Here we are, at the end of all things. Well, at least at the end of my Countdown to 40, anyway. I may turn the big four-zero today, but life certainly does not end here. No, many more adventures and memories await me, my family, and my friends. Because, after all, that's what it's all about.
I truly believe I've saved the best for last, though it probably surprises no one that The Lord of the Rings earns the number one spot on my list of most important, influential, and favorite pop culture moments. On the whole, the trilogy employed several different mediums to make an impact on my life--through the books and movies, of course, but music and video games also came into play. Combined, then, the truly multi-media series thus represents a quadruple threat. I will confess that before Peter Jackson released his cinematic interpretation of The Fellowship of the Ring in 2001, The Hobbit was the only book set in J. R. R. Tolkien's Middle Earth I had read in its entirety. I thoroughly enjoyed the fantastic tale of Bilbo's adventures, which serve as a prequel of sorts to The Lord of the Rings saga, and I expected I would react the same to Frodo's quest to destroy the One Ring. I found, however, the trilogy books difficult to navigate, mostly because I tend to read at night before I fall asleep and am therefore prone to miss things. Like with any true literature, Tolkien's masterworks require a reader's full attention, but as a result of my (questionable) bedtime reading habits, I initially thought The Lord of the Rings confusing and had to reread a number of chapters just to grasp who was who, what those characters were doing, where they were, and when everything was happening. I generally felt lost. After The Fellowship of the Ring hit theaters, everything changed. Jackson's virtuosic film drew me into Middle Earth and provided me with such clarity about the characters, history, and lands that I began Tolkien's books anew. The movie truly helped me to understand The Lord of the Rings in a way I probably never would have without it. In true Chris fashion, I became obsessed. I read through the trilogy quickly, feeding my newfound passion and priming my anticipation for the release of the next two films. I then roped my friends into attending midnight screenings of The Two Towers and The Return of the King when they arrived in December of 2002 and 2003 respectively. In fact, I ended up seeing The Return of the King in the theater a total of eight times, more than any other film. (Though I will admit I probably only paid full admission for four of the viewings and may or may not have left on occasion after Aragorn tells the Hobbits they bow to no one.) My escalating craze for all thing Lord of the Rings led me to buy Howard Shore's brilliantly scored soundtracks, multiple movie posters, t-shirts, and several video games. This is all because of Peter Jackson's motion picture trilogy, the importance of which has only deepened with time. A year or so after The Return of the King came out on DVD, I invited some close friends over to watch all three in succession and make a day of it. We enjoyed tasty food and drink throughout the day as we lost ourselves in Middle Earth. Unbeknownst to me at the time, I initiated a tradition that continued annually for a few years. Now, every odd numbered year, Bryce and I host a Lord of the Rings movie marathon the first Saturday in January, complete with food and drink to make any Hobbit proud. We even switch out the theatrical releases for Jackson's extended versions every other marathon. The viewing parties have become much beloved events for Bryce and I, and we start looking forward to them well beforehand. Because what is better than sharing your love and passion for something so intrinsically linked to your sense of identity with dear friends and family? Nothing, I tell you. Nothing. Blogging these past 40 days about the music, movies, books, television shows, and video games that played a role in shaping the person I am today has been fun and enlightening for me, and I hope the same holds true for anyone who read/reads the posts as well. The exercise proved cathartic and revealing at times, especially when the writing process prompted new revelations about my path of self-discovery and sense of identity. I look forward to rereading my Countdown to 40 in the near future and perhaps pondering some of the items a little more deeply. And who knows, maybe new insights will inspire me to expand on some of the posts, create and share new Spotify playlists, add entirely new entries, or even turn this little project into a book. Only time will tell.
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My great-aunt Althea introduced me to the wizarding world of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter in the spring of 2000. Not quite a year after graduating from the University of Minnesota Duluth, I packed up my belongings and moved in with Althea, who graciously opened her spare bedroom to me as I sought work and a place of my own in the Twin Cities metro area. I had been living at home after college, but soon realized rural Minnesota was not the place for a young twenty-something who recently came out to himself and his friends. I needed the support of a wider, gay-friendly community and wanted to establish a place for myself among my network of friends already living in and around Minneapolis-Saint Paul. Consider it my insurance plan so when the time came to come out to family I would have cast a fairly secure safety net. Turns out I didn't need to worry about my family rejecting me, but contingency plans are always important...just in case.
Not long after settling into Althea's apartment in Edina, she handed me a paperback copy of The Sorcerer's Stone and recommended I read it. She recently finished it for her book club and could not stop raving about it. As I tucked myself into bed that evening, I flipped to the first chapter. In a matter of minutes I was hooked, and I tore through Rowling's first Potter novel in a couple of hours. Never before had a book captivated my imagination to such a degree, though perhaps I should not have been surprised owing to my already-established general appreciation for the fantasy genre (see Bedknobs and Broomsticks and The Legend of Zelda). Still Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone took things to a whole new level, and I ran to the bookstore the following day to purchase Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. That night I sped through the second Potter book in a matter of hours. I simply couldn't get enough of Harry's adventures with his two closest friends, Ron and Hermione, at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizadry. So, I went back to the bookstore the next day and grabbed book three, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. The third in Rowling's series may have taken me two nights to finish, but I voraciously attacked it with the same fervor of the first two. If possible, Prisoner of Azkaban made me fall more in love with the Potter books. In many ways, the first two books follow similar conventions, which I appreciated but also questioned whether or not Rowling could sustain her planned seven-book series by repeating the same basic patterns. Azkaban introduced several new and important characters to the Potter universe and diverged paths from the one set forth in Sorcerer's Stone and Chamber of Secrets. Harry was maturing and the stories along with him. It was a brilliant move on Rowling's part, one she kept up through the final book, Deathly Hallows. Unfortunately for me, when I got through Prisoner of Azkaban, Rowling had not yet published book number four, Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I was therefore forced to wait for its arrival. Around the same time, Harry Potter emerged as a pop culture phenomenon. Everywhere you turned, people of all ages seemed enchanted by the Potter books. When Goblet of Fire finally arrived, I grabbed a copy and jumped right in. Because the books typically came out in June, I also started gifting them to my niece, Brittani, who also became a fan. (You should see the drawings she made of the main characters for me once upon a time.) Again, the book explored Harry's aging process by tackling the complicated and challenging obstacles confronted by teenagers as they learn how to navigate the tricky transition between adolescence and adulthood, complete with trials and tribulations often left for them by adults. This translated into a novel much thicker than its predecessors, and I therefore needed a few extra days to read Goblet of Fire. In less than a week, I plowed my way through and was summarily faced with having to wait an uncertain amount of time for book five's publication and release. (It was at this time I discovered Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time saga.) During the interim between Goblet of Fire and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, several of my close friends, Dianna, Kara, and Allison, and I bonded over the Potter books. We shared a mutual infatuation with Rowling's works and eagerly anticipated the release of the first Harry Potter movie in November of 2001, a much needed respite in the wake of the 9/11 tragedy. When The Sorcerer's Stone hit theaters, we braved the crowds and late hours to catch a midnight showing. For the most part, the cinematic interpretation of book one met our expectations and set in motion a tradition for us to see as many of the new films and purchase as many of the forthcoming books at midnight as possible. We even made our own t-shirts for the Prisoner of Azkaban movie, and I wore mine to most (if not all) subsequent midnight release events. The books posed an interesting conundrum for us as each new one arrived. The four of us, occasionally boosted in number by other Potter-head family and friends, excitedly attended book parties to ensure we'd have our pre-ordered copies in hand as soon as we possibly could. We'd all get home and start ripping through the new volume. Inevitably, one or more of us would spend the rest of the night and early morning hours rushing through the most recent publication to learn what happened next for Harry and his friends. The problem then became having to wait to discuss the book's events until everyone else finished, too. No spoiler alerts allowed! Text messages would zip back and forth. How far are you? Did you sleep? Did you eat? Are you done yet? Call me when you've finished chapter 18. Thus, we collectively motivated each other to coordinate our reading efforts, often putting us on the same page. Our midnight movie traditions continued even after publication of the final book as well, eventually adding more family, friends, and fiancés to the party: Kelly, Jason, Bailey, and Bryce. The Harry Potter series proved amazing in every way, shape, and form, packed with magic, adventure, and the always timely message conveying the importance of tolerance and love in the face of hate and prejudice. For my friends and me, Rowling's masterpieces and their cinematic counterparts became much more--they served as focal points around which we gathered and grew closer, thereby strengthening our friendships. On the eve of turning 40, I look back on all of our experiences with an overwhelming sense of joy and happiness. I even commemorated our shared Potter time and love of the series with a Deathly Hallows tattoo last fall. The experiences remain infinitely meaningful to me, and I cannot divorce my memories of the decade-long journey my friends and I took together from the Potter books and movies. I teetered back and forth between Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan for the focus of today's post, ultimately settling on the HBO miniseries for its sheer magnitude and undeniable role in propelling me to pursue a graduate degree in history (and despite my general estimation of Steven Spielberg's 1998 World War 2 magnum opus as one of the greatest films ever made).
I knew about the critically acclaimed Band of Brothers miniseries well before I ever saw it, largely thanks to Entertainment Weekly. The magazine's coverage and reviews intensified my overall interest, already piqued by the comparisons made to Saving Private Ryan. Without access to HBO, though, I waited to watch Band of Brothers until I found a deal for the boxset I couldn't pass up. DVDs in hand, I binged my way through all ten episodes in a matter of days, and to say the series surpassed my expectations would be an understatement. In fact, Band of Brothers made such an impression that when I rewatched the series again a year or so later, it motivated me to finally start the process of obtaining my Masters degree in History, something I had been stewing over for years. Based on the work of historian Stephen Ambrose, Band of Brothers depicts World War 2 from boot camp to war's end through the eyes of the US Army 101st Airborne's Easy Company. Throughout the series, viewers witness the company's involvement in such momentous events as D-Day, the Battle of the Bulge, and the liberation of a concentration camp. In fact, the image above comes from episode nine, "Why We Fight," which deals with Easy Company's discovery and subsequent liberation of a Nazi Concentration Camp and represents one of the most heart-wrenching hours of programming ever to air on television. Not surprisingly, a strong bond of brotherhood develops between company members based on the intensity of their shared experiences over the course of the war, not unlike the kind identified by the character of Upham in Saving Private Ryan. And while Spielberg's war film certainly introduces the idea, the miniseries format allows Band of Brothers to expand on the groundwork laid by Ryan, flesh out a broader cast of characters, and incorporate recollections from surviving Easy Company veterans. Brothers therefore provides audiences with a much more intimate glimpse of what the war was like for soldiers fighting in Europe. If you've been keeping up with my Countdown to 40 blog, my fascination with World War 2 does not come as a surprise, and I can think of two specific reasons why the it interests me so much. First, as I recounted in my post about Schindler's List, the Holocaust and its socio-political repercussions in Germany raised several historical questions for me, ones I eventually explored in grad school using films like Downfall. The second reason, one I have not yet shared, relates to my grandfather. Like many people my age and around the world, my grandparents lived through the war. And like many men of his generation, my mother's father fought in the war. I was not yet fifteen when my grandfather passed away, and I often regret not learning more about his wartime experiences. That's not to say I am completely without knowledge of his time in the Navy. When putting together a video memorial of my grandfather's life shortly after his death, my older sister and I came across a set of letters he and my grandmother exchanged during that time. Based on what my relatives told me, I also learned that Grandpa returned from the war a changed man, one who no longer believed in the existence of God. Taken as a whole, that pretty much sums up what I know about my grandfather's wartime perspective. Of course, given the intense nature of such experiences, perhaps he wouldn't have wanted to talk about them with me. Nevertheless, I still wish I would have asked him, and I think things like Band of Brothers and Saving Private Ryan offer a way for me to imagine the war through Grandpa's eyes. And maybe, just maybe, my desire to know the world and time of my grandparents better was the real impetus behind initiating my graduate studies. If I ever experienced a defining, a-ha series of moments directly connected to the media arts and my sexuality, I would say my relationship with Disney's 1989 animated classic, The Little Mermaid, symbolizes that. Though I had an inkling of the film's importance at the time, real cognizance that it marked a significant point in my development and self-awareness materialized more slowly over self-analysis during the ensuing decades.
I distinctly remember when and where I first saw The Little Mermaid, which happened almost 30 years ago now. My younger siblings and I were spending time with one of our cousins and her kids, the youngest a toddler. We played games, took turns riding around the block on the back of a motorcycle, and watched The Little Mermaid. From the wondrous animation to the charming musical numbers and endearing characters, the movie captivated me entirely. The vivid sequences of Prince Eric's ship caught in the throes of a violent storm, Sebastian leading denizens of the deep in "Under the Sea," and the final confrontation with Ursula the Sea Witch stuck with me in the days and weeks afterwards. Not able to get the film or the music out of my mind, I got the soundtrack on cassette tape and began listening to it almost nonstop. Before long I knew every word to every song, no doubt annoying my brother and sister by singing along at every opportunity. I was, in a word, obsessed, a term I have frequently employed throughout my Countdown to 40 project. Then, one day while strolling the aisles of the local K-Mart, I noticed a copy of The Little Mermaid on VHS for sale. My fondness for the movie and preoccupation with the music led me to ask my dad if I could buy it. He responded with a resounding no, commenting that cartoon movies were for kids and I was much too old. Taking the contrary position I so often did with him, I argued and pled for him to change his mind. Though I could not convince him otherwise at the time, I eventually circumvented his decision and acquired my very own copy. Or maybe I simply wore down his resolve with my constant requests. Either way, once in possession of the video tape, I took every chance I could to watch The Little Mermaid, thereby satisfying my desire to escape to another world. I often chalk up my fixation with The Little Mermaid as simply another stereotypical signpost of my innate homosexuality. My predisposition for the animated movie musical fit nicely alongside other examples throughout my childhood and teenaged years hinting at my gayness. One particular example comes to mind. Around the age of six or seven I asked my parents for a doll house for Christmas. (Or was it my birthday? Some details are fuzzier than others...) Regardless, I ended up receiving one, complete with working light fixtures and everything. My parents, for their part, fulfilled my unconventional request without hesitation or prejudice, and if they questioned it at all, I never knew. Other members of my extended family, on the other hand, proved less than understanding, and I remember being teased heavily for having a dollhouse...even though it had lights. (Did I mention the lights?!? Seriously cool.) They made sure I knew boys played with Tonka Trucks, Transformers, and footballs, not dollhouses. Unequipped to effectively deal with the jabs, I took them to heart much more than I think my family intended. I remember wondering whether or not something was wrong with me, and in a fit of childhood frustration and rage, I cut all the wires for the lights. Perhaps I thought my actions would earn me some recognition that I wasn't such a girly-boy after all. In the end, though, all I got for destroying the wonderful gift I so desperately wanted was disciplined. Within the context of figuring out when my sexual orientation became clear, I often look to experiences like the one with the dollhouse for clues. I clearly didn't know then, but did my parents? I also reflect on the interchange that occurred between my dad and I over The Little Mermaid with a peculiar sense of fascination. What really was the big deal with a 12-year-old wanting an animated movie? I mean, I was not yet a teenager and therefore still a kid by most peoples' definitions. The more I thought about the whole experience, the more I wondered if my dad's refusal represented an intentional or unintentional reaction to my homosexuality. Surely my parents noticed the repeated signs I exhibited growing up, and maybe they originally thought nothing of them. Unlike my request for a dollhouse, which could be attributed to my young age rather than my sexuality, my adoration of The Little Mermaid defied expected behavior for a typical, straight boy of twelve. Perhaps, then, my obsession made the final connection between dots for my dad, and as a result he shut my request for the VHS down. Of course, this could all be in my head and related to my tendency to overthink things. My dad may have truly believed I was too old for an animated Disney movie and thought nothing more of it, a forgotten exchange between the two of us twenty-some-odd years ago. The memory probably stands out so strongly for me because of my desire to constantly search my youth for any and all tell-tale signs that said, in big neon lights: "YOU ARE GAY." And even if it is not the signal to my dad I suspect it might be, The Little Mermaid, my love of it, and the processing of memories connected to it certainly symbolize important milestones in my coming out story. I love Pixar movies. The end.
In all seriousness, I could probably and justifiably start and end this post with only those two sentences to accompany the graphic above, but that would do little justice to the pantheon of Pixar features I adore so much. Stopping there would also fail to provide an explanation for why the post covers a collection of films rather than a single stand-out. When Toy Story debuted in theaters during the fall of 1995, I was still adjusting to my freshman year experience. Moving away from home and finding my way through those first few months at college helped nudge me further along my path of self discovery. While continually expanding my knowledge of the world around me and discovering more about myself, I also retained several core tenets of my identity that developed over the preceding 18 years. One of those essential attributes was my love for Disney movies, a truth I established early in posts about Bedknobs and Broomsticks and The Lion King. So, because previews for Toy Story advertised the film as a joint venture with Disney, I was initially excited, even if Pixar was a relatively unknown studio at the time. As Disney released more information about Toy Story, I will confess one thing had me a bit worried--Pixar's well-publicized breaking with the Disney Renaissance film convention of characters breaking into song, a convention I had grown accustomed to and loved dearly. I need not have worried. Pixar's groundbreaking first computer-animated film exceeded all expectations. Toy Story proved winsome, heartwarming, and beyond infinitely entertaining. (See what I did there?) With a single film, the studio's creative team effectively changed the landscape of animated motion pictures and established the medium as worthy of well-developed stories that appeal to adults on multiple levels and every bit as much as they engross children. With the subsequent releases of A Bug's Life, Toy Story 2, Monsters Inc, Finding Nemo, The Incredibles, Cars, Ratatouille, Wall-E, Up, and Toy Story 3, Pixar delivered a string of near-perfect and brilliant movies, raising the bar for live-action and animated films alike and setting ridiculously high expectations for themselves (perhaps unfairly). In fact, prior to the release of Cars 2 in 2011, each new contribution to Pixar's oeuvre either improved upon the achievements of its predecessors or further solidified the studio's foundation with pure and honest emotion, poignancy, imaginative storytelling, and beautiful animation. Originally, I planned on writing today's post strictly about my favorite Pixar film, Finding Nemo. But then I got to thinking, if I only focus on Finding Nemo, what happens to Toy Story 3? I decided, okay, I'll write about that instead. But wait. What about Up? Maybe I should pick Up. No--that leaves out A Bug's Life, and I can't leave out A Bug's Life! I'd be fired, courtesy of Tuck & Roll. I mustn't forget Inside Out, though, either. I loved that movie. And Wall-E. How could I write about a Pixar movie and not include Wall-E? Or Ratatouille? Or The Incredibles? My gosh, I almost forgot about The Incredibles! Not to mention Monsters Inc and Cars. Jeez. What was I thinking, picking just one of Pixar's films? Clearly, then, when I say Finding Nemo is my favorite, I mean that very loosely, and primarily only make the distinction because the summer when Brave came out, Bryce and I challenged each other to rank all of the Pixar films released at that time. Afterwards, we compared our lists. Turns out the exercise proved more difficult than it seemed at the outset. We both agreed on which two movies rounded out the bottom of the list--Cars 2 and Brave--but the remaining 11 movies were practically interchangeable, with mere minutiae separating them. And that was before Pixar added Inside Out and Finding Dory to their arsenal. Which, at the end of the day, is why I couldn't settle on just one of their outstanding offerings for today's post. Downfall first hit theaters in the United States during 2005, following its release abroad in 2004. Advertisements and previews touted the film as the first German-made film starring German actors to depict the final days of the Nazi regime from within Adolf Hitler's Berlin bunker. (A claim I later discovered ignores certain historical facts.) Largely based on the memoirs of one of Hitler's personal secretaries, Traudl Junge, and a book written by historian Joachim Fest, Downfall also promised to provide a rather intimate portrait of Hitler, dangerously bordering on sympathetic. My predilection for films dealing with World War 2 and Nazi Germany practically dictated I would see it. What I did not realize at the time was how influential Oliver Hirschbiegel's motion picture would become in just a few short years.
Watching Downfall for the first time, I immediately started questioning its presentation of Hitler as a man rather than a monster. Like you, I knew what history says about the author of Mein Kampf and man behind the Final Solution--he was a xenophobic demagogue who exploited fears, employed powerful propaganda, and utilized an armed paramilitary to coerce ordinary citizens to commit extraordinary crimes. So it should not surprise you that scenes hinting at Hitler's softer side made me rather uncomfortable, whether through his love for his dog, his romance with Eva Braun, his gentleness towards Junge, or his sadness at being abandoned by Albert Speer. Why? Because those scenes challenge the image of Hitler solely as a monster, and I wondered how someone responsible for the systematic extermination of so many millions of people could also possibly be the guy next door. When finding myself sympathizing with the character of Hitler on screen, even if only for a scene or two, I wondered if that meant I connected to Hitler on some level. And what does that mean? Could I be Hitler? Perhaps the filmmakers intended Downfall to pose such questions to audiences, a strong statement to be sure. Still, the exercise proved not all that pleasant and therefore resulted in an unsettled feeling, at least for a while. In the following months and years as the film's subject matter sank in more deeply, my perspective changed a little, and the thing that stood out to me most about Hirschbiegel's Downfall was not its presentation of Hitler as the man but rather its portrayal of Germans as victims of National Socialism. This theme of victimhood appeared perhaps most provocatively in one of the most disturbing scenes of the film. Frau Goebbels enters her children’s sleeping quarters, where they are reading a nighttime story. With the help of a doctor, she administers a sleeping draft to her six children, telling them it’s to help them stay healthy in the dampness of the bunker. Having successfully drugged all six children, Frau Goebbels then wishes them a good night’s sleep and leaves them in the darkness of their cement room. She returns to the sleeping children a short time later, and one by one Frau Goebbels inserts a cyanide pill into each child’s mouth, killing her own children because she cannot fathom they live in a world without National Socialism. I made several important observations because of this scene. By denying her children the chance to live in a Germany free of Hitler and the Nazi Party, Frau Goebbels chose ideology over life. The children, in a way, symbolized the German conscience, unable to combat the oppressive influence of the Nazi party, and the murder of the children therefore represented the killing of German innocence, in which fanatical Nazi leaders misled the German public. Narratives like this one piqued my interest and inspired a certain degree of historical inquiry. I wanted to know, how could Germans now claim victimization, especially considering those specifically persecuted by the regime? How accurately does the film portray the German wartime experience? What are the implications of placing German civilians among Hitler's victims? How do Downfall and several other post-2000 German films that depict Germans as victims fit into German society's larger, over-arching process of coming to terms with their Nazi past (ie. A Woman in Berlin and Sophie Scholl: The Final Days)? These questions about victimization in the postwar period eventually formed the base of my thesis research, which centers on the confluence of history and popular film as purveyors of cultural memory. And while I certainly recognized the problems posed by Downfall when I left the theater that day in 2005, I had no idea it would help lead me to graduate school and a Masters of Arts in History. Strictly speaking, the Academy Awards do not fit into the categories I set out to explore in my Countdown to 40 blog, not in the traditional sense anyway. About movies but not a movie, on television but not a series, they celebrate the year’s best movies in an annual ceremony telecast live, with celebrities and other members of the film industry parading their fashion hits and misses on the red carpet as they prepare to honor their peers’ work. Yes, the Academy Awards sometimes seem to exist for the sole purpose of stroking the egos of the rich and famous. Yes, they are self-indulgent and superfluous, often focusing on pageantry rather than substance. Yes, they often overlook many of the year’s most artful and boundary-pushing films and performances in favor of more mainstream, self-congratulatory pats on the back. But then they also get things right once in a while and open my eyes to many wonderful films I may not have encountered otherwise. On top of that, they serve as a yearly reason to gather family and friends together to bask in the glow of Hollywood’s stars. (Or is that the glow of the TV?) And I love every minute of it.
The first Oscars broadcast I recall experiencing aired in the spring of 1989 and honored films released in 1988. I sat on the sofa that evening, taking in all of the glitz, glamour, and glory. I watched the numerous clips of movies and performances in awe, many of which I was previously unfamiliar with. One in particular, Gorillas in the Mist, always comes to mind when thinking back on my inaugural Academy Awards telecast. The film earned five nominations, including one for Sigourney Weaver’s portrayal of naturalist Dian Fossey. The repeated mention of the movie compelled me to rent the video and more than likely shaped my preconceptions of what an award-caliber performance should look like. That the film and Weaver’s performance did not disappoint only solidified the Oscars as my most-trusted source of cinematic suggestions prior to Entertainment Weekly. Amid the pomp and circumstance of the show itself and the expansion of my film awareness, my preteen penchant for ranking a few of my favorite things went into overdrive. I mean, what are the Academy Awards if not an ultra-glamorous best-of list, where the nominees represent the runners-up to the recipients crowned the year’s greatest? To put it mildly, the Oscars cast a spell on me that spring, nurturing my love of movies and establishing the tradition of tuning into the ceremony every year thereafter. After that fateful spring night, my fondness for the Academy Awards only grew stronger. In the early 1990s, I created my own awards for movies modeled on the Oscars called the Golden Film Awards. Initially, I selected all of the nominees and winners myself, but over time I invited my friends and family to participate by voting for their favorites among nominations still provided by me. Once in college, the Academy Awards telecast truly became an event—especially after The English Patient, one of my favorite films that did not quite make the Countdown to 40 list, took home the night’s big prize in 1997 (for 1996). Each subsequent year, I challenged myself to see all the films nominated for Best Picture prior to the broadcast (haven’t achieved that goal yet) and check out several of the more obscure titles introduced to me during the show. (Achievement unlocked!) Somewhere along the road I started hosting Oscar parties. After all, there’s nothing like the Academy Awards to bring movie-lovers together. Over time the parties became more elaborate, adding rounds of Oscar-related trivia to the Predict the Winners game, complete with movie-themed prizes for attendees who score highest in each game. This year, we even booked a venue for the event, where the signature cocktail will be the Bourbon Streep in honor of the one and only Meryl. It’s no wonder I look forward to Oscar Sunday every year and often refer to it as my second favorite holiday after Christmas. I declared my feelings for Disney movies earlier this month when ruminating over the live action-animated crossover musical, Bedknobs and Broomsticks, and if you asked me to describe those feelings in a single word, I would choose enamored. My process of discerning which of the studio's movies would earn full blog posts therefore proved difficult, especially considering Disney films accounted for approximately a dozen finalists for my Countdown to 40. While it pained me to cut many of them, Beauty and the Beast and The Hunchback of Notre Dame above all, four ultimately made their way onto the list, and of those four, I was most obsessed with The Lion King.
When I saw it in theaters for the first time, The Lion King amazed me like no other animated film had before. With its breath-taking animation (the opening sequence anyone?), heart-warming cast of characters, tragic death of Mufasa, triumphant return of Simba, hilarious one-liners, and unparalleled music, the 1994 African savanna fantasia epitomized everything I loved most about Disney movies. These qualities cemented what many consider the ultimate Disney Renaissance Film as not only one of my all-time favorites but as one of the greatest films ever made. Period. I was and am not alone in my adoration of the film. I mean, you've seen it and probably love it, just like other people of all ages who flocked to theaters to experience the magic of The Lion King. In fact, according to Box Office Mojo, it held the title as highest-grossing animated film for nearly an entire decade before Shrek 2 outsold it. More importantly, one of my best friends in high school, Debbie, was just as obsessed with The Lion King as I was. We saw the film repeatedly in the theater and countless additional times on VHS after purchasing our copies the day they went on sale (probably at Target), watching it so many times we knew the whole script by heart. (My friends in college teased me for how well I knew the film, noting how I would even sigh when the characters sighed.) We listened to the soundtrack incessantly, memorizing every song. We collected The Lion King trading cards, piecing together full sets of both series one and series two. We acquired stationary products, toys, and ornaments. We accumulated tie-in coloring books, too, and spent many a summer afternoon perfecting the right combination of Crayola crayons in our efforts to perfectly recreate the colors we saw on screen. We were all too happy and eager to spend the summer leading up to our senior year almost totally immersed in the world of The Lion King. And when something pervades so much of your life and becomes such an important part of a friendship, it truly helps to define an era and therefore my 17 year-old sense of identity. There seem to be two different kinds of people in this world, Star Trek fans and Star Wars fans. I always thought that demarcation quite silly and considered myself an equal opportunity supporter of both franchises. I anxiously await the release of new Star Wars and Star Trek films and have fond memories of both. I've thoroughly enjoyed sporadically joining Bryce throughout his years-long journey to experience all of the Star Trek films and television series, from the original 1960s series all the way up through Enterprise and the J. J. Abrams cinematic reboots. (Fun fact: While The Next Generation remains my favorite iteration of the Star Trek canon, Deep Space Nine proves a close second.) As I sat down to work on my Countdown to 40, though, I finally faced the actual (rather than alternative) fact: as much as I try to convince myself I fall definitively into the Star Trek camp every bit as much as I fall into the Star Wars camp, it's just not true. I connect more with the latter than the former, an admission I'm sure Bryce would argue was obvious from day one.
Now, I mean no disrespect towards Star Trek and the fans who adore it, Star Wars simply signifies so much more for me. As a child, A New Hope was the first movie I ever saw with my dad. Whether he realized it or not and whether I accepted or not, I often sought things over which the two of us could bond. I never was much of a sports guy, and though I wouldn't consider my dad a sports fanatic, he could usually be found taking in the weekly Vikings game with my mom and brother on Sunday afternoons. The older I got, the more I gravitated towards the arts and longed to connect with my dad through them. I knew very little about his taste in movies and music, however, since we rarely talked about what he liked. One thing I did learn over the years: my dad liked the original Star Wars films. I therefore took advantage of and loved every opportunity I had to experience them with him. That alone is reason enough to justify the inclusion of Star Wars on my Countdown to 40, but that would cut short the story of the saga's ongoing relationship to my life. In the late 1990s, George Lucas re-released all three films to theaters in anticipation for the debut of a new addition to the series, Episode I: The Phantom Menace. I learned then how a good friend of mine in college idolized Star Wars, and his enthusiasm for the sci-fi epic rejuvenated my own enthusiasm for A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and The Return of the Jedi. We made sure to catch each one in the theater on opening weekend, discussing in depth the lore surrounding the Star Wars universe afterwards and hazarding guesses as to where Lucas would be taking us with the forthcoming Episodes I, II, and III. By the time The Phantom Menace debuted in May of 1999, my rejuvenated enthusiasm had transformed into genuine excitement. As with any heightened sense of anticipation, I wanted to share my delight in the new films and could think of no one better to accomplish that than with than my niece, Brittani, and nephew, Jordan, who were 9 and 6 at the time. When the chance came to treat the two of them to seeing the film in the theater, I snapped it up. They both seemed to love the film, especially Jordan, and I happily spoiled them with repeated viewings of Episode I as well as the original trilogy. (Confession: The character of Jar-Jar Binks never bothered me as much as he did other people.) Today the Star Wars universe continues to expand, adding on three more episodes to the original series and tacking on several stand-alone films that focus on backstories and fill in the holes exhibited by the nine episodic movies. I will no doubt see them all, remembering all of the happiness, contentment, and fulfillment that accompany the rest of the Star Wars anthology. 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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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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