Almost exactly two years ago, my sister and I bravely spent a Saturday afternoon at my favorite movie theater watching A Quiet Place. We don’t watch horror movies, so between the monsters on screen and the growing tension in the audience, this was the most terrifying film we had ever experienced. Every scare made us jump, and we barely took a breath until the credits rolled and we could finally exhale. We walked out of the theater into the bright sunshine, shaking the tension out of our tight shoulders and reminding ourselves that we’d left the monsters behind.
Watching the same film today, it feels like the fictional apocalypse is beginning to leak through the screen. We’re trapped indoors by a global pandemic, hunted by an invisible terror. Unable to see the virus that ravages the globe, we cling to the rules we’ve set up and hope that masks and six feet of empty space will keep us safe. Like the son whose fight-or-flight response is triggered by the smallest noise, we’re always a breath away from panic. The relentless tension on screen feels suddenly familiar.
Most terrifying to me, though, is how our response to interactions with other people echoes that of the family in A Quiet Place. When the father and son are walking home and encounter an old man in the woods, they are instantly afraid. They’ve spent months carefully constructing a system that provides a semblance of security, and this man could shatter it. So rather than a comrade who could stand by their side in the face of danger, they see a threat to their hard-won safety. Their outlook is suddenly familiar, as people around the world retreat into their homes and shut out anyone who hasn’t been following their chosen protocols. We don’t know who might be unknowingly carrying the virus we’re all battling, so we fear each other and assume that everyone we encounter is increasing our danger.
But even in our strange new reality of isolation and anxiety, we find solace in the same places as the family on screen. We are moved by people who sacrifice themselves for the sake of others, willing to put their bodies on the line like the father. We grieve loss together, mourning the sickness and the death that are ravaging our world and, like this family, trying to chart a path forward even as we carry a new pain. We come alongside those who, like the deaf daughter who may not know the danger she’s walking into, face extra risk and need help navigating our altered reality. And we find moments of beauty in the midst of pain, dancing together like the husband and wife who let music drown out their fear for a few beautiful minutes.
I know that I’m missing the point a little bit, that A Quiet Place is about parenthood, not a global pandemic. I’m aware that I’m overlooking the stellar performances, the incredible use of sound and sign language, the excellent writing and directing, and the moments of terror that are indelibly etched in my memory. But I’m thankful for this film because, at its core, it’s telling a story I need to hear and reminding me of truths that give me an anchor in the midst of this crisis. It teaches me that we need each other, that we all have a part to play in our battle. It reminds me to hold on to the people I care about, to tell them that I love them while I have the chance. And, like all the greatest stories, it reassures me that danger has an end. That there is hope. That monsters can be defeated.
