This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Montclair chapter and does not reflect the views of Her Campus.
A couple of weeks ago in my film analysis class, I watched the 1948 Italian neorealist film Bicycle Thieves (Ladri di biciclette). Bicycle Thieves is an exemplar of Italian neorealism, initializing the incorporation of simple everyday struggles into a landmark work of cinematic humanism. It went on to win numerous awards, influence countless directors, and still remains evident today in independent and major filmmaking. I couldn’t wait to report this screening to my Italian grandfather, whose family emigrated from Naples and came to the U.S. in the 20th century. My grandfather grew up with all his aunts, made tomato sauce weekly, crushed grapes for wine with his feet, and practiced various other Italian traditions. I presumed this would impress him, me watching an Italian film that was released when he grew up. When I sat at the dinner table and told him, he scoffed, saying “I didn’t care for that movie. When I go to the movies I go because I want something that will make me happy or laugh. Not something terrible.” I was so disappointed – not just by his thoughts, but by the fact that I didn’t impress him. But it made me wonder – should movies be a catalyst for escaping our mundane, everyday lives, or a reflection of it?
Some of the most successful movies of all time are impossible to achieve in real life and are thus successful because of the fanatical world they take us to – Star Wars takes us to a fictional galaxy where humans, aliens, and droids live synchronously – Lord of the Rings transports us to the cozy world of Middle Earth populated by hobbits, wizards, and elves with magical powers – Avatar soars to the lush exomoon of Pandora covered by bioluminescent flora and the indigenous species of the Na’vi who hold special powers. But some people hate these movies because they are too fanatical. How can one expect to enjoy these movies when, in real life, they are facing extreme crises? Cinema has always existed between fantasy and reality, offering audiences not just an escape from the world they live in but also a reflection of it. Some embrace the extraordinary, impossible world where love conquers all, the good guy wins, and heroes prevail. Others, like Bicycle Thieves, embrace the ordinary, uncomfortable, unsatisfying world where the lovers don’t end up together, the antagonist wins, and unpredictable circumstances distort the perfect ending. What is cinema ultimately meant to do? Provide an escape from reality or force us to confront it?
For many, a trip to the cinema is a trip to another world. For two hours, you’re not thinking about your finances, your job, your relationships, or any other turmoil of everyday life. You’re somewhere else. You’re watching two star-crossed lovers end up together despite all odds, a superhero saving the day at the most climactic moment, or a person discovering they hold supernatural powers. Anything is possible, at least in the movies; and there’s something naturally comforting about that.
The main reason I watch movies is to escape from reality but not in the way one might assume. I’m not particularly interested in a film where the laws of physics cease to exist or where ordinary people have superpowers. Instead, I watch certain movies that I can relate to or offer me an alternative to my everyday life. They allow me to step outside of my circumstances and put myself in someone else’s shoes who is experiencing a similar situation. And even though it may be an ever-revolving mirror of my life, I become so invested in how realistic the story is that my life sits in the backseat. Ironically, the movies that reflect my life the most are the ones that allow me to escape it most effectively.
Take Sentimental Value, for example. The plot follows two sisters who, after their mother’s death, reunite with their estranged filmmaking father who wants one of the sisters as the lead role in his recently written screenplay. The film explores the emotional ties we signify with objects (mainly the family house in this movie), the complicated relationships between parents and children, and the lingering effects of familial estrangement. The examination of emotional significance that materials can hold resonated with my own attachment to objects, memories, and my childhood home. The storyline of the estranged father’s relationship to his daughters reminds me of my strained relationship with my father; watching it felt strangely personal. Yet, I wasn’t watching the film sulking in my circumstances. I was absorbed in someone else’s interpretation of the feelings I understand. Sentimental Value offered me a different perspective on them that would have been rather difficult to see from my own experience.
Similarly, Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life exposes the personal grief and moral dilemma surrounding religion, faith, family, and the meaning of our existence. Its exploration of these themes presents questions I’ve wrestled with myself. But it’s not exactly my story – it’s someone else’s, whom I relate to. Through a filmmaker’s interpretation of these uncertainties, I’m able to recognize my own rather than having to confront them solely through what only I have dealt with. There’s something incredibly comforting about that distinction.
Escapism is one of cinema’s most powerful contributions to society. In The Wizard of Oz, we are brought to a colorful and highly imaginative world that seems dreamlike. It’s not necessarily a rejection of reality. It’s a way to forget about it for a while. Sure, the movie is completely fanatical – monkeys fly, animals talk, wizards exist – but I’d argue that there’s just as much value in a fantastical film as in a social realist film. Both offer audiences something meaningful, albeit in juxtaposing ways. There’s something to be noted about the experience of watching a movie that doesn’t require you to suspend your disbelief but rather forces you to recognize something painfully familiar. While fantasy serves as temporary relief from reality, realism can offer something possibly more rewarding: recognition, perspective, and an enlightened understanding of the world we live in.
And that’s what brings me back to Bicycle Thieves. For those unfamiliar with the movie, it follows a man named Antonio, who is in need of a bicycle to keep his job that he so desperately needs in order to provide for him and his family given the devastation in post World War II Italy. Not even a day into his job, his bike is stolen. As he chases through Rome for the thief, the movie turns into a bigger scope of poverty, desperation, and the emotional struggles of working-class people. What’s so profound about Bicycle Thieves is, spoiler alert, its unhappy ending. I was so disappointed and saddened by it. But it was the most honest way to end it. It’s not sad solely because Antonio doesn’t get his bike back, but rather that in an act of desperation, Antonio unsuccessfully attempts to steal someone else’s bicycle – the very thing he spent the whole film chasing after. His little boy witnesses the incident, and the two walk away together, defeated. It reflected the era of what life was like in Italy after the war. Not everything is sunshine and rainbows. You don’t get everything you want. The good guy doesn’t always win. We’re left with the uncomfortable reminder that life doesn’t always have a happy ending. And this is exactly where cinema’s ability to mirror reality becomes so important. These types of films encourage us to empathize with others, challenge our assumptions and beliefs, and ask us to look at our ordinary lives a little more closely. We hopefully may never experience the exact same type of post-war life Antonio did but through his journey we understand desperation and struggle. A movie doesn’t have to copy our exact circumstances to reveal something universally human.
The underlying beauty between these two philosophies regarding the purpose of cinema is that they can coexist. Movies don’t have to appeal to one particular audience. They can make us happy, they can make us sad, they can transport us to paradise, they can show the ugliness of the world – ultimately making their greatest strength the ability to demonstrate all of these things. There is value in a movie that makes you forget about your problems just as much as there is in one that makes you reconsider them.
I still reflect about my grandfather’s reaction to Bicycle Thieves. Maybe, given that his father left after he was born, his mother died after the birth of his sister, and that he served in the Marine Corps, he’s spent enough of his life witnessing hardships that he doesn’t need a movie to remind him about them. When he watches a movie, he wants something different. And who can blame him? There’s something equally as valuable as wanting to watch a movie with the purpose of laughing as there is with crying. We can walk into a movie theater leaving the weight of the world outside, or bringing it with us in hopes for a new perspective.
My grandfather prefers the former. I think I’m somewhere in the middle. And perhaps neither of us is wrong.
