“I know.” Two words, famously ad-libbed by Harrison Ford after many repeated takes of the scripted “I love you too” line. Two words that evoke love far more powerfully than any hallmarkian sentiment in this or any other galaxy. In all of cinema, in all its rich and romantic history, “I know” is certainly the most romantic ad-lib. And in my estimation, “I know” is high among the most romantic lines, full stop.

It is in one of the darkest moments of The Empire Strikes Back, in all of the Star Wars franchise really, when Han Solo replies with those two little words to Leia’s tearful and frighted admission of “I love you.” And in that moment we witness a breaking of character. Not merely the breaking of the fourth wall by Ford with his ad-lib, but the abandonment of a mask behind which Solo had been hiding for so long.

At first blush, it might sound in-character for Solo. Another in a long line of the snappy repartee that had characterized his and Leia’s relationship. But it was more than that. His was a naked and vulnerable return of her statement of love.

Up to that point their relationship had been adversarial, full of romantic friction. Solo had been pressing his suit with Leia, but in a ‘scruffy’ sort of way, the way a scoundrel would. From Leia’s perspective, Solo’s pursuit had seemed not motivated by love, but perhaps by a mere desire for conquest.

Leia had been rebuffing his passes, uninterested in a shallow relationship. But all the while she obviously has feelings for Solo (see the scene on the Falcon in the worm/cave when they kiss for the first time).

I'm "nice men".

But when the shit hits the fan big-time in Cloud City, when there’s no more time for messing around with unimportant matters, Leia abandons all pretexts. It’s likely to be her last time ever seeing Han, and she’s filled with sadness and regret. She needs to tell him that she does truly love him.

Solo, whose cad-like behaviour was as much a pretext to cover his own true love as Leia’s protests had been, who had been enjoying the ‘game’ of fencing back and forth with Leia, and who is about to be lowered to his almost certain death (whether from the carbonite or from what awaits him on the other side of the hibernation), looks back at Leia after her expression of love, and says, “I know.”

Two little words. And in that moment, he’s not just acknowledging that Leia loves him, but that he has known for some time. He’s acknowledging that he has been in love with her too, and that the game they’ve been playing isn’t necessary any longer.

Solo isn’t being cool as he’s about to meet his fate. Instead he is abandoning those childishly status-consious defense mechanisms, the ‘protections’ that he has always wrapped himself with. Those same ‘protections’ that have prevented him from ever truly connecting with another person on a deep level. In his most desperate hour, Solo at once makes himself completely vulnerable by surrendering himself to love, and also draws upon the immeasurable strength of love in order to face his fate.

Such is the magic of love, it can provide strength beyond imagining, but only to those who open themselves wholly to the vulnerability of unrequited love and to the unbearable pain of true love lost.    

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If you haven’t ever seen It’s a Wonderful Life, or even if you have seen it, but don’t remember it well, do yourself a favour and go watch it. It is one of those somewhat rare classic films which still holds up amazingly well today. More than that, it isn’t at all the sappy, corny movie that most people assume it is or mis-remember it as.

Whether they’ve seen it or not, most know it for Jimmy Stewart as George Bailey running through Bedford Falls, yelling “Merry Christmas!”; and of course for the sacharine-sweet Zuzu proclaiming “Teacher says, every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings!”; all culminating with the tearful reprise of Auld Lang Syne. Those are the images that everybody –everybody who doesn’t remember the film well– recalls immediately upon hearing its name. And I’d agree, if those scenes were indicative of the overall tone of the movie, it would indeed be a sappy mess, hardly worth watching, save for when you desperately need a simple and sweet bit of holiday fluff.

But that is not the feel of the movie! Far from the cinematic snow-globe that most mis-categorize it as, It’s a Wonderful Life is surprisingly dark, very witty, and truly entertaining. The film is thoroughly rewarding even to more refined modern-day audiences. And while it has been elevated to Christmas canon, very little of it actually occurs around Christmastime, and it certainly isn’t your standard holiday fare.

The reason for the dissonance between the perception and the reality of the film is obvious; for decades television network and advertising executives have slavishly adhered to the Law of Classic Films, the law mandating that all, and only, the most clichéd moments of classic films must be repeated, ad nauseum, in every advertisement or reference to said films.

What makes It’s a Wonderful Life such a surprise to the first-time viewer is that, while its runtime is a hearty 130 minutes, all of those oft-remembered, oft-rehashed, and awfully sweet moments occur in the final 7 minutes of the film. While the final few minutes are indeed a super-concentrated distillation of the essence of Christmas, they serve as a well-balanced counterpoint, a satisfying glaze, too sweet on its own, but just perfect as the topper to the body of the film. These clichéd, over-sweet moments work so beautifully well, because the first two hours of the film are a long, dark study in the psychological torture of George Bailey.

Hitting Close to Home

This poor, good, but not too good man constantly has his dreams dashed, all his hopes and aspirations for life repeatedly and thoroughly yanked from his reach, cruelly withdrawn just as he is about to grab for one tiny modicum of happiness, as if the world were out not just to get him, but to toy with him, to manipulate him, to drive him towards his getting himself in a cold, lonely act of miserable suicide. It’s a Wonderful Life is a hard cruel film, especially so for those who have, or have had, their own unrealized dreams.

And it is powerful because the viewer shares George’s dreams, hopes for him to leave Bedford Falls, to see the world, to build bridges, raise skyscrapers, and do the other things. We want this for George, not because those are wonderous and fanciful dreams, but because the stifling mundanity of George’s life parallels dramatically the choices and sacrifices most of us are obligated to make ourselves. We root for George to blow out of Bedford Falls, because his is a story that embodies the ‘What if?’, the secret, somewhat disappointed question in the back of our minds, that hidden promise of the paths not taken, the wistful regret which most of us share and with which all of us can sympathize.

So when the rug is inevitably and repeatedly yanked from beneath George’s feet, we feel its affect resonate with our own unrealized aspirations. And yet this is skillfully done; we share frustration with George’s plight, but not the cheated frustration of lazily contrived deceit, not the sort of feeling evoked when we watch Lucy yank the football out from Charlie Brown’s feet. These inevitable and endless reversals don’t share that same artifice that makes the viewer angry at the entire contrivance.

Instead, George is presented with the very real, very mundane difficulties we encounter in our own lives. And while we secretly wish that George might turn his back on his responsibilities and his family, might finally flee for his long longed-for life, ultimately George makes the decisions that we ourselves would very likely make, indeed the decisions that we ourselves very likely have made, when standing in his shoes.

"But George, they'll vote with Potter otherwise!"

George’s struggle is inherently more identifiable, more visceral to the viewer, not because the slings and arrows he suffers are of epic, earth-shaking proportion, but because they are the thousand cuts of everyday living, the constant postponement of a better life, not some unattainable fantasy, but a cloyingly close existence, a promise just out of reach, just visible on the horizon, ever receding, a tantalizing mirage that fuels thirst more sharply than would a hopelessly barren landscape.

And just when George finally submits to his destiny, when he packs away his exotic and adventurous aspirations, when he replaces them with the solidly practical dreams of a solidly practical family existence, his resignation of hope perhaps most depressing of all, when George finally appears happy with his life, at last the stage is set for one final and terrible blow. As if unsatisfied with merely crushing his dreams, at the very moment George abandons his aspirations and settles for the life he has, the cruel world takes it all away.

Despite the more momentous reversal, the viewer can still share in George’s plight. More keenly felt than the destruction of our own lives, we all know and fear the uniquely biological terror-shame of bringing ruination to one’s family and children. Little wonder that George descends into panicked madness. And when he does, we are along for the ride.

What follows is a topsy-turvy depiction of a world without George Bailey, a world of almost-familliar scenes filled with Dickensian shadows pantomiming all the base fears of the ego: friends having forgotten you, siblings dead, mother not recognizing you, your home uninhabited, children gone, and your poor wife become a spinster. Save perhaps for that last one, each of these fears resonates with us today; and all build to an intolerable torture for George Bailey, a hellish reality against which prison, poverty, and privation are preferred.

The Light at the End

It is against this backdrop of misery that the final seven minutes of the film are portrayed. After two hours of watching George take his lumps both figuratively and literally, and long after you’ve begun to wonder how on earth this film could ever be considered a Christmas movie, the unending emotional spiral finally sweeps heavenward. And it is a welcome change at that. No longer do those oft-remembered scenes taste of unbearable treacle. Instead, George’s shouts of merriment through Bedford Falls now bring joy to our hearts; Zuzu’s pronouncement of angel advancement garners nods of ascent; and the heartwarming rendition of Auld Lang Syne, now seeming more spontaneous than staged, perhaps even brings to our eyes the same heavy, happy tears seen in George’s own.

The film depicts a surprisingly grim tale, but it is not without its warmth and humour too. While ultimately descending to frighteningly dark depths before the final redemption, much of the film is filled with wonderfully enjoyable scenes, funny and touching moments that feel unexpectedly real, identifiable, scenes remembered far more fondly than the classic clichés most commonly recalled. The first act is filled with such scenes of surprisingly sharp dialog and effectively genuine moments between characters.

"This is a very interesting situation!"

Many of my favourite parts are these light-hearted and genuine glimpses into the richly textured community of Bedford Falls and into the unexpectedly wry mind of George Bailey. The school dance is delightful, as is George and Mary’s walk home in its aftermath, the latter starting sweet but turing just a touch naughty. Our preconceptions of George are turned on their head when we see the arch look in his eyes, the realization dawning that a fella could have some fun with a naked girl hiding in a hydrangea bush, his playful teasing of Mary revealing a mischievous side of George Bailey that is both unexpected and fun.

So much more than a Christmas movie, It’s a Wonderful Life is a parable about hope and sacrifice and about the value of life. It is a fun film, a touching film, and, for one which features an angel (2nd-class), a surprisingly real film. It is a quality tale filled with thoroughly enjoyable moments, delightfully quirky scenes that stick with you long after the final echoes of Auld Lang Syne fade away.

It’s a Wonderful Life is a film which absolutely deserves a first-time viewing and thoroughly rewards revisitation. And why not at Christmas?    

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First kiss, first bike, first time you swore in front of an adult, firsts are important. The firsts we experience tend to shape our paths through life. That’s not to say that our lives are governed completely by the chance experiences over which we have no control, but if, for example, your first experience with a dog is getting mauled, your path through life will be somewhat different from other puppy-loving children.

"Just let him smell you a bit."

Thankfully, not all memorable firsts are traumatic. We all have our keepsake memories that transport us back to our salad days. These warmly remembered moments together define our youth and ultimately have shaped our future selves. One of my earliest formative moments was the first movie I ever watched in the theatre. That experience kindled in me a passion for movies. It’s probably the first and oldest of the passions I still hold today.

I love movies. My tastes are sophisticated and discerning, yet at the same time incredibly eclectic. I can appreciate a filet mignon of film as much as I can appreciate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich of a movie. Neither is necessarily better, neither could suffice when in the mood for the other. Both can be done quite well, both can be done very poorly. The experience of watching a movie can transcend the movie itself. Without any contradiction, I can enjoy watching a movie that I don’t enjoy.

My love of movies started in the Summer of 1986. My mother had remarried the year previous and, while with no step-siblings, I suddenly had a whole new family. One of my new relations was Uncle Steve, or as he offered “Uncle Example”. Uncle Example who, in his mid-twenties, had just as suddenly found himself the occasional custodian of two hellion boys of the ages 9 (my brother) and 7 (me). Uncle Example, with whom “the only rule is that there are no rules”, took us to the first movie I watched in the theatre: Aliens.

In the years since, I’ve often reflected on what conventional wisdom would say about taking my nine year old brother and me, who was actually a week or two shy of my seventh birthday, to see that movie. To add a little perspective to that, Carrie Henn, the actress whose sole Hollywood credit is playing Newt in Aliens, was three years older during filming than I was when I watched the movie.

Newt the Elder

It is likely that most responsible adults would have denied us the opportunity to see the movie, but rules are rules, and Uncle Example was a stickler for the rules. I have vague memories of his unheeded warnings that we were going to be scared to death and have terrible nightmares, but I also recall that the ultimate choice was up to us.

In defense of Uncle Example, one has to remember the specifics of the situation and the climate of the day. A guy in his mid-twenties tasked with looking after two rather quarrelsome and sometimes feral young boys. Also, society’s overall philosophy of raising children 25 years ago was quite different from today’s hyper-protectivity. Incidentally, Uncle Example is now the responsibly conscientious and suitably paranoid modern father of two beautiful young girls. Sure, Aliens can be violent at times, perhaps a bit graphic, and potentially frightening to young children, but hardly is it ‘scarred for life’ material.

Queen takes Bishop.

On the contrary. I loved it. I was terrified, I had nightmares, but it remains to date one of the most visceral experiences I’ve ever had. Not much of the movie registered in my terrified, sugar-cola-caffienated, going-on-seven-year-old mind, but I do remember a couple parts extremely vividly.

First of course is Bishop’s knife trick. Throughout the next half-dozen years of schooling, ball-point simulations of the knife trick would garner instant respect from classmates.

"Hey, not me man!"

In the days before the internet, before even Blockbuster Video, having seen an R-Rated movie was significant Kickball Currency to a pre-teen. Sharing a reference to a Restricted movie would immediately highlight the mini-clique separating Those in the Know from everybody else. Such eliteness is one of the important scoring mechanisms in the dominance games which constitute the majority of schoolyard sociology.

My most powerful memory from the movie is of course the showdown between Ripley and the alien queen. I had spent a large part of the movie with my eyes mostly shuttered and my heart galloping. Finally, after Ripley saves Newt and our heroes return to the safety of the Sulaco, I could breathe again, and I had begun to relax.

I remember the jolting shock and feeling of pure horror at seeing Bishop, friendly, unswervingly loyal Bishop, suddenly eviscerated, rent in two by the stowaway queen. Free from the cynicism that comes from watching thousands of movies, I was naïve to the notion that there would be one last zinger at the end of the movie and as a result was taken completely by surprise.

After seeing half of Bishop cast aside in a pile of his own synthetic offal, sputtering milky android blood simulant out of mouth and nose and corrugated tubing, after watching Ripley chased off, and as I witnessed Newt’s futile attempts to hide from the queen, I could not see how a happy ending was even possible. When all was fear and darkness, I watched the return of Ripley.

"Get away from her, you bitch!"

A roar of cheer exploded from the audience. I leapt whooping from the edge of my cushion, my arms thrashed the air frantically, sharing instinctively in the primate celebration of the theatre mob. I could feel the deafening exuberance sweep away the darkness. Ripley was going to kick ass. Ripley was going to save the day.

No moment in film has since matched that single instant, lost in absolute escapism, for raw emotional power. I’ve read that heroin addicts are doomed to forever hunger for the impossible high of their first experience. I feel fortunate that my enjoyment of movies is not frustrated by the impossible high of my first experience. There’s no doubt though that a similar effect is at least somewhat responsible for my enduring love of film. Such a powerful experience at such an impressionable age must have left indelible marks on my psyche. Perhaps it is little wonder that I have harboured a crush on Sigourney Weaver for as long as I can remember.    

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