As anyone can tell from a cursory glance, I love the cinema. Not the vulgar "movies", although I often refer to them as such, but cinema as an art form. I not into paintings or symphonies, although I do have niches in both that I indulge in from time to time. Cinema is for people that eat before they go into movie so they aren't distracted by popcorn and candy wrappers. Cinema is for people that see a trailer as more than just an advertisement, but as it's own sweet art form. Cinema is for people that stay after and look at every movie poster in the theater and imagine how they might look in one's cave. Needless to say, none of my friends will play "Scene It?" with me anymore.
As a cinephile, you would think that I would have seen all the classics, but I am often surprised at the gaping holes in my film pedigree. I've never seen "Gone With The Wind" or "The Godfather". I do know enough trivia about each, however, to have a conversation about both. I do go through phases where I scoop up all the notable films in a certain genre or by an artist. Just recently I went through a Cary Grant phase where I watched "His Girl Friday", "Arsenic and Old Lace", and "Father Goose" and a 70's Realist phase where I watched "Chinatown", "The French Connection", and "Serpico". I know there are more in both of those categories worth watching, but I try to limit it to three so I don't burn out.
It has taken me two paragraphs of introduction to get to my point. Somewhere an English teacher is weeping.
You would think with my love of (classic) cinema that I would have already seen "Cinema Paradiso" before, but despite having it recommended to me on numerous occasions by like-minded friends, I only finished it last night - the director's cut, of course. It's a hard story not to love, and although post-WWII rural Italy is nothing like my own childhood, I could easily relate to the struggles of growing up. You can't help but reflect on your own life and your own first love, which is what I really want to talk about.
Love is a whimsical thing. Of course we have to split being "in love" from "loving" someone. I love my wife. She is my rock and my support. Without her, my life would tailspin out of control. But I don't feel the same way about her as when we were courting. My hands don't get sweaty around her. My heart doesn't beat faster. My mind doesn't fill with elaborate machinations about how to win her over. At least not very often. And, although being in love is lots of fun, loving someone is much deeper and stronger. So many people jettison their marriage once the spark is gone assuming that love is gone with it. They simply haven't learned that true love is not the searing flame of nearsighted desire, but the warm glow of acceptance and trust. People who swing from relationship to relationship like Tarzan on a vine are seeking that thrilling rush of being "in love". You might say (and actually could clinically diagnose it since it's all about hormones and brain chemistry) that they are addicted to love, although only to the easy fun part.
Most of us have had several loves in our lives until we found the one we thought was strong enough to go the distance. Most of them fade away and blend together in the fog of distant memory. But there is one that always somehow seems bright - our first love. You remember the time you suddenly realized that you didn't care if girls had cooties. Perhaps you acted out to get their attention. Or perhaps you secretly spied on them. Or maybe even both. You remember her name. You remember what she looked like. You've wondered on more than one occasion what ever happened to her.
For me, it happened in 4th grade. She was almost a year older than me and taller, of course. For four years I secretly carried a torch for her. Anyone watching from the outside could tell how I felt, though. I made her cookies without prompting when she was sick, although I very rarely went over to her house (don't want people to get suspicious). I went roller skating with her at the local fair grounds. I have a shoebox full of memories of her. And when we finally moved away, I told her how I felt in a letter. Yes...I was a grand coward, but I was only 12 so I might be forgiven. We held hands one time and I will never forget it. The last time I saw her I was 14 and we came back to the old neighborhood for a visit. Had I know then that I would never see her again, I probably would have taken a picture, but as it stands, I have none. Just my memory.
I've often thought about getting in touch with her, but life has moved on and really, no good can come of it. Somewhere deep inside me is a small flame which still burns. I have no idea if I had the same effect on her as she had on me, but it doesn't really matter. I have only one thing to say: Thank you, Christine.
Required viewing:
- Little Manhattan
- Flipped
- Hearts in Atlantis
- and of course: Cinema Paradiso
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