Bottled Cinema Bliss

By Susan Thea Posnock

I was having a bad day on Monday. While numerous factors can contribute to major blahs—bad hair, sickness, stress—the reason in this case was the 5th
anniversary of 9/11.

As much as I tried to avoid the news it was everywhere—a random conspiracy theory t-shirt here, a memorial service there. I felt it just being in Manhattan. It was like my body had become a living and breathing part of the city and the massive hole at the bottom was inside of me—at least for a day.

But then something magical happened, though I shouldn't be surprised. From the time I was old enough to fully take in its intoxicating images, the cinema has been my respite from reality and one true love.

My specific savior this time around was Buster Keaton's Sherlock Jr. which I saw Monday night at the arthouse/classics theater Film Forum. The screening was part of "The Best of Buster Keaton Comedy Classics" which has been playing on Mondays at FF since early last month and concludes on Sept. 25.

This was not the first time I'd seen the silent gem. Like my beloved City Lights, I was introduced to Sherlock in a film class back in college. There's not much plot, but
that doesn't matter. What is present is an incredibly funny, gag-filled, breezy slice of happiness. Even more, it is full of cinematic ardor as Keaton's movie
projectionist/budding detective seeks inspiration (in more ways than one) from the silver screen.

Let me just make it clear: I don't need a film to be a mood enhancer—in fact sometimes the most depressing great film can lift my spirits more than a banal
"feel-good" one. But there's no denying (at least for me personally) that a movie as a pure form of escape is sometimes the best thing in the world. I wish that over the years the Oscars had agreed with that sentiment just a little more.

Going back to last week's thoughts on Academy Award snubs, many a great comedy (or comic performance) has been denied.

Of course the escape film need not be a pure comedy. The film-as-personal-pick-me-up is in large part why I'm so devoted to the aforementioned City Lights, The Shawshank Redemption and of course all three The Lord of the Rings films, but The Fellowship of the Ring in particular. It's no shock that my deeper affection for Fellowship
is based more on timing—it was released in the months following 9/11—than a particular preference for its artistic merits (though I think it may have a slight edge).

I needed an emotional rescue back then and while I won't discount the love of my friends and family, the arguably silly world of elves, men and hobbits with hairy feet was a significant lifesaver.

I'm not saying that movies can be turned to when it comes to serious depression. But if there were some way I could bottle the feeling I get as I watch Keaton's effortless pratfalls; or Morgan Freeman as he discovers the power of "hope" in Shawshank; or the sense of satisfaction in Babe at the words, "That'll do, pig," I would be a very wealthy woman.

That'll do, indeed.

*This post originally ran on OscarWatch (Now Awards Daily).