A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

When I saw the poster for A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood on BookMyShow, I thought that it looked funny. Throwback color schemes, Tom Hanks looking overly a in a light red sweater, and the words neighbor, icon, friend in an oversized font.


Source: https://cdn.flickeringmyth.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/a-beautiful-day-in-the-neighborhood-600x889.png

The movie was one of the three running last week that seemed worth watching. Judging by the relatively sparse listings, it was also the most "indie" among the three. Unlike most passionate movie-goers, I don't do much research on movies before I go watch them. Because it is the Oscar season, I generally end up having even better experiences by immersing myself in something that seemed to have happened more by chance than by meticulous planning, which is what my life seems to be more than I'd like to admit it is. And this is why I decided to try and gobble the movie up as the first chance I could, despite the scheduling gymnastics that I needed to do.

The movie began with an '80s looking shot of Mr. Rogers--the character Tom Hanks plays--sounding and looking funny. It was fairly obvious that his intended audience was not people like me. I guess the director wanted people like me to feel just that because I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I guess I ought to clarify that I had no idea what I was getting into. Mr. Rogers was not a thing in my childhood, which technically started in late '79 and must have ended in the early '90s. My household was without a television until 1987 and without cable television until '94. The first thing that I remember looking forward to watching on TV was Giant Robot and Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, that too on the national broadcaster Doordarshan. Since then, almost all of my non-sporting leisure time was usurped by the once-great MTV once I had cable.

In other words, I was an absolute virgin for Mr. Rogers and his famous TV show for kids. In fact, the movie is about a character--the jaded journalist Lloyd Vogel--who was pretty much in the same headspace as I was at the beginning of the movie. Lloyd is a cynic/critic who writes harsh articles about celebrities in Esquire, who, when given the assignment of writing a 400-word flattering piece on Mr. Rogers, reacts with a mixture of shock and disappointment. He thinks Mr. Rogers is just a TV show host putting on a fake character to get fame. I might have felt like Lloyd at the beginning of the movie, but by its end, I was like Lloyd's wife Andrea, who cherished the show and had uplifting moments in her childhood because of the show.

Lloyd is an interesting character--from my perspective--himself. His cynical self is probably a result of a troubled childhood/early adulthood thanks to a traumatic relationship with his father. Lloyd is still recovering from the trauma of watching his mother succumb to cancer after a painful terminal phase. He feels betrayed because his father Jerry wasn't there to support the family during this phase. Jerry, on the other hand, seeks help from other avenues of support while grappling with the loss of his wife, ends up in a relationship with a woman (too soon for the likes of his son), and eventually marries her. Lloyd also has an elder sister with whom he shares a complex relationship. Lloyd is married to Andrea, a grounded woman with a different upbringing, and is now coming to grips with the responsibilities of a father.

It is at this phase when Lloyd's employer assigns this task. Over several interviews with Mr. Rogers, Lloyd begins to unravel the mystery of the charm behind Mr. Rogers. At the same time, Lloyd also gets perspectives on his life, his relationships, and his responsibilities, thanks to the sagely insights that Mr. Rogers offers. Lloyd loses the cagey skepticism about Mr. Rogers and also about such people in general--the people who find a way to be empathic to others no matter what the situation is.

Mr. Rogers was/is everything that I wanted/want in my life to set things in perspective. He seems to have a bottomless well of kindness and is a master at making people he meets and interacts at ease. He is someone who can talk about something and would make sense to both children and adults without making either group uncomfortable in the way they are being talked to. The body language, the expressions, the choice of words, the tone of voice--everything seems to be perfect for an empathic connection. On top of all of this, Mr. Rogers is an actor, performer, musician, composer, songwriter, and much more. The topics that he addresses are dark concepts like anger, jealousy, death, hospitals, friendship. And yet, the words and the phrases that he chooses to use in his songs are available for everyone.

Fred Rogers seems to have been every bit what the poster said: a neighbor, an icon, and a friend. Mr. Rogers, through his show, its characters, its songs, and its conversations would end up educating children about the mysterious, difficult world that they were being ushered into without much preparation. This is the sort of thing that everyone needs, regardless of the time they are in or the age they find themselves in. Like Lloyd, I felt like watching clips of the show and learning more.

There is nothing more in the world that I seem to want than someone like Mr. Rogers in my life. Someone to help me find my empathy and lose my eternal cynicism.

Movies and Moments

Some of my most cherished moments in life are set in movie theaters while watching movies. Most of these times are when I go to watch movies on my own, but that could be because most of the time I go to movies without company.

In fact, I think that watching movies alone is the best way to watch good-to-great movies. By that, I mean that I have a lower threshold than most movie connoisseurs (or critics) for what I consider as high quality. Strangely, I have a high threshold for people who I consider as quality, and to be honest, an extremely small number of the people that I know have made the cut.

I am very often overcome with emotions--mostly positive--while watching non-blockbuster movies. For someone who struggles to find anything meaningfully moving in life, these are precious.

Today, I went to the movies with J to watch Ford vs. Ferrari. This was one of the few movies that we end up watching that we both badly wanted to watch. But we couldn't figure logistics out to watch when it initially released. In such cases, I'm the one who regularly checks listings for movies that pique my interest on my IMDB browsings.

Thanks to the locality that I live in, which features within walking distance three of the best movie theaters in Mumbai in terms of the variety and show options, we were able to get ourselves to the lone afternoon show.

I'm not too much into cars and automobiles. So I wasn't too chuffed to have finally managed to get myself to go watch it. Well at least until the movie started. Each time Ken Miles and Carroll Shelby overcame the odds and adversities, I cried. Must have been four or five times.

Source: https://i.redd.it/t3tktn59m2x31.jpg

The last time I cried in a non-movie setting was about 2 years ago when the ambulance with my father's corpse rolled out of my sister's apartment building complex and my sister and mother started wailing. I was strong and I was able to get a handle on my tears in a few seconds.

Side Notes:

1. While I was writing this post, I realized that there is a pattern to these. I started having such momements around the time my first official depression episode. It's almost as if my depression puts a cap on my emotions which is popped open only when I find myself in an immersive state of watching/reading well-enacted/well-written powerful stories with very little "trim-the-fat" requirements.
2. J wonders whether my lack of empathy and inaccessibility to regular emotions is because of antidepressant medications. Unlikely, because I'm on a mood stabilizer that does not seem to have such side effects.
3. I want to move out of fucking Mumbai. To the middle of nowhere. Where there are less people and there is less noise. And I think I'll be at least less unhappy in such a place. The only thing that I'll miss Bombay for is the movie-going luxury--that is if can't find this in where I would move to.
4. The movies that I have had such experiences that I immediately recall are:
1. 12 Years a Slave
2. Article 15
3. A Star is Born
4. A Single Man
5. Babel
6. Bohemian Rhapsody
7. Brokeback Mountain
8. Capote
9. Crash
10. Gully Boy
11. Imitation Game
12. Interstellar
13. La La Land
14. Little Miss Sunshine
15. Midnight in Paris
16. Milk
17. Munich
18. Rocket-man
19. Sideways
20. Silver Linings Playbook
21. The Aviator
22. The Departed
23. The Green Book
24. The Theory of EverythingThree Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
25. Whiplash

The constancy of disappointment

Pretty much everything ends in a disappointment. Happiness is a mirage for those who have figured out a way to set their expectations for everything at manageable levels. For themselves. For those who they surround themselves with. For things you do. For things you are supposed to do well.

No matter what you would like to tell yourself, the things that you end up doing and the things that you are supposed to do well is a mixed bag of things that you did not have much control over. You might be a lawyer or a painter. If you are lucky (read privileged), you might have been able to make this decision yourself without worrying about personal, monetary, and social security. I am sure you would like to think that you had a say in deciding that for yourself.

Sure, a lot of people (including me) had opportunities to make these decisions. But who is to say that these decisions are indeed independent.

What if I tell you that while making the seemingly independent decision to pursue a career, you were influenced by all the things that you have experienced until that decision-making point. And all of that is influenced by the place you grew up in, the people you shared your childhood with you, the stuff you read, the placed where you had your education, and shows you watched on TV, the songs you grew up dancing to, and so on.

For example, maybe if the six-year-old me had not accepted the invitation to play cricket with two grown men who lived in the house behind where I lived, I wouldn't have been a medical doctor or a musician. "How" is an interesting question. The house that I went to play in had kittens and cats and one of two grown men had a great music cassette/CD collection.

• Getting exposed to kittens and cats, handling them, getting used to animals, having pets, liking zoology and botany, studying these, giving the entrance test for medicine, enjoy handling/taking care of human beings.
• Getting exposed to music [being born in a family with musicians, getting lessons in Carnatic music], borrowing CDs of '70s/'80s/'90s music, listening to these on my hi-fi, meeting friends/neighbors who enjoyed similar music, wanting to emulate some of the music by playing drums on tabletops, picking up guitar after my sister forced me to, enjoying learning songs, feeling great about writing songs, recording/producing songs, moving to Mumbai and exploring a career as a musician, playing live music in Mumbai.

So many things had an influence. Now I am several decades past the decision-making stage. I am left with is a pervasive feeling of disappointment. At least, my life is something that I can see through the filter of disappointment.

I'm not disappointed with my decisions themselves. On the contrary, I'm proud of making these decisions. I'm even okay with the difficult decision of having to give up practice for pursuing music and editing. What I'm not okay with is the inability to help the people who seek guidance from me regarding their health problems. I can help them to a certain extent, but I don't have knowledge/skills and tools/resources to help them the way that I want.

For example, J wants a cure for the dozen or so ailments that he seems to have. I can't give him that. My sister wants a cure for the speech/learning disability that my niece has. I can't help her much other than reading up about some details that she shares. Even if I could have an opportunity to spend more time with my niece and may physically be around her to help my sister with whatever she needs to do for my niece, I can't because of my tendencies to need alone time.

On the other hand, with music, despite my feeling happy/proud of the stuff that I have achieved, I'm constantly disappointed with the improvements that I have not been able to make as a musician and the inability to release the tracks after professionally recording/producing them. When I try to write new stuff, I disappoint myself by not being able to come up with even better stuff that I can come up with.

A year or so back, I was absolutely excited about writing/publishing more music. I was also thrilled at the possibility of exploring higher studies abroad and settling somewhere nice. Around that time, I went out for drinks with a couple of friends. It was a farewell thing for one of the two moving abroad. Somewhere in the conversation, I had said that I thought I would be happier and contended if I were to move abroad and find a place where there are not so many things that annoy me like how Bombay does.

My friend had said, "No. You will find things to get annoyed by. You will find things to worry about. You will not be happy." I saw some truth in this at that time. Since then, I have done close to nothing to change my state of affairs.

Now, I am starting to realize that I'll never be happy. Whatever I do, I'll be dissatisfied with myself. Whatever, I get good at, I'll find ways to be more self-critical than I should be.

Situations could change but disappointment is a constant.

What does one do?

What does one do when the phrase "Happy New Year" sounds even more ludicrous than it has ever sounded? What does one do when despite being convinced about the sheer pointlessness of celebrating the turn of the year, one happens to have memories associated with the event that are attributed to the associated holidays, which coincide with vacations, and the relatively pleasant weather in the subtropical Northern Hemisphere at that time? What does one do when these memories are laced with people who once used to make sense to you—or that it made sense for you to inhabit the same space with them at some time in the past—who still want to make more sense with you when you are absolutely convinced that the sense that they made was more nonsense than anything else? What does one do when those people interact with you while being immersed in the sense of well-being that this phenomenon tends to bring about while one is bereft of such feelings? How does one stop being disappointed and stop disappointing others in these communications? What does one do when ever communication that you engage with is so loaded with the feeling how you fake it feels when reacting with a sense of political correctness and social righteousness? What does one do when, after spending the evening doing something that one thinks they ought to be good at, one is convinced that they aren't really good at what they think they are good at? What does one everything they look at or think about is loaded with memories of feeling of ineptitude and lack of self-worth?
I guess one thinks about make one's loved ones sit at a table and ask leave from them for life—to disappear somewhere and start over.