Benedict Arnold

DAY TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT: The Pauper Meets Her Nemesis

The time has come to address my Benedict Arnold.  The element of life that has double-crossed me.  The thing I most loved and trusted, but has reared its head to be my sworn enemy.  Everyone, meet Cinema.

A little backstory.  Cinema and I met at a young age.  There were cartoon iterations of the beloved spy during the years of memory that elude me today.  But my most vivid first viewing experience comes from Marcus Theaters in 1994 when the Tim Allen holiday masterpiece, The Santa Clause graced us with its affable presence.  But for reasons unbeknownst to me (but my brain might be able to tell you), I only recall this viewing experience due to a journal entry fixed in my mind recalling the moment I waited in line outside the theater SO FAR that I was stuck staring at the far more provocative poster for Interview With a Vampire (a film it took me nearly fifteen years later to (inter)view.)

Tagline brought to you by L. Ron Hubbard.

But it wasn't until 2002 when I fell in love with the most sinister of vixens.  She puffed her cigarette in the corner of a dimly lit jazz club, her lips lined in stop sign red, but her stare insisting "go."  Her name was Moulin Rouge.  A film I scoffed at during the seedy underbelly of trailers, but fell deep and hard during VHS distribution.  I was fourteen.  My brain whispered "no... not tonight."  But my heart screamed in ecstasy, "Yes, Yes!  Do me now!"

After that, I was hooked.  Adrenaline pumping through my veins every time a waifish teenager neglected to card me for an R-rated flick.  Closer, Sideways, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, oh God, yes!  You name it, I was there.

And as I gobbled up every ounce of Cinema I could gorge myself on, I fell deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole.  Where my life was full of awkward daytime interactions and late night humorous-only-to-me-and-three-other-people rendezvous in the parking lot of Giant, Cinema was were I could, how do you say? Get My Rocks Off.

This, but sans the bottle.

I quickly rejected the norms set in "chick flicks", as my untouched lips at the age of 17 so bitterly denounced.  But yet, I still binged on films that focused their existential follies on love.  Films that utilized narrative devices such as montages to skim over the hard work that creates product.  Films that allowed me to believe that a life story can exist in two hours, when life so churlishly lasts for much longer.

And now, at 26, and as a woman who has given up a decent, mind-numbing job to pursue this minx, I question her motives.  What does good Cinema do?  Does it provoke us?  Does it give us hope?  Does it show us reality?  How do you cope with life when you live most of it vicariously?

When life brings you down, you often look to music to find the truth in it.  As an adult, I like to think I dive into more substantial realms of emotion.  But even as a teenager, you turn to things like the latest pop sensation's drab takes on love to justify your crush on Football McQuarterback.

HE JUST GETS MY SOUL

So for the little Hannahs of the world, I want to create an existence of relativity.  I don't want to lose touch with the lows of life just because I've grown past them.  I want to hang on to the feelings of crushes lost, never-lasting friendships, and big deal moments that fade within the year.  I want to expound the truth.  The honesty of life.  A truth that Hollywood often neglects to address.

Because if I can do that, well, I don't want to say my life is worthwhile.  Honestly speaking, I'll probably have some major downs in my life post-truth speaking that will make me reflect back on grand statements like this.  But if I can create something that people can relate to, then at the very least, I've inspired someone to be something more than a stagnant viewer in their own life.