It’s a chilly night, past midnight, here in Gainesville, March 1, 2013. My husband and I went for a quick pre-movie dinner at Mac Allister’s Deli and then to a movie directed by Dustin Hoffman called Quartet. It was a quiet Friday night for the movies, with all the students and faculty gone on Spring Break. But our 9:25 pm movie was particularly quiet, as it was way past bedtime for the intended audience for this story, all about the goings-on in a retirement home for musicians. I was almost afraid that we would be the only ones, but at the last minute, a couple about in their 60s joined us.
The Beecher House retirement home – a dignified and beautiful English home much like Downton Abbey – really seems like a great idea. If you can’t live with your own family, or you have no family, and seemingly no other place to go, well…wouldn’t it be lovely to spend the last of your years making beautiful music, among others who are in exactly the same predicament? There’s a cute female doctor (who, despite getting hit on frequently by Wilf the Womanizer, gets all weepy when speaking about the inspiration she and the staff derive from their talented community), compassionate nurses, jolly gardeners, and wonderfully eccentric characters, all under one roof. The storyline follows the rather tortured romance of formerly celebrated opera singers Reggie and Jean (Maggie Smith), once married, but years estranged. Of course, it’s a happy ending, any other ending wouldn’t seem fair, would it? I mean, geez…leave the anti-climaxes for the young ‘uns. The movie was lovely, humorous in all the right places, sentimental to a fault, the music was fabulous, and the roles so well-acted. Or was it acting?
As the credits rolled, before and after pictures of the actors appeared before us, some of the before photos dating as far back as the late 40s and early 50s, captioned with their real names and their ‘claim to fame’ so to speak. There were pianists from Choral Societies in 1940, tenors on stage in 1963, a guy who played in Frank Sinatra’s orchestra for his European tours….they played themselves!
Okay. Clearly, this movie’s intentions were innocent enough, and at times attempts at a sort of ‘let’s show ’em we’re not just going to sail quietly off into the sunset’ attitude seemed feasible. Unfortunately, the Quartet storyline quite predictably accommodated that familiar comfort zone we find ourselves in when thinking about what it must be like to grow old. I think for most of us, the thought of living in a nursing home or an assisted living facility doesn’t exactly inspire positive emotions. So, yeah, go ahead and dangle scenes of beautiful countryside estates, rooms with high ceilings, damask curtains, and, of course, a view, where fellow residents (white, well-educated, upper middle class) speak with an English accent, facing such challenges as the type of jam that’s served at breakfast, the elevator that’s in repair, and…for land sakes, who’s going to star in the yearly gala (allow me my sarcasm, please)?!?!. Mortality lurks just around the corner, frightening forgetfulness and creeping dementia are dealt with in hushed tones and eyes that sympathize, using new technology seems so unlikely for you that borrowing the doctor’s computer should be adequate for those random moments you might need to interact with the outside world. The dashing and charming Wilf is noted taking a piss behind the bushes at least five times a day (how could we possibly imagine getting old without urinary problems?), and – while an entertaining duo is shown rehearsing the tune “Are Ya Havin’ Fun Yet?” for the gala- the only ones really having fun are the cute maid and the young gardener, behind the bushes on the edge of the estate (now there’s a story)!!
I was really in the mood to be entertained on any level, truly. But, this movie gave me the worst kind of hangover: one that gets worse as the day goes on, when relief can only be found by shouting “HELP!!!!” at the top of the highest mountain. I actually felt insulted by the movie. The reality of growing older is subjective, it is so very very true: you are only as old as you feel. I guarantee that most of us over the age of fifty still feel they are the person they were twenty years earlier, even when the reflection in the mirror says otherwise. Genetics, circumstance, and – yes – luck, all figure into how gracefully we invite the years. I think we start aging faster the moment we begin to believe that we’re getting older. Isn’t it possible that our body aches in the morning, not because we’re getting older, but because it’s telling us it’s had one dance class too many this week? Wouldn’t you much rather be going to a free workshop on using an iMac and sit next to a goofy teenager than to be asking your resident doctor for permission to stay past your curfew so that you can go out to dinner with three people you’ve seen every single day, morning, noon, and night? And why can’t YOU be the one who romps behind the bushes with a partner in crime??
I am not proclaiming we search endlessly for that fountain of youth we are bombarded with images of. But I do believe there are countless ways of re-inventing ourselves, of continued growth, of devouring life – sometimes in small bites, sometimes in big chomps, of connecting and re-connecting, of challenging our media, our culture, our neighbors, family, and friends when stereotypes of seniors are forced and reinforced upon us. When those around us try to squeeze us into those comfort zones, perhaps that’s our cue to go into “maverick” mode, rebelling like a teenager who paints her hair pink. Perhaps we need to be a hero in our own lives, simply by ‘jumping’ out of bed in the morning, ‘ready to go’! Resisting the status quo begins with desire, with wanting things to be different, just wanting to be the ever-improving-with-age you, embracing every year of your agelessness and all that is to come. Even if you end up being that crazy lady, hitting people on a crowded city street right and left with her handbag, shouting, “Get out of my way!”, it beats the alternative.
Creative Dialogues 