Generally regarded as the very first summer blockbuster, Steven Spielberg's Jaws enticed audiences with state-of-the art special effects and a signature blend of suspense, humor, thrills, action, and adventure when it hit theaters in June of 1975. Often imitated but rarely duplicated, Jaws set the standard for what would become the formula for aptly nicknamed popcorn flicks. Not surprising, then, that it would take Spielberg to outdo himself and perfect his own recipe with 1993's movie of the summer, Jurassic Park.
When I saw Jurassic Park for the first time in theaters during the summer of 1993, it blew me away. Like most kids, I always found dinosaurs and their disappearance fascinating. The fact that real-live monsters once roamed the earth expanded the boundaries of my imagination. Jurassic Park took that imagination and ran with it. While I enjoyed the ride with Doctors Grant, Sattler, and Malcom as they struggled to make it out of John Hammond's theme park alive, it was the dinosaurs I could not get enough of. The t-rex, velociraptors, gallimimuses, triceratops, brontosauruses, and dilophosaurus seemed so real. Sure, other movies and television shows featured dinosaurs before, but none of them succeeded quite like Jurassic Park, thanks to Spielberg and his team who spared no expense. I obsessively loved the movie so much that I saw it in the theater a record-at-the-time seven times. Yes, you read that right--seven times. I even dreamed of owning a Jurassic Park-themed Ford Explorer as seen in the film. Beyond compelling me see the it seven times in the multiplex, Jurassic Park helped intensify my overall love for movies as well as books, in its own way. When Spielberg's dino-romp left theaters later that summer, I felt an unexpected sense of loss. I badly needed to revisit Jurassic Park, so I picked up a copy of Michael Crichton's original novel and tore through it. Twice. Reading the book only made me love the movie all the more, if that was even possible. The sequels had the some effect. Though I anxiously anticipated each one, they never lived up to the originality, entertainment value, and sheer perfection of the original, and to this day, a desire to watch Jurassic Park resurfaces at least once every summer. Slightly tangential observation: Like 1990 (and 1998 to a lesser degree), 1993 represents another one of those magic years because of the numerous CDs, songs, and movies from that year that stick out as favorites, Jurassic Park included.
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Somewhere between The Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones rests Robert Jordan's epic high fantasy series, The Wheel of Time. Spanning fourteen volumes and one prequel, the books total more than 10,000 pages and follow the adventures of four friends who leave behind their remote village after strangers from afar and unforeseen events upend their lives. As they travel further from home, they discover foreign lands, ancient legends, hidden powers, and new peoples, which in turn force each to wrestle with their own fate and responsibilities in the looming final battle between good and evil.
When whittled down to such a basic description, The Wheel of Time sounds pretty much like every other fantasy series ever written. And, in many ways, I'm sure it is. I often compare the books to J. R. R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and imagine George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series echoes many of the familiar genre tropes featured in Jordan's saga. Similarities can even be found in J. K. Rowling's Harry Potter books. Where The Wheel of Time differs for me, however, is in its arrant and unmatched combination of a richly detailed and expansive universe, clear and distinct in-world lore, deeply captivating and approachable narrative style, and large yet manageable cast of characters representing almost every imaginable permutation along the spectrum of human morality. Sure, those other series I mentioned above exhibit those qualities, too, but just not to the same degree. While addictive as HBO's Game of Thrones, A Song of Ice and Fire has thus far failed to capture my attention. Though clearly an inspiration for The Wheel of Time, I find everything about The Lord of the Rings bettered by Peter Jackson's movie-trilogy masterpiece. Rowling's Harry Potter may actually be the most similar in my estimation, yet seems quite juvenile in comparison at times. Actually, come to think of it, if not for Rowling's Harry Potter saga, I may never have stumbled upon Robert Jordan's first Wheel of Time volume, The Eye of the World, in the first place. Not long after devouring the first four Potter books in a single week, I developed a new hunger for fantasy novels and needed something to fill the time between the release of Rowling's books four and five. It was at work one fateful day that I noticed a colleague reading a paperback adorned with the typical artwork featured on many a fantasy cover. Intrigued, I inquired about the book, and upon my coworker's recommendation, I slipped next door to the Barnes & Noble on my break and purchased The Eye of the World. Soon thereafter I was hooked, the only downside being I had found another incomplete series. Luckily for me, Robert Jordan had already written and published the bulk of his series by that time, and with each one ranging in size from roughly 650 to 1,000 pages, plenty of chapters stood between me and the end of what books were available. I thought for sure I'd still be working through them as Jordan finished writing the remaining planned novels. Unluckily for me, though, once engrossed in the epic series, I read through them quicker than I expected, eventually catching up with the series at book nine, Winter's Heart. I found myself in a predicament with The Wheel of Time not unlike the one I had with Harry Potter. Waiting. When Tor Books published book ten, Crossroads of Twilight, I decided I could wait a little longer for the new novel to also be available in paperback. Each time I walked past the new release shelf at Barnes & Noble or Target and spotted the hardcover, though, my resilience to wait wore down. Until, one day, I gave into temptation and bought the book. I longed to return to the world of The Wheel of Time and uncover what Jordan had in store for my favorite characters. The process continued with the release of book eleven, Knife of Dreams. Sadly, Robert Jordan passed away while writing what was slated to be the twelfth and final novel in the series. Before he died and knowing he was unwell, he met with fellow fantasy scribe and Wheel of Time fan, Brandon Sanderson, and tasked him with finishing book twelve. Soon thereafter Sanderson announced that Jordan left him with too much material for one book. He estimated three more were needed to complete the story as imagined by Jordan, bringing the total number of books to fourteen epic and unbridled tomes. The final contribution, A Memory of Light, arrived in January of 2013, practically 23 years after The Eye of the World kicked things off in 1990. (There's that magic year again.) And along with the Harry Potter books, The Wheel of Time further deepened my love for reading and its genre in general, even inspiring me to start the process of writing my own series of fantasy novels. Who knows where that will lead? Along my Wheel of Time journey, I met a few other fans of the series here and there, most recently including Bryce's brother, Peter. Our first summer together, Bryce and I made a trip to his mom's house in New Jersey, where I met the rest of his family for the first time. As any new significant other being introduced to the family, I was nervous about finding things in common to talk about. When Peter and his wife Susan invited us to dinner, somehow The Wheel of Time came up in conversation, and that was our in. Peter and I found something to bond over, particularly without anyone else around who understood the depth and intensity of Jordan's world. Following that trip, Peter graciously had each subsequent Wheel of Time release shipped to me, and I plunged into books thirteen and fourteen with renewed fervor...if not out of sheer anticipation, then out of a desire to be ready to discuss them the next time we would see Peter. There really is something special that happens when people connect over a book (or series of books in this case), and I will take that feeling with me forever. I still recommend Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series to friends and acquaintances searching for something new and immersive to read and am happy to lend anyone my copies of the books. I also remember thinking that the anthology would make excellent fodder for Hollywood, especially following the critical and commercial success of The Lord of the Rings trilogy. In recent and cautiously optimistic Wheel of Time news, the wife of the late author announced in April of 2016 that a major studio had obtained the rights to turn the books into a television series, obviously owing such a development to the critical and commercial success of HBO's Game of Thrones. Either way, the prospect of bringing The Wheel of Time to life through another medium positively excites me. Since Nat King Cole's classic holiday standard, "The Christmas Song," ended up at #25 on my Hot 101 countdown, pairing it with the classic holiday film, Home Alone, seemed only fitting. Interesting aside regarding the year of the movie's release, 1990. Several other notable reflections focus on pieces specifically tied to the very same year, namely "Escapade," Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814, "Freedom! '90," Northern Exposure, "Nothing Compares 2 U," World Clique, and "Groove Is in the Heart." That this smattering of posts only covers the first fifteen days of my Countdown to 40, it stands to reason that a few additional 1990 relics may appear before the big day on March 12. The popularity of the year and its apparent influence on my taste in movies, television, and music also helps to explain my fondness for the entire decade, though I suspect my love for the 1990s relates more to my emotional and psychological stages of development than a sudden awareness of the pop-culture world around me. Enough pontificating on 1990, at least for now.
Much like my adoration for Janet Jackson, my love for Christmas and winter comes as no surprise to anyone. I proudly wear my Christmas-is-my-favorite-holiday badge twelve months a year. Drop by my office or jump in my car any day between August 1 and January 31, and you are likely to hear a few carols, both sacred and secular, emanating from the speakers, despite Bryce's (and the general population's) liturgically-based and fully justified disapproval. If it's November or December, you will only hear Christmas music in those two locations. Beyond that, you can catch me humming "Let It Snow" or "The Christmas Waltz" on any given day of the year. I giddily welcome snow between the months of November and April, using any measurable amount as an excuse to play my Pandora Classic Christmas radio station or sneak in a holiday-themed episode of one of my favorite television shows. Heck, I even remember when one of my best friends, Debbie, and I celebrated Christmas in July once during high school, complete with decorations, cutout cookies, festive music, and holiday movies. Clearly, my love for the December holiday borders on obsession, and I'm perfectly okay with that. Where did my obsession come from? For me, Christmas conjures up so many magical and wonderful memories that stretch back in time as far as I remember. To be clear, it does not at all revolve around gifts. Sure, when I was younger, presents elicited quite a bit of excitement and giving gifts has brought me a lot of pleasure as an adult. But my passion for Christmas completely comes from the feelings and nostalgia the holiday season recalls, like the crisp, cold Minnesota air and the twinkling night sky greeting me and my family as we left Grandma and Grandpa's house on Christmas Eve. The warmth of a crackling blaze in the fireplace. The peace, hope, and light promised by the message delivered at late-night church services. The meals and parties bringing together friends and family, some not seen in far too long. And the love, the love that abounds in every single memory. And what does Home Alone have to do with all of that? For one thing, the movie evokes many of the same feelings that make Christmas so special to me, particularly when Kevin wakes up on Christmas morning to a blanket of fresh snow and his family returning from a very short trip to Paris. For another, Home Alone arrived at precisely the right time in my life to leave an indelible mark. I had reached the age when my parents allowed me to see a movie with my friends and without requiring an adult chaperone, something I remember longing for. I was always in a hurry to grow up, connecting more with adults than the kids around me. I felt stymied by my age and therefore well beyond my years, ready for any experience or responsibility that made me more like an adult. When given the opportunity to see Home Alone without adult supervision, I did not hesitate for a minute to seize it. I proudly felt I had turned some major corner in the aging process. Today, I think back on my desire to grow up as quickly as possible and shake my head. What was I thinking? While I don't wish to go through adolescence and high school again, I long for the innocence, unbridled imagination, and wonder that accompanies childhood. In an attempt to hold on to as much of that as I can, I tend to identify myself as "still a kid" in many situations, whether it be through a video game, a book, a game of make-believe with nieces and nephews, or a movie. So, in addition to conveying the feelings of Christmas and symbolizing a stepping stone in my aging process, Home Alone also transports me right back to 1990, when I stood on the precipice straddling the awkward and confusing transition from child to adult. Plus, I've seen the movie so many times, I can pretty much quote it word-for-word.
The song "Escapade" basically introduced me to Janet Jackson in the spring of 1990, and if you want a specific sign to identify the start of my enthusiasm for the youngest of the famous Jackson clan, look no further. If you need more solid evidence to explain my infatuation, however, I completely understand your hunger for something a bit more meaty and substantial. Because, let's face it, no matter how powerful and symbolic, a single cannot justify a life-long, pop-culture love affair. With over 25 years and counting, there has to be more than a simple song to warrant my unending support of Janet. So, ladies and gentlemen of the non-existent jury, I present to you Exhibit B, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814.
I could ramble on about the album's numerous accolades and achievements, like how it became the biggest-selling album of 1990. Or how it has sold more than twelve million copies worldwide since then. Or how it earned Jackson the distinction of being the first woman ever nominated for a Producer of the Year Grammy. Or how it remains the only album ever to have seven commercial singles reach the top five on Billboard's Hot 100 chart. Or how it produced three number one hits over the span of three consecutive years, 1989-1991, and endures as the only album to have accomplished that. Or how the Rhythm Nation World Tour 1990 became the most successful debut concert by a recording artist. I could ramble on about all those things, but I won't. Instead, I'll tell you how the album was the second CD I ever purchased (after World Clique), but the first cassette tape I replaced after getting my first CD player. And how "Escapade" lured me to the album, but the title track, "Miss You Much," "Alright," "Black Cat," and "Love Will Never Do (Without You)" quickly established Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 as one of my early all-time favorites. And how "Rhythm Nation," "State of the World," "The Knowledge," and "Livin' in a World (They Didn't Make)" helped open my eyes to the social injustices faced by many people, particularly children, around the world. And how, at the age of thirteen, it therefore taught me the meaning of privilege, white and otherwise. And how I subsequently used lyrics from two different interludes to start off a paper written in my 11th grade social studies class, the first being: "We are in a race between education and catastrophe." The second stating: "In complete darkness, we are all the same. It is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us. Don't let your eyes deceive you." And how these songs and interludes prove every bit as true and important today as they did when Jackson released the album in 1989. And how I whole-heartedly believed the album's opening words, "We are a nation with no geographic boundaries, bound together by our beliefs. We are like-minded individuals, pushing toward a world rid of color lines." And how I still believe those lines today and with every fiber of my being, perhaps more than ever before. So, if The Velvet Rope helped me to better see myself, Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation 1814 helped me to better see the world. Being that today is Valentine's Day, I wanted my Countdown to 40 post to focus on what I love most in life, my husband, family, and friends. Based on the title and image above, you thought I was going to say Ina Garten or Barefoot Contessa, didn't you? Not quite, but she, her television show on the Food Network, and her cookbooks symbolize that love on many levels.
One of my favorite ways to connect with those I love most is through cooking and sharing food, my fondness for which started young. I enjoyed watching my mom and dad cook for our family and helped whenever I could (and they would let me). With great happiness, I remember my family gathering around the table almost every evening to share at least one meal. My brother, sister, and I may have spent the afternoon playing nicely, arguing, picking fights, avoiding each other, or forming and changing alliances faster than the cast of Big Brother, but we always came together for supper. Even when I was a teenager and generally couldn’t be bothered to do much else with them, I still counted on seeing the family at dinner time. Food nourished our bodies, minds, and souls while also building that sense of community that only sharing a meal can provide. When I left for college right after high school, my world turned upside down (in a good way). Gone were the comforts of home and the safety of having family in close proximity for protection and support. I was therefore forced to truly become my own person for the first time in my life. As scary as that may seem, though, everyone else starting college with me was in the exact same situation. We reached out for those who shared a semblance of similarity in interests, personality, and location – often times over a meal. Before long, I had established a new family consisting of wonderful people, most of whom remain my close friends today. Like at home with my traditional family, mealtime served to strengthen the bonds of our burgeoning collegiate family. I would often call up one or more of my new friends with the sole purpose of getting together for lunch or dinner, furthering my love for food and all the joy it can bring. In the years since graduating from college, I have become much more culinarily curious as my palette has evolved and my network of family and friends grows. Trying new foods, cuisines, and restaurants provides not only great sensory experiences but also a wealth of inspiration. Additionally, I continue finding ever more joy from cooking something that brings together friends and family. Perhaps the largest source of inspiration for my culinary adventures, though, stems from my fondness for the Food Network and its celebrity chefs. For more than a decade I've tuned into the basic cable station for comfort, entertainment, and fresh ideas. In particular, I grew to enjoy cooking shows hosted by Alton Brown, Giada De Laurentiis, Bobby Flay, Anne Burrell, Alex Guarnaschelli, Ree Drummond, Trisha Yearwood, and, for a time, Paula Deen. My favorite, however, always was and remains Ina Garten and her show, Barefoot Contessa. When I met Bryce in the fall of 2009, my affinity for the Food Network and Barefoot Contessa was already well established. Like most new couples, we spent many an hour over the course of our first few dates talking about all of our passions and interests. We quickly discovered our mutual adoration for great food and drinks, new restaurant experiences, the Food Network, and Ina Garten, of course. She clearly surrounded herself with a host of fabulous gay men, and we both talked about our dream of joining her inner circle. Additionally, her call for the use of "really good" ingredients, like vanilla and olive oil, struck us both as evidence of her wealthy East Hampton lifestyle, one we both admired and envied. And her complete and utter love for her husband, Jeffrey, inspired us. As our relationship deepened, our idolization of Ina Garten continued. We recorded each new episode of her show, being sure to watch it together. When she popped up as a guest on the early seasons of The Next Food Network Star, we made sure to tune in. We also took turns presenting one another with each new Barefoot Contessa cookbook, highlighting new recipes we wanted to try and annotating the inside cover with little love notes equating our love with the love shared between Ina and Jeffrey. So, for me, the Barefoot Contessa symbolizes much more than my love of food and cooking. She, her show, and her cookbooks symbolize the life Bryce and I have built together as well as our mutual love for one another, from the earliest days of our relationship up until now. To imitate Ina's practice of asking rhetorical questions, how great is that? Most of the items on my Countdown to 40 blog symbolize key transitional points in my life. Entertainment Weekly reconnected me to the suburban life I felt I had lost. Jagged Little Pill served as the soundtrack to freshman year of college for my friends and I. A major period of self reflection and realization began when I heard The Velvet Rope for the first time (and several times thereafter). Shel Silverstein's Where the Sidewalk Ends inspired my appreciation for the written word. A few other items simply represent a few of my favorite things (see Pushing Daisies, Super Mario Bros, and Game of Thrones). Somewhere between the the importance of the first set of examples and my pure affinity for the latter set lies World Clique.
Deee-Lite's 1990 album of dance-pop music boasts the distinction of being my very first CD purchase and therefore marks the beginning of an era of conspicuous consumption. (It was the 90s, after all.) Soon after acquiring my first CD player, I quickly grew obsessed with purchasing CDs and building my collection. By the time I graduated college, I owned over 400 of them, ranging in genre from classical to rap and from Disney to grunge. I considered them badges of honor and something to be proud of, proof of which was recently uncovered after rifling through a storage bin of photographs. Tucked away near the bottom of the container sat a box of wallet-sized senior portraits, including one of me sitting among piles of CD jewel cases with several of my favorites prominently featured in the foreground. Clearly I wanted people to know just how important those CDs were to me, and I also thought I would want to remember such banality. Talk about an awkward photo! I laughed out loud before promptly sharing the cringeworthy photo with my husband and one of our good friends, Jen. My addiction, for lack of a better word, was fueled equally by my susceptibility to the idea that buying stuff would make me happy and my desire to "broadcast" my own Top 40 using CDs (rather than music recorded on cassette tapes from the radio). I mean, how could I effectively accomplish creating and listening to my Top 40 without the CDs needed to play each song on cue? For a while, the CDs and Top 40 did bring me much happiness, at least superficially. I considered them my path to popularity, or at least acceptance. This, of course, proved a faulty line of thinking, but I was a teenager searching for acceptance by any means possible and didn't know any better, and the more CDs I purchased, the more accepted and understood I assumed I'd become. In reality, though, they provided more of a curtain to hide behind and false sense of identity. My CD collection never did provide me with the magic ticket to the in-crowd. More often than not, the random and numerous CDs I couldn't live without because of my love for a one-hit wonder were disappointments. Yet despite the glaringly obvious problem with my misplaced consumerism, it did introduce me to some great music along the way, beginning with my very first CD purchase, Deee-Lite's World Clique. I bought the album for "Groove Is in the Heart," number #28 on my Hot 101, but I also discovered that every one of the CD's twelve tracks proved just as delightfully catchy and enjoyable, a circumstance rarely repeated. What I didn't recognize was how World Clique would turn into one of my most listened-to albums. Today, I continue to thoroughly enjoy World Clique and still find myself returning to it a few times each year--far more than I can say for roughly 95% of the other CDs I thought I could not live without as a teenager. Confession: I have not read a single novel in George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones series, though not for a want of trying. Over the past couple of years, I opened the first ebook on my Kindle multiple times, read a few chapters, and promptly moved on to another book or issue of Entertainment Weekly. Months later I'd pick up my Kindle and repeat the whole cycle from start to finish, never venturing more than a chapter or two further than before. Martin's books have simply been unable to pull me in despite my general interest in the fantasy genre.
The adaptation of Game of Thrones for television, on the other hand, proved a completely different story altogether. My husband, Bryce, and I jumped on the bandwagon rather late and started watching the series while HBO aired season five for the first time. Friends and family members remarked how excited they were for us, wishing they could go back and experience the show from its beginning, too. I quickly grew to understand why they felt that way. The captivating characters and absorbing narratives drew us into the engrossing fantasy world almost immediately, and we devoured the first two seasons in a matter of weeks. The intensity of season two forced us to take a short break, but less than a month later, we found ourselves delving into season three on our quest to catch up in time for the April 2016 season six premiere. Why so quickly? Partly because of the show itself, which compels audiences to binge watch, but mostly because of good friends in our current hometown. During our marathon viewing of the first five seasons, Bryce and I discovered several in our friend circle were also hooked on the series. We soon decided in the months leading up to the season six premiere that we should take turns hosting viewing parties and watch the new episodes together. Sometimes we'd start Sunday evenings with dinner beforehand, other times we arrived just as the show got underway, enjoying simple snacks and beverages. Regardless, not a week went by without lively debate and discussion about what happened, what might happen in the next episode, and what the episode could mean for the story further down the road. We'd share our reactions to the episode's most surprising twists and turns, introduce new theories based on observations or outside research, and summarily reject theories we posited in the weeks before. Game of Thrones has become, therefore, more than a show--it is an experience and a weekly highlight. And while I find the portrayal of Martin's characters, kingdoms, and storylines enthralling, what I love so much about the show is how we now share it with friends. You might think that after a fall into the Game of Thrones universe so deep and complete I would be able to move forward in the books. Unfortunately for me, that still has not been the case. One day, perhaps I'll finish the first book and tackle the subsequent volumes. For now, I'm content to immerse myself in the TV version, and I very much look forward to restarting our weekly viewing parties when season seven starts later this year.
What is a motion picture without its score, I ask you? Not much different, I suppose, than macaroni without cheese. Or Ben without Jerry. Or Mary-Kate without Ashley. Or Laverne without Shirley. Or Bert without Ernie. Or C-3PO without R2-D2. I could go on listing famous pairs almost indefinitely, but I think you get the point. In each example, one of the individuals can most definitely stand alone; however, something magical happens when the two join forces. Together they create a whole much greater and sometimes more powerful than the sum of their parts.
The same symbiotic relationship holds true for movies and their music. When you think about it, could you imagine Jaws without the music of John Williams? It certainly amped up the film's suspense level (...and convinced me never to swim in the ocean, but that's another story for another time). What about Braveheart without James Horner, The Lord of the Rings without Howard Shore, and American Beauty without Thomas Newman? No, I would venture to bet you could not separate a film from its score, not in a way that would keep intact a movie's connection with an audience. For, as in each example listed above, the composer interprets a film's narrative using music, thereby establishing the emotional core of its accompanying motion picture and conveying its tone. Fairly early on, I recognized the power of film scores to leave their lasting impressions on me, largely because of John Williams and his work in Jaws, Indiana Jones, and Star Wars. It was his soundtrack for Schindler's List, though, that stuck with me the most, so much so that I went out and bought the original score on CD. When listening to it, the film's haunting theme, played on violin, prompted equally haunting images and scenes from the film, eliciting many of the same emotions I experienced while watching the movie. The soundtrack evoked such an emotional response, it intensified my personal connection to the film and marked the beginning of a new appreciation for the power of movie music. Before long, my newfound appreciation for film scores turned into more of a fixation, particularly as my love for movies intensified. From that point on, it seems I could not get enough of movie music. Over the years I amassed quite the collection of film scores, both digitally and on CD. Along with the soundtrack to Schindler's List, several others join an elite group of all-time favorites, including The Last of the Mohicans (Randy Edelman and Trevor Jones), Braveheart (James Horner), The Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Howard Shore), American Beauty (Thomas Newman), Gladiator (Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard), Atonement (Dario Marianelli), The English Patient (Gabriel Yared), Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (John Williams), Elizabeth (David Hirschfielder), Shakespeare in Love (Stephen Warbeck), Brooklyn (Michael Brook), and Finding Neverland (Jan A.P. Kaczmarek). Beyond and within those full scores, many individual pieces stand out in memory and importance, like "The Park on Piano" from Finding Neverland, which served as the processional music for our wedding ceremony. Additionally, about 10 years ago, my love of movie music even inspired me to create a set of compilation CDs for a good friend of mine, Carrie. The resulting collection spanned twelve discs and featured many of what I considered to be the greatest film score selections at the time, grouped according to quality, mood, or emotion and showcasing just how deep my passion for movie music ran. Since undertaking that project, I've continued to expand my collection of motion picture scores, further highlighting the importance movie music plays in my life and sense of cultural identity. And because I couldn't spend an entire post waxing on about such wonderful pieces of music and not share them with you, below you will find a Spotify playlist with highlights from the 12-disc collection I mentioned as well as several more recent pieces that have joined my iTunes library during the intervening years. In today's political climate, when division and refusal to compromise reign supreme, I long for the idealism of Jed Bartlet and his administration. Yes, I realize full well The West Wing fictionalized the president and his staff from a left-leaning perspective, but they managed to hold steadfast to the tenets of their ideology while recognizing the need to reach across party lines and allow for some give and take when necessary. Politicians on the show may not have agreed on every issue, in fact they often argued vociferously over contentious points, yet they listened to one another instead of speaking at and over one another. Believe it or not, they actually tried to understand where each other was coming from, an approach that would be all too welcome in 2017.
Regardless of which side of the political fence you fall on, such empathy and patience would be refreshing, wouldn't it? We citizens of this planet really are not all that different, needing clean air to breathe, nutritious food to eat, and sufficient shelter to protect us. Sometime over the last decade or so, though, we Americans seem to have lost any sense of common ground as we transitioned from championing compromise and civil discourse to demonizing both as character flaws or worse--as flat out weaknesses. Instead, our society celebrates rigidity and considers sticking to your guns, no mater what, a sign of strength. It's as if backing down from an argument, acknowledging the validity of someone else's perspective, and/or admitting when one is in the wrong somehow equates to failure. Perhaps superhero movies are to blame, which until recently perpetuated the falsehood that life fits nicely into good versus evil. Or maybe the end of the Cold War challenged how we think of right versus wrong. The impossible dichotomy of one over the other, however, fails to take into consideration the existence of any variables, and variables persist in every place, time, and situation. Resident of the United States versus Thailand? Variable. Born in 1977 versus 2017? Variable. Learned to speak German instead of Spanish? Variable. Learned to speak both German and Spanish? Variable. Born gay rather than straight? Variable. Identify as Christian and not Buddhist? Variable. Grew up in Minnesota versus Texas? Variable. Life exists in and endless set of variables, and so it ends up somewhere along the hard-to-define spectrum between good and evil, right and wrong. Life fills that murky space between two inadequately defined binary opposites, no matter how you describe them. Just like no two people share the same fingerprints, no two people share the same life experiences. That also means no two people fit perfectly into a neatly arranged box that conforms to the expectations of society. Growing up in the historically "blue" state of Minnesota, you might think the roots of my liberalism formed there, and in many ways, they did. After all, I grew up and spent much of my life in the land of MPR and A Prairie Home Companion. Still, conservatism surrounded me living in rural Minnesota, and I don't mean that negatively or as something I am ashamed of, it was simply a fact of life. I could see and feel the very real tension between urban and rural America that has since come to dominate much of our national dialogue, particularly when my small-town high school invited students from a high school in the Twin Cities for a symposium on diversity. Some parents were so upset by this that they kept their kids home from school that day, a decision and form of protest I could not understand. When news of the reason behind student absences spread through the school well before our guests arrived, all I could think about was how those teenagers would feel if they found out. It saddened me, and I made it a point to attend as many of those sessions as I could and make those students feel welcome. Nevertheless, we remain almost singularly focused on Republican or Democrat, Left or Right, Liberal or Conservative. All of those political qualifiers are labels we identify with, not labels we need in order to identify ourselves. Still, our culture demands that we choose one over the other, and I can honestly say that I considered myself a Republican for much of my adolescent years, primarily because that's the political party I thought my parents preferred. Things started to change for me after I traveled to Germany during my senior year of high school. Walking down the streets of a city more than an ocean away, I began to see my life as smaller and less significant. I discovered I wasn't so special, in the grand scheme of things. Suddenly, the world outside my small hometown and everyone in it felt less anonymous and remote, and I felt ignorant and naive. Leaving home for college and striking out on my own afterwards only intensified those feelings. I had a difficult time connecting with and defining my changing political views. Until I discovered The West Wing, that is. An instant fan of the show's whip-smart banter and unconventional narrative style, I saw my personal beliefs reflected more and more in the characters of Bartlet, CJ Cregg, Bradley Whitford, Toby Ziegler, Donna Moss, Leo McGarry, Josh Lyman, Sam Seaborn, and Charlie Young. A personal highlight of mine is the season premiere episode Aaron Sorkin and the series' creators ran in the fall of 2001 following 9/11. In the episode, the White House deftly confronts the very real threat of terrorism without equating entire countries, regions, or religions as blanket terrorists. (Remember the variables thing I mentioned earlier? This particular episode tackled the issue honestly by portraying a certain amount of natural tension, fear, and uncertainty and not allowing that tension, fear, and uncertainty to cloud the judgment of characters and transform into unwarranted prejudice.) While The West Wing certainly did not turn me into a liberal as this post might imply, the show helped me to better define my own political leanings and beliefs and recognize not everyone thinks the same way--and that's okay. My slight, er, obsession with Disney movies dates as far back as I can remember. Whether animated, live-action, or a cross section of the two, whether classic or modern, whether musical or otherwise, I possess a tendency to gravitate towards the studio's library of films without prejudice. When thinking about my childhood Disney experiences in particular, gems like Mary Poppins, The Apple Dumpling Gang, The Love Bug, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Pete's Dragon, and Dumbo come to mind. None stick out among the classics, however, as much as my personal favorite, Bedknobs and Broomsticks.
If you've never seen the movie musical, it blends live-action with animation, much in the style of Mary Poppins, and stars Angela Lansbury as a witch by the name of Miss Eglantine Price and David Tomlinson as Professor Cornelius Brown. Set in 1940s England with an impending threat of attack by Nazi Germany always looming, Bedknobs and Broomsticks focuses on Miss Price, Professor Brown, and three children (Charlie, Carrie, and Paul) as they track down a much sought-after spell that could help England with the war effort. Their adventures take them to London and Naboombu, an animated island filled with enchanted, speaking animals before returning them to Pepperinge Eye, Miss Price's fictional hometown on the English coast. Shortly thereafter, Nazi troops invade the island and commandeer Miss Price's home as their headquarters. Using the Substitutiary Locomotion spell found on the Island of Naboombu, Miss Price brings an army of British Isle soldiers to life and forces the Nazis back to sea. I do not recall how old I was when I first saw Bedknobs and Broomsticks, but I always connect my earliest memories of the film to my older sister, Melissa. I can only assume, therefore, that she introduced me to the movie a few decades ago, and for that I will be eternally grateful. Of course, I immediately fell in love with Bedknobs and Broomsticks and have seen it perhaps more times than I've seen any other film. I'm actually watching it now, as I write this post. I simply cannot get enough of its fantastical premise, historical setting, and delightfully catchy music. Truth be told, not a week goes by without songs from the soundtrack, "The Age of Not Believing," "Portobello Road," or "The Beautifully Briny," getting stuck in my head at one point or another, a pleasant byproduct of repeated viewings and the earworm nature of the songs. Beyond my affinity for the film as sheer entertainment, Bedknobs and Broomsticks helped to establish my fondness for fantasy and most probably served as an early spark to my interest in history, particularly in regards to Germany and World War II. In fact, it may have been my first introduction to the topic, proving that inspiration can spring from the most unassuming and unintentional places. |
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I am a self-proclaimed pop culture geek and list enthusiast who is celebrating the big four-zero by counting down the most important, influential, and favorite music, movies, television shows, books, and video games of my life so far. Categories
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