Ideal for: The angry times, the grungy times, the no-good-dirty-feel-bad-times. [PS: Punch you in the mouf.]
Is there anything better than a dirty, blood-spattered basement when you’re feeling under the weather? As it happens, I think there are a lot of things that are better than that thing, and I do not think that many of those better things are improved by adding bloodthirsty week-night warriors into the mix. But I have already broken the first and second rules of fight club, so I am clearly not the market for this product. But if you are in the market for just slammin’ dudes heads on things, punchin’ yourself in the [wherever hurts most], kickin’ loose-lying objects (like cans and such) all up and down the street, and otherwise just getttin’ Saturday-night-crazy every single night of the week, and twice on Tuesdays (because why does Tuesday think it gets to change the way we spell the second best number ever invented?), then this is the movie for you. And all jokes and bloodshed aside, Fight Club does make a pretty strong case for the things we left behind when we joined up for civilization. Fight clubs may not be a good idea, exactly, but that doesn’t mean we get to ignore their appeal.
Ideal for: When you’re out of options.
Mia’s bad days are not as bad as bad days get, but they are close. She has few prospects, few friends, and little talent. She lives in an estate, however, so that sounds promising, until you remember (or are reminded) that estates mean projects when you’re in England. And, sad to say, Mia is very much in England. Her one escape lies in dance. She’s not a great dancer, but when she dances, you can feel the hope quotient rising. That’s about all you need to know about Mia. Oh, except she’s just discovering her sexuality as a teenager in Britain, and Michael Fassbender just started dating her mom. So that seems dangerous.
Growing up means learning how to survive a broken heart, but Mia’s heart seems broken in all the right ways at the end. That is to say, she’s learning how to heal. (And by the way: Here’s to all the not-promising dancers out there. Just because we can’t dance doesn’t mean we shouldn’t!)
Ideal for: People who want a little peace and quiet. (But even better for those who want a lot.)
Before he wrote The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami was a popular Japanese author who wasn’t all that popular outside of Japan—despite the fact that his books were loaded down with references to American pop culture. But after this novel came out, he was an international superstar. This career detail is worth noting because The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle is, if anything, weirder than your average Murakami novel. It’s got psychics, dream-sex, dream-mysteries, wig-factory employees, and cats—important cats. But it’s also got a plot that won’t stop, a main character that everyone can relate to, a series of ever-profounder mysteries, and a deep well of deep wells. Literally.
When the going gets rough, Toru Okada (the protagonist of the novel) heads down into the well in his backyard. And there he finds solace, flashbacks, and a second world—or perhaps just a new perspective on the first. This well is a place of deep metaphorical significance, yes, but it’s also, at one and the same time, a place of progress and a place of peace. Toru goes there to find existential repose, but until he has calmed the spirits around him, there is no peace to be found. Rest assured, however, that if you go to the bottom of Toru’s well, you’ll wind up at the bottom of your own well as . . . well (sorry). That’s a threat, but it’s also a blessing. Enjoy.
Ideal for: Anyone who’s having trouble remembering what it’s like to wonder. (And not ideal for: crocodiles.)
Childhood is not a place for wimps, but once all of us nonwimps have grown up and retired from the playground, then all of a sudden it’s hard to look back upon our formative years without a sense of wonder, pleasure, and joy. Normally we classify (and dismiss) this schizophrenic experience as “nostalgia,” but in Peter Pan, J.M. Barrie manages to distill all of these contrary impulses into their respective parts. The novel begins in an idealized bedroom, where the Darling children (pun intended—as for the Darling dog as well) are being put to bed. This scene is delightful and utterly prosaic. The Darling kids are kids, and kids are charming, but kids are real bastards, too. One minute they love you, the next minute they hate you, and in between they have drawn a picture of you on your favorite shirt and called that picture “Love.” No enemy is more canny than these ingenious babies.
But back to the point. As a child, there is hardly anything more exciting than the departure of your parents. The moment when they leave the house brings on the sense of loss (which is bitter) and yet along with it the taste of freedom, too (which is sweet). And when a magical little pixie creature enables the Darling children to fly away to Neverland, that tension is, if anything, increased. The Darlings are both more isolated and more free. When in Never-land, they want to fight Captain Hook every day and sleep at home every night. But the best parables, like the best metaphors, are the ones that make the most sense on their own terms, before they are applied to normal human life as well. And in its own strange way—despite the ticking crocodiles, and the flying children, and the timeless time—almost nothing makes more sense than Neverland: the place where children never age.
Ideal for: Times when you just need to let go.
So this won’t take too long. Flower is a video game without plot and without character. You control the wind and the wind directs petals across a beautiful, changing landscape. It’s not a game that you win. There’s not really a point. You just play it, and then it’s over. It is cheap and short and it changes your mind. Does that sound vague? Well, this game is an emotion, not a story.
It’s like, you thought you were a human, and prone to irritation when you realized that the empty seat on the bus was empty for a reason, and oh sweet Caroline, that reason was not a sterile reason at all, and oh holy smokes, what should you do now? But then, after you got home and showered thrice, you turned on Flower . . . and then you were the wind, and then your soup-stocky rug didn’t smell quite so bad anymore, because you were floating above it all, and your destination was the end of nowhere, and your speed was: slowly.
Ideal for: When reality seems too limiting.
It’s kind of weird how humans live every second of their lives in 3-D, but then when a movie comes out in 3-D, it makes us lose our three-dimensional minds. Avatar is a film of many virtues (mainly technological) and many flaws (mainly dialogical), but whatever its defects may be (the way its aliens are American Indians, for instance), it does at least remind us of how truly miraculous it is to see three-dimensional objects on a two-dimensional screen. Especially when James Cameron has specially designed the 3-D cameras so that they are even more 3-D than usual. Because he can do that. Because he is the king of the world.
The plot of Avatar doesn’t matter so much, but as you may have guessed there’s conflict and a native species and evil humans and you’ve heard it all before. But before the proverbial fecal matter hits the proverbial whirly-blades (I’m not so good at proverbs, I guess), the main character—who only regains the use of his legs through the use of his Na’vi avatar—also gets to spend some quality time with the forest where the Na’vi make their home. And man, if that is not dorky; and man, if that is not great. 3-D fairy dust! Monster creature battles! Tree limb acrobatics! Gimme all of us!
Ideal for: Anyone who’s forgotten what it’s like to break the rules and for anyone who still wants to remember.
Claudia Kincaid is an eleven-year-old girl who wants to run away from home but doesn’t want to be uncomfortable. Nowadays, a Greenwich, Connecticut, preteen would have little trouble pocketing a cell phone, a credit card, and a Metro North ticket, and finding at least a few hours of indulgence at an upper east side hotel before it all came crumbling down. But in the 1960s, things were not that simple, and things did not crumble as fast as they do now. Lacking convenient or easy answers, Claudia opts for a crazy answer and takes her brother with her to the Met. (. . . roplitan Museum of Art, that is). This is a crazy idea because museums are a terrible place to sleep, live, and bathe; but eleven-year-olds are idiots, so how was she to know any better? Her idiocy, however, enables her to have the time of her life hiding from staff, getting to know her kid brother, and solving art mysteries. And that is clearly the ultimate preteen, high-society tri-fecta. We could all use some more of that. And if you want to spend the night in a museum but don’t want to be arrested for trespassing (or don’t have the patience or the initiative to time-travel back to ancient Egypt, rise to power, and get yourself expertly mummified), then it’s best to do your sneaking and your scamming while you’re still a minor.
Ideal for: A moment of solace in a turbulent world.
The girls in Girls are not struggling to survive, but that doesn’t mean they’re not struggling. After all, if young adult life can be described as a tightrope walk over a murky pool of failure, disappointment, and embarrassment (and since I just described it in those terms, it seems that it can, in fact, be so described), then having a crutch—whether financial, emotional, or cultural—only adds a new level of difficulty to your travels. The girls in Girls begin the series with crutches aplenty, but as the traumas pile up, the crutches are tossed aside, and even though they do each plummet to Earth on occasion, there’s always a nice bathroom waiting for them when they do. The bathroom is a place for basic needs. It levels the playing field. And if you’re trying to stabilize a relationship or find an even keel, it’s a good place to start. So get in that tub, and start healing.
Ideal for: Anyone who ever dreamed of a better future.
New York City is a city in America, but it’s also an escape, a metaphor, and a dream. To some people New York means Broadway, to others it means Harlem, and to others Wall Street, but the beauty of the city lies in the fact that when you say “New York” everyone gets to imagine—as everyone gets to live—their own version of that place. “Empire State of Mind” takes the impossible contradictions of New York and makes them make sense. It combines the infectious optimism of Alicia Keys’ chorus with the highs and lows of Jay-Z’s own experience, and it’s all 100 percent hip-hop and pure pop gold. If you want to be there, then this song’s for you; if you haven’t made it yet, then this song’s for you; and if don’t think you ever really want to visit, then this may change your mind. “The city of New York . . . !”
Ideal for: People who yearn to find their place. (AKA humanity at large.)
There’s no place like home. It’s where the proverbial heart is, and it’s definitely the location where chickens come to roost (as you would know if you’ve ever roosted chickens). It’s the base we want to land on and the slice we want to know. We can’t wait to leave it when we’re young and we cant wait to get back to it when we’re old. It is, in other words, a pretty weird and very metaphorical place. When, as a young man, Odysseus left Ithaca, his home, he also left his wife (Penelope), his young son (Telemachus), and peace. Then the Trojan War happened, and Achilles hogged all the attention in The Iliad, but Odysseus must have known his time was coming soon. The story of his voyage back to Ithaca is also the story of his trip back to himself. It is not an easy trip. It takes ten years, involves much sacrifice, and only haltingly proceeds to its resolution in peace, harmony, and reconciliation.
The Odyssey has been adapted innumerable times since it was first pronounced in Greek, but any summary of its influence would be insufficient. Every road movie is The Odyssey; every coming-of-age tale is The Odyssey; and every adventure story is also The Odyssey. And if you want to make a movie in Hollywood, you have to either start where The Odyssey starts (with a poignant separation) or end where The Odyssey ends (with a profound reconciliation). This is the journey we all take, but sadly we each have to find our own way home. Whatever that means.