We are all starring in our own movies, aren’t we?
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- June 17, 2019
- 964
Friendships can be fragile things.
Hold them too firmly and they’ll break.
Grasp them too loosely and they’ll shatter as they drop.
If you’re fortunate — and I mean winning-the-lottery-twice lucky — you may cultivate and be able to count on a handful of them.
Friends are not a luxury. They are a necessity, equal in value than some family ties, which can fray and snap without warning.
You probably know at least a few folks who have become estranged from either their parents or their siblings. That’s one of the saddest things a person can endure because, as the old saying goes, you can’t choose family.
Life has a funny way of creating vacuums where there once were reliable comfort zones, and it’s never as simple as it seems.
For guidance, let’s turn to classic cinema and one of my favorite lines from “The Breakfast Club.”
John Bender, the anti-hero of John Hughes’ magnum opus, is an outcast, a rebel and a kid who comes from an “unsatisfying” home life. His father burns him with lighted cigarettes, for example, and this has scarred him, literally.
But he’s built up a protective wall around his unhappiness and has developed a strong and stoic cynicism, which makes him a most appealing character, especially when the library door malfunctions.
“Screws fall out all the time,” he says, taking the measure of the slimy teacher who’s been assigned the odious duty of monitoring the Saturday detention session. “The world’s an imperfect place.”
Indeed they do.
In “The Breakfast Club,” we watch as five students — none of whom run in the same social circles — are thrust together in an unfamiliar setting, with the exception of Judd Nelson’s Bender, who is no stranger to school discipline.
It’s a fascinating exercise in fledgling friendship, and the movie hits its best moments when the group faces the inevitable question: What will happen on Monday morning when they all resume their regular orbits with their familiar patterns?
Doctoral dissertations have probably been written trying to find the correct answer, but I for one am happy all parties involved have resisted the temptation to cash in on a sequel, which would no doubt have been big business.
In that regard, it resembles “The Big Chill,” another coming-of-age ensemble masterpiece, though it’s got a more mature foundation, examining a group of college friends who gather for a funeral after one of their circle commits suicide.
William Hurt plays Nick, this group’s John Bender, and he too gets the lion’s share of the script’s best lines, including this one, which gives the film not only its title, but also its core message.
“Wise up, folks,” he says with a weary sigh. “We’re all alone out there and tomorrow. We’re going out there again.”
What might a “Big Chill” sequel have meant, aside from major box-office bucks?
Thankfully all those involved have — to this point, anyway — avoided that mistake and left the original its place in history.
We’re all starring in our own movies, aren’t we?
None will probably ever make it to the big screen. Though it’s possible that with the evolution of social media, brick-and-mortar theaters will eventually go the way of drive-ins, doomed to obsolescence and destined for the dustbin of nostalgia.
I’ve often wondered if that’s what the Last Judgment will be like: a screening of each person’s life story, captured minute by minute and played out on cloud screen with St. Peter acting as the critic.
“Oh, no,” he might say, watching one of your less-than-wonderful moments, possibly involving a bad breakup. “You didn’t do that, did you? What were you thinking?”
“Well,” you might offer in a weak defense of your appalling behavior, “I did say that we could still be friends.”
“How’d that work out?” St. Peter could ask, rhetorically, slashing big red marks across the scroll in his lap, looking disappointed.
Because friendship shouldn’t be a fall-back position, a get-out-of-jail pass intended to mitigate beastly behavior.
That’s like going to the movies just for the popcorn.
The idea of friendship is one that ought to be held in the highest esteem, reserved for the best that life has to offer, right alongside the novels of John Updike, steamed oysters in a beachfront bar at sunset and the four albums that the Rolling Stones released between 1968 and 1972.
This is a personal litany. Feel free to substitute your own entries, perhaps driving a 1965 Mustang or marrying your high school love.
Who knows why some friendships endure even as others wilt?
Could be simple inattention, the way sometimes we forget to water a houseplant that’s always just, well, survived.
Might be something more sinister, a trust violated or a confidence shared without permission.
Mostly, though, I suppose it’s because only the best ones survive.
Friendships wouldn’t mean as much if they all lasted. That’s one of the things that the internet does well. Just because someone Googles you and decides to get in touch after years and years, those communications hardly ever make it past the curiosity stage.
Which is not to say I haven’t been touched when someone from my past has reached out. No, it can be quite flattering, and when your ego’s as needy as mine, those echoes can matter a lot.
You know the real thing when you see it, though.
Authentic friendships, those fine few that have thrived even as others have shriveled, can’t be counterfeited.
Let’s return to “The Breakfast Club” for an image of John Bender.
As the last scene fades and he’s walking across the football field, facing more detentions than anyone can accurately count, he raises his fist in a defiant gesture of survival, knowing that even in this imperfect world, making a few friends — if only for a little while — might be enough to keep just one screw from falling out.
Cue “Don’t You Forget About Me” by Simple Minds, and watching, you can’t help but count your fragile blessings.