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the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe

I don’t remember the first time I visited Narnia, though that first journey might have been captured in a photo my mom took about twenty years ago. My dad was reading aloud to us on a summer evening, holding a book in one hand and pushing a child on the swingset between sentences. 

Since that day, Lewis’ world has been an integral part of my family’s shared language, part of how we understand the world. My siblings and I listened to audio drama versions of the series on countless road trips and rainy afternoons. We wore out my parents’ copies of the books as we read them over and over. We complained when we were assigned The Last Battle for school and didn’t understand the allegory (it’s possible that this was just me).

So, when I was able to reunite with my family after quarantining separately for weeks, we were excited to return to Narnia together. Singing “happy birthday” to my sister and then crowding onto the old couches in the living room to watch The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe truly felt like coming home. Even with the constant commentary that occasionally drowned out the movie’s dialogue, we were traveling together into a world we loved–and that was all that mattered.

We love so many things about this adaptation of Lewis’ first Narnia story. We love the creatures–the fauns and talking beavers and especially the centaurs, all coexisting on screen and looking like they belong. We love the Pevensie siblings and the actors who portray them. We love the way Andrew Adamson returned to his childhood memories of the book to bring every page to life so vividly. We love the adventure and the magic, the humor and the terror. And we especially love Harry Gregson-Williams’ beautiful score. During the final battle, the music soars and at least half of us were conducting or humming along until we were kindly asked to stop. The soundtrack is moving and haunting and perfectly suited to the images on screen, and we’ve listened to it until we have every note memorized.

But, of course, we truly love the story that lies beneath the CGI on screen, the allegory at the center of this film. Lewis’ portrayal of a king who gives his life for a traitor and then rises from the dead to defeat his enemies is a ringing echo of the gospel. No matter what the filmmakers intended, the film highlights the same truth that Lewis captured so beautifully. And, seeing the familiar story played out on screen, we get to delight in it all over again. We rejoice to see a world where good pays a terrible price but ultimately defeats evil. Where God walks alongside us, and chooses to rescue us even when we’ve betrayed Him. Where order is restored and peace reigns. Where even when we find ourselves tumbling out of the wardrobe and back into the hardships of reality, we’re not alone. Where we can look at Aslan and let everything else fall away.

I’m so thankful for this world, and that I get to share it with my family. As an older sister, I find it easy to relate to Susan’s bossy attitude and her practical concerns. Sometimes, though, I worry that my similarities to Susan will extend to her forgetfulness. That even though I’ve been rescued by Aslan, I’ll lose sight of him. That, like her, I’ll let “real life” blind me to the beauty that waits just around the corner. So I’m especially thankful for the magic of this story, for the truth at its center, and for the chance to walk with Aslan again. And for the reminder that I’m not on this journey alone–that my brothers and sisters walk with me as we all seek to go further up and further in, to live abundantly here and now.

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the lord of the rings

I could never do justice to my love for The Lord of the Rings in a single essay. The world Tolkien created is an integral part of my imagination, my love for stories, and even my understanding of God. Even if I could see past my bias to any kind of objectivity, I don’t have the space for a critical review of these sprawling films. My rambling memories and musings will have to suffice.

As far as I can remember, the last time I watched the full Lord of the Rings trilogy was in college, more than five years ago. A snow day meant all our classes were cancelled, so my friends and I commandeered an empty classroom and spent the day in Middle Earth. Before that, I remember watching Return of the King with my sister and spending the last hour abjectly failing to hide my tears. I remember watching Fellowship of the Ring during a blizzard, jet-lagged and trying to stay awake after returning from a trip to Thailand. I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and remember suddenly regaining consciousness to find the fellowship staggering on the rocks outside the mines of Moria, mourning Gandalf’s fall. I remember being introduced to the films for the first time when a teacher showed a clip from The Two Towers as an illustration during a Vacation Bible School. I remember catching a glimpse of Fellowship over my mom’s shoulder as she watched the trilogy in half-hour installments (and, for some reason, could never keep the characters straight). 

Despite all these memories and my deep love for these films, I had never made the time to watch the extended editions. Alone at home for a week of quarantine, though, I found myself with nothing but empty evenings and my roommate’s DVD box sets and decided it was time. I wanted to escape from the sudden uncertainty of my world, where a new virus was taking over in a global pandemic, and The Lord of the Rings beckoned. As we face an invisible, swiftly-spreading foe, it’s refreshing to join a fight where the lines between good and evil are more clearly drawn. The battle in Middle Earth is real and hard and may cost everything, but at least we know who the enemy is. And, though evil is terrible and nearly triumphant, it’s encouraging to enter into a story where the heroes are ultimately victorious. Sam’s speech at the end of The Two Towers encapsulates the hope I find in Middle Earth, as he reminds Frodo and Faramir and all of us:

“It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo, the ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were, and sometimes you didn’t want to know the end, because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? 

But in the end, it’s only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come, and when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you, that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why.

But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back. Only they didn’t, because they were holding on to something…That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.”

It’s so good to fight again alongside the heroes of this story, to be reunited with these characters who feel like dear friends. To walk with Sam, a faithful companion who never forgets the task he was given and who refuses to abandon his friend even after being doubted and sent away. To trudge through misery with Frodo, who willingly leaves safety and comfort behind to carry the burden of the ring and the future of Middle Earth. To stand side by side with Aragorn, who looks at the gates of Mordor and the innumerable forces of evil and declares that they will not triumph today. And to join Faramir, Gandalf, Eowyn, Merry, Arwen, Boromir, and so many others as they walk the paths set before them, each playing their part in the great battle against Sauron. 

And, somehow, all of these characters appear against a backdrop of beauty and artistry that is just as stunning now as it was twenty years ago. I can’t imagine what the studio executives were thinking when they considered adapting a beloved work as sprawling, complex, and richly detailed as The Lord of the Rings. There are so many ways that a translation of this story could have gone wrong, so many times that the spirit of the books could have been misinterpreted (looking at you, The Hobbit…). While more pedantic viewers still find small changes to critique, these films are nothing short of a miracle to me. Every aspect–the acting, the stunning sets, the innovative CGI and prosthetic work, the directing, the score, the costumes and props, the cinematography and location scouting, and so much more–displays the collaborative work of hundreds of talented artists who poured their hearts into telling these stories well. Juggling characters, cultures, fictional languages, and intersecting plot lines in a way that’s intelligible, entertaining, and ultimately moving, this trilogy is an incredible work of art and deserves every accolade it has received. 

Even better, these beautiful films point me to the truth. They ring with echoes of a story I need to hear, reminding me of good that defeats evil, of a suffering servant willing to give his life for others, of the rest that waits after a long pilgrimage, of the return of a long-promised king who will one day reign. But, though I remembered the power of the trilogy from previous viewings, I wondered as I put the first DVD in the player if the magic of these films might have fled after so many years of familiarity. I shouldn’t have worried. I wept with the fellowship as they mourned Gandalf’s fall. I mourned for Boromir as he told Aragorn he would have followed him. I could hardly see through my tears as Theoden and the people of Rohan rode out to make a glorious end at Helm’s Deep. As always, I sobbed as Aragorn told the hobbits, “My friends, you bow to no one.” And, at the end, I grieved with Frodo as he tried to return to a normal life and couldn’t escape the pain he carried. The Lord of the Rings makes me laugh and makes me cry. The films delight me with beauty and show me the true ugliness of evil. They give me joy and they give me hope. And I’m so thankful for them.

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all time favorites reviews

a quiet place

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.

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lady bird

On the surface, I have almost nothing in common with Christine ‘Lady Bird’ McPherson. Our home towns, our parents’ vocations, our interests–few of our experiences overlap. But despite our differences, I immediately connect with the struggles and feelings Lady Bird encounters. Greta Gerwig chooses to limit her field of vision in this poignant film, allowing us to discover the intimate details of one situation and to know Christine deeply. By narrowing her focus in this way, Gerwig is able to tap into universal experiences that cross boundaries of place or social class, to explore the longings and dreams that characterize human experience wherever we are.

This shouldn’t be surprising, but I’m realizing as I write that many of my favorite films see the world the way I do: through the lens of emotion. I’m delighted when others manage to capture this on screen, and especially when they can inspire emotion in the audience as well as the characters. Greta Gerwig does this magnificently. It may help that she’s telling the story of a high school senior, a young woman going through big transitions at an always-emotional time of life. But her film does not limit itself to depicting teenage angst. The opening car ride, as Christine and her mom conclude a college visit, captures a wide range of feelings in just a few minutes: melancholy tears provoked by the end of The Grapes of Wrath, frustration from both mother and daughter as they struggle to communicate, and an instant flash of anger that leads Christine to roll out of their moving car. And emotion follows us throughout the rest of the film, always simmering just under the surface, ready to be released at the slightest trigger.

While it overflows with feeling, the events of Lady Bird may seem insignificant; I showed the movie to one of my sisters, who didn’t like it because “nothing happened.” However, Gerwig seems to hold the same philosophy as the nun who asks Christine, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?” As she does in Little Women, Gerwig pays attention to the intimate moments that make up her characters’ lives–and in doing so, demonstrates her love for each of them. She notices the boys’ names Christine writes on her bedroom wall, the gifts her mom brings to coworkers, and the way an affirmation makes Julie light up. Her characters are complicated and messy, and through her eyes we learn to see how the “insignificant” moments of their lives add up to define each person. By paying attention to the small details others might overlook, Gerwig elevates their importance and makes them meaningful.

When we first meet her, Lady Bird has not developed this skill: she doesn’t know many people well, unable to see past the facade they present to the world. She doesn’t see her parents’ struggles, fails to recognize Julie’s loneliness, and falls in love with the fantasies she’s constructed about two different boys–only to be disappointed when their reality doesn’t match her expectations. Christine doesn’t even really know herself; she knows what kind of person she wants to be, but not where her strengths and interests might actually flourish. She tries on identities, successively defining herself as a theater kid or a rebel or a girlfriend as she searches for the place where she fits. Through this process, though, she slowly learns about herself and begins to celebrate her family and her hometown as important parts of her identity. She reclaims the name her parents gave her, choosing to introduce herself to a new acquaintance as Christine instead of as Lady Bird.

Christine’s growth is captured in miniature on a Sunday morning early in her freshman year, as she encounters again the religion she left behind. In her Catholic high school, the rituals of the church were something to be tolerated or laughed at. Lady Bird snacked on communion wafers with Julie, made fun of a nun by decorating her car as if she were just married to Jesus, and promptly ignored the instruction to leave “six inches for the Holy Spirit” between her and a dance partner. In her first weeks at college, though, Christine’s perspective starts to change. Walking home hungover, the Sunday morning church bells are suddenly appealing. She climbs the stairs to the balcony of a beautiful church building, finding her way upwards in a physical reflection of the journey of transformation she is undergoing. As she emerges into the sanctuary, her eyes are opened. Rather than a scripture reading grudgingly performed by a sullen high-schooler, she is surrounded by stunning choral music. She glimpses the profound beauty of the rituals on display, able to sense the meaning in the traditions. On this morning, at least, the church becomes a refuge, a haven in the midst of uncertainty. And as Christine continues to explore her identity, she is anchored by the familiar things, like religion, that she once held in contempt. With that foundation established, she finds her footing.

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la la land

Since the infamous moment when it was wrongly announced as the Best Picture winner, La La Land has largely faded from discussion–except as an overused punch line at award shows. I haven’t been able to shake off the spell of this beautiful movie, though, especially when I recall the first time I got to see it. It was the last showing at a film festival, several months before the film would reach theaters, and I anxiously stood in line and hoped that tickets would still be available. When we finally reached the ticket counter, a couple beside me graciously bought me a pass so I could rush in to claim a seat–a small moment of shared anticipation and generosity I still treasure. In a hotel ballroom masquerading as a makeshift theater, the screen lit up and the surroundings fell away. Even before the first musical number ended, I was sure that I was witnessing magic. I walked out of the screening with tears in my eyes and spent the next months counting down the days till the film’s official release, when I could see it again. I told everyone who would listen that they should see the movie, that it was special. And that December, I sat in a dark theater and fell in love all over again with Damien Chazelle’s glorious film.

Refusing to hide behind ironic appreciation, La La Land immediately draws us in with genuine, earnest excitement about the art some might consider irrelevant. On a concrete Los Angeles overpass, we are quickly inducted into a world full of passionate creators, people who are willing to sit for hours in crazy traffic for one chance to chase their dreams. When shared enthusiasm spills out the doors of a hundred cars, the resulting dance number overflows with joy–and if the movie ended there, it would leave us smiling. Instead, we get to meet Mia and Sebastian. We root for their success almost instantly because, as Mia says, “People love what other people are passionate about,” and each of our heroes has a deep love for the art they’re trying to create. Mia has been telling stories in different ways since she was little, and clearly adores the way words can bring a world to life. Sebastian is stuck playing piano in the background at restaurants and parties, but he’s obsessed with the beauty and legacy of jazz music. And at its core, La La Land is the story of Mia and Sebastian trying to follow their passions and find their own places in history. They stumble past dozens of dead ends on their way to success, but every wrong turn brings them a little closer to their dreams.

And, over time, Mia and Sebastian start to believe in each other and to merge their individual dreams into one bigger vision. They support each other’s pursuits, encouraging their partner to take big, bold leaps instead of hiding behind the fear of failure. So many moments from the beginning of their relationship make me smile: their witty banter at a pool-side party, their first dance in the Hollywood hills, the panicked honk when they start a summer together by driving the wrong direction down a one-way street. Later, they sing “City of Stars” together and something makes them laugh, and the joy in their voices is so real and infectious that it always reaches past the screen to pull me in. It’s such a simple, small moment, but it encapsulates the joy they find together, the ease of their relationship, the way they delight in making music together. They’re happy, and so are we. 

For me, much of this film’s magic lies in this ability to provoke emotion in the audience, to include us in the joys and confusions and laughter and sorrows that the characters on screen experience. With quick pans and spinning cameras and riotous colors at every turn, Chazelle’s cinematography overwhelms our senses. Everything is larger than life: more vibrant, more beautiful, more Hollywood than seems possible. The heightened reality reminds us that this isn’t meant to be a naturalistic depiction of Los Angeles life, so we’re not surprised when characters break out into song or float into space. As it blends the fantastic with the mundane events it depicts, La La Land uses its form to capture emotion perfectly. It lets us experience the magical beginning of a relationship, where pure happiness makes you feel as if you’re dancing among the stars. The music, the color, and the stunning images all combine to create this enthralling emotion that captures us and refuses to let go.

Being under the film’s spell, though, means that we also experience the sadness it presents. I’ll never forget my feelings during the first viewing, when the film cuts to “Five Years Later.” I was so desperately sure that Mia and Sebastian would ride off into the sunset together, and I started weeping during the final “what if?” montage, crying so hard that I could barely see the screen. I clung to that montage, sure it was the real ending and everything else was a dream. But I know I was wrong. The ending isn’t a perfect Hollywood fairy tale, but it’s something more powerful. Though it’s bittersweet and even painful, their final glance reminds us that what Mia and Sebastian had was real and beautiful even though it was temporary. That they loved each other. That they helped each other achieve more than they ever could alone. And that they’ll be a part of each other’s stories forever.