Big Magic

My Own Private Zeitgeist

I saw Sentimental Value by myself in my local rep cinema earlier this year. Don’t feel bad for me: I love seeing movies by myself. As fun as it is to have someone to talk with beforehand, I often prefer to remain in a bubble of solitude after I’ve seen something, to allow myself to—as we say now—process. At the Fox Theatre, I sat through the credits, as is my daughter-of-a-film-industry-worker custom, and then, still processing, stood looking at a coming attractions poster in the lobby for a moment or two before leaving. As I stood there, a friendly person approached me, commenting on how intense the movie had been. I didn’t recognize her but she didn’t look unfamiliar, either. I wondered whether I had met her somewhere before, made what I hoped sounded like a murmur of general acknowledgement/agreement, and walked outside to a blustery winter day.

Before that, though, and to warm up, I’d watched Joachim Trier’s earlier film, The Worst Person in the World. In the way of everything, it had been available for years on streaming services I either subscribed to or get free through the library (Kanopy is a wonder—thanks to my friend Sara for showing it to me years ago!—and Hoopla can surprise), but no longer seemed to be, so I rented it through Apple TV, adding another $6 to our already astronomical monthly bill for streaming plus traditional cable (the latter maintained due to likely misguided loyalty from having once briefly worked in broadcast television). In the end, I loved the movie, so it was money well spent. I loved the set-up, in media res: the protagonist trying to figure out what she’s interested in, moving from path to path in a well-trodden early-mid-late 20s path. I loved the graphic novelist Gen X boyfriend who lingered in, and mourned, the analog world. I loved the scene where Renate Reinsve runs while the rest of the world is frozen; I loved the running, period. And I found the end, where Art Garfunkel’s English-language version of Antônio Carlos Jobim’s song “Aguas de Março” (“Waters of March”) played over the credits, sad and hopeful and very satisfying.

Because it had taken me years to see The Worst Person in the World, within a month or so of seeing it I was at the Fox Theatre again, sitting in the dark watching the final credits of a second movie when the gentle bossa nova beat of “Waters of March” started up again. Though it didn’t register at first, it was was a different version, sung in Portuguese and English by a woman, Susannah McCorkle, and the movie was completely different, as well: the shambolic, melancholy, Toronto love letter Nivanna The Band The Show The Movie.

The song works well to tie off both movies, gently bringing closure and underscoring reflective, semi-sad endings with ruminative reflection and a note of hope. The lyrics help do this, beginning with:

A stick, a stone, it’s the end of the road
It’s the rest of a stump, it’s a little alone

And then reaching a peak with the end of the first stanza:

It’s the promise of life, it’s the joy in your heart

And maybe the two films, Norwegian art house drama and Canadian time-travel comedy [?] are more similar in theme than they might at first appear: coming of age films where the main characters make choices that lead to who and where they are in present day.

Nirvanna director Matt Johnson has said the use of the song at the end of that movie is homage to Comedian, a 2002 documentary about Jerry Seinfeld I haven’t seen, but hasn’t acknowledged any inspiration from the ending of The Worst five years previously. Maybe “Waters of March” is truly the zeitgeist, calling out to different filmmakers on different continents in the same way Elizabeth Gilbert talks about story ideas for novels floating out in space looking for a home in Big Magic. Or maybe it is my own personal zeitgeist, whipped up because I happened to see two specific movies, one of which was released several years ago, within a short period of time.

Ending a movie with a song can drive home the feeling you are meant to leave with. It can extend an image; it might leave less pressure on ending on the perfect line of dialogue, hitting the exact beat to sum things up. I’m not sure there is a way to accomplish the same thing in a novel, where it’s all down to words: you can start with an epigraph, but you run the risk that some people (hand up!) may not read it, and I’m not sure there’s a practice of ending with something analogous. The words of “Waters of March” might conjure up a reaction, sure, but the combination of those words together with the music they’re set to evokes something more – especially in an actual movie theatre, in the dark.

Beyond the two different versions of “Waters of March” in the two movies, and Jobim’s original, someone recommended one by Jobim’s mentee, Sergio Mendes. It’s a different beast, and a bigger one, layered with playful, ornamental instrumentation. The World Cup is on right now, with some matches hosted here in Toronto, and the joyous vibe it’s bringing to the city (and there is always a fun vibe in Toronto during the World Cup whether there are games here or not; it’s a great place to watch games with a patio full of people every four years) reminded me of the Pan Am Games Toronto hosted in 2015, which featured free nightly performances at Nathan Phillips Square in front of City Hall. Sergio Mendes and his band headlined one sultry night. I seem to remember happening upon the show; I think we were on our way to something else. I don’t remember if he played “Aguas de Março”. But he had the whole square, upper walkway included, swinging to this.