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.