If you can make it through the baseball scene in Set It Up without smiling, romantic comedies may not be for you. Harper and Charlie get their bosses on the kiss cam at a Yankees game, the second stage in their attempt to push the two into a relationship and get them out of the office more often. Their efforts seem doomed to fail, their bosses uninterested in sharing a first kiss with a stadium of baseball fans. But the camera keeps panning back to them and the crowd gets interested, booing a mild kiss on the cheek and chanting encouragement. And finally it happens, and Harper and Charlie jump up and cheer at the top of their lungs. Everyone else is staring and thinks they’re crazy, but they are so overjoyed by their success that they don’t care.
Zoey Deutch and Glen Powell are a constant delight as they plot together to set up their bosses, as they banter over pizza and science projects, and as they ultimately fall in love. I identify with Harper’s desire to be a writer as well as her paralyzing fear of writing something terrible, so I’m rooting for her success from the start. Add in gorgeous sets and Pete Davidson and Harper’s excellent wardrobe and Creepy Tim, and you get a funny, romantic movie I’ve seen at least four times–and would happily watch again tomorrow.
When social distancing suddenly became part of my vocabulary back in March, I had high expectations for the weeks ahead. With nearly every commitment erased from my calendar for the foreseeable future, I thought this might be an extraordinarily robust creative period. I would finally watch the films that have been on my list for years and would write long, eloquent posts about them. I might even venture back into the world of fiction writing. None of that happened.
I’ve hardly picked up a pen in the last three months. I could blame this on the absence of my favorite writing spots, busy coffee shops where I can set aside distractions and focus on the page in front of me. I could blame it on the global pandemic that has preoccupied my mind and sometimes made creativity a luxury I couldn’t afford. I could blame it on the strange and uncertain world around me, the new routines I’ve been forced to establish, the disappearance of social interactions that would usually inspire and refresh me. But, more honestly, I simply haven’t made writing my top priority–and I want that to change.
I still have plenty of days where I feel distracted and overwhelmed, but I miss writing. To ease back into the habit, I’m giving myself permission to write some briefer installments, to highlight some moments of joy with a little less formality. Because more than anything else, I want to return again to my original goal of finding delight and wonder on screen, to rejoice at beauty and laughter and truth wherever I discover it. I need that joy now more than ever.
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.
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.
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.
