scenes at FTM, and to you too, reader, for continuing to visit the site and for being patient as I try to find my way back and return to normal. I don't know what the future holds or how I will begin to feel better, but for right now Magnolia makes it a little easier to feel this way. If Claudia Wilson Gator can find her smile, well maybe I can, too.
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