Pass the Popcorn: Beasts of the Southern Wild

When I was a kid, my family went to movies together all the time. We stayed mostly on Manhattan's upper westside (which was nowhere near as chic and expensive as it is today). We went to theatres that aren't there anymore: Cinema Studios, the Embassy, the Regency and Loews 83rd. Actually, Loews 83rd is still there but it's now AMC 84th. Huh?

The times they are a'changin'.

Anyway, my husband, teen daughter and I very rarely go to the movies. My husband's not really a movie guy and my daughter is far too busy with her horses and her friends and her horses and her schoolwork and her horses. (Did I mention her horses?) So I was very excited when they both expressed interest in seeing Beasts of the Southern Wild.

A number of people had asked if I'd seen "that New Orleans movie." The movie is not, however, set in NOLA. It takes place in a bayou that time has forgotten, called "the Bathtub." An enormous levee separates the Bathtub from civilization, and when a storm comes (we can assume it's Katrina, but it's never really specified), that levee protects the rest of the world, while the Bathtub disappears under flood waters.

The heroine is a little girl nicknamed Hushpuppy. She lives with her alcoholic daddy, a fat pig and some chickens in a trailer built on stilts. Together, they fish from an ark made out of a derelict pickup truck bed. Life in the Bathtub is harsh but joyous at the same time. They live in such squalor that it's hard to believe the story takes place in this country. And yet, they feast on crabs and crawfish, drink to excess and celebrate their own version of a back country Mardi Gras all the time.

Despite what appears to be a rather spotty education, Hushpuppy is a deep thinker. She is keenly aware of her place in the universe. When she closes her eyes, she can see all of nature and she speaks as an underage conservationist. 

"The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right. If one piece busts, even the smallest piece, the entire universe will get busted."

After the flood, Hushpuppy, her father and a ragtag group of survivors band together to try and save the Bathtub. They are "rescued" and brought to a relief station, but they stage an escape and return to the Bathtub. Realizing that her father is very ill, Hushpuppy sets off with a handful of orphaned girls to try and find her mother. Their journey takes them to a paddleboat cathouse where they find mother-love in the arms of prostitutes and holy communion in a supper of fried alligator. After staring down the dreaded aurochs (prehistoric beasts brought back to life because the arctic circle is melting), Hushpuppy brings some of the sacred gator back to her dying father before sending him off to his next life.

If this all sounds rather mythic, it absolutely is. Hushpuppy's story is very much a hero's adventure; she is a tiny little Odysseus, facing obstacles along her way, but determined to get home.

The movie was extraordinary. Every actor, from Dwight Henry as the father to Gina Montana as the teacher to tiny little Quvenzhané Wallis as Hushpuppy, was just fantastic. In terms of evoking a time and place, you could practically smell and taste the Bathtub as well as see it.

Watching Beasts of the Southern Wild was thought-provoking for us. As a comfortable, well-fed, fully-clothed family, we were struck by how little Hushpuppy had and how little she needed. It was particularly interesting to watch the scenes in the relief station. While doctors tried to address her father's dire condition, someone had cleaned Hushpuppy up, put her in a tidy dress, and combed her hair (no mean feat, be assured). On the one hand, we thought she was better off. On the other hand, we cheered for her when her daddy "busted her out" and they returned to the Bathtub.

As we drove home, stopping for some fried fish and chips along the way. My husband, daughter and I compared notes. I definitely liked Beasts of the Southern Wild more than they did. I think they thought it was a little too weird. I thought it was weird too.

Weird in a most wonderful way.

Misty, Water-Logged Memories of The Way We Were

We live in a small seaside community about 45 minutes north of Boston. The town is on a peninsula, so we are literally surrounded by water. Summers are beautiful. Winters are picturesque.

Floods happen.

This past week, we had a sudden and severe rainstorm. Because it happened at high tide, many of the town's drains, which typically send rainwater out to the harbor, couldn't keep up.

The storm hit right as my tween daughter was getting ready for school, making a rather challenging part of the day even more of a struggle. Within minutes, it seemed, our patio had a foot of standing water. My husband had to run out and move our cars to higher ground. He then raced off to help my in-laws who have a history of flooding. In his defense, he assumed we were fine because our basement has a French drain down its length and not one, but two automatic sump pumps.

My daughter and I bundled up in layers of foul weather gear, went out the front and waded through a neighbor's property which was slightly less engulfed than ours. We drove the mile to her middle school through intersections that were fast becoming lakes. The parking lot at the school had already flooded and police officers rerouted us (and the dozens of families behind) to a side entrance. It was all very dramatic. In some low-lying places, less fortunate cars had stalled and were practically submerged. I carefully watched the water levels around the cars ahead of me to avoid the same fate.

Through it all, I looked forward to getting back to the house, enjoying a nice hot hazelnut coffee from my beloved Keurig single cup brewer, and working on some new ad copy for a client. All with the peace of mind that comes with having not one, but two automatic sump pumps.

This is the part of our story that my daughter would refer to as a "Fail." In fact, it was an "Epic Fail."

The equation was very simple. Way too much rain, way too fast equals storm drains backing up equals nearly three feet of water in our basement. The pumps were still pumping, but the water was running right back in. By the time I returned from school, my husband was already down in the cellar, thigh-high in water, trying to decide whether or not to shut the power off. Plastic cartons and cardboard boxes were floating by him.

At this point, I stood at the base of the cellar stairs (it was really the fourth or fifth stair up because the lower ones were under water) and did something I'm not terribly proud of.

I whined.

It was probably more like a high-pitched moan, urgent, pained, helpless. Less human; more feline in distress. "My agency samples ...?" I pleaded. "Halloween decorations ...?" "My books ...?" "All our LPs ...?" My husband shrugged and shot me a look that conveyed, "Hey, I'm dealing with bigger issues here." Then, I remembered another box that was back there.

"Oh no! My dolls!"

Time stood still and my words hung there. Then, after twenty-five years together, this became one of those moments that go down in household history as an example of my husband earning major major major good guy points.

Here's what was on his mind: the water heater ($$$$), the furnace ($$$$), the washer and dryer ($$$$) — all of which were sitting in two-plus feet of water.

Here's what was on my mind: my Madame Alexander dolls.

And, here's what happened. He stopped what he was doing and waded into the back basement, found the plastic tub marked "Dolls," pulled it out and brought it, dripping, upstairs to rest on the tiles in front of our dining room fireplace. Any thoughts of work (or even coffee) went out of my head as I started my rescue and recovery mission.

At first, it seemed the damage would be minimal; the dolls on top were only a little damp. But as I dug deeper, I found dolls face down in several inches of water. Wet hair, sopping gowns, matted velvet shoes. Jo March, a favorite 10-inch portrait doll was not only wet, she had been decapitated. The forty year old rubber bands that held her limbs to her torso had crumbled away. If my sound effects on the stairs had been pathetic, the noises I made now as I pulled these cherished playthings out was downright anguished.

These dolls were my most treasured childhood possession. They aren't really valuable; many show signs of much loving wear and tear. Beth's apron had been mended. Alice in Wonderland's leg was replaced after she was struck with a dreaded form of doll flesh eating disease. When my daughter was little, I displayed my collection along with new ones she received for birthdays and Christmases on shelves around her room.

But, unlike her mother, my daughter was never much of a doll person. She quickly outgrew Barbies and Polly Pockets. We invested much time (and even more money) at American Girl Place in New York, but once she had read all the books and set up a little dormitory under the eaves on our top floor, she lost interest in those dolls as well. The Madame Alexander dolls were always my thing, not hers. But they looked adorable around her room.

Until the horses came. As my daughter spent more and more time at stables, her room began to look like one. Horse bedding, horse posters, horse show ribbons, and Breyer horse models. Breyers quickly became her collectible of choice and eventually the dolls (mine and the ones that were supposedly hers) were packed carefully away. I couldn't bear to part with them and maybe someday they would be loved again. After all, being a doll person may skip a generation.

Here's something to remember: overpriced archival acid-free tissue paper doesn't offer much protection ... when it's WET.

So, I picked the bits of soggy paper off my dolls, carefully undressed them, spread them out on huge beach towels and brought out all our electric fans plus my blow dryer. In addition to Jo's having been dismembered, there were only minor casualties: some red dye that had run on a white apron, a bedraggled feather fan on an elegant French miss, a few hairdos that had seen better days. Wary of putting them away until they were completely moisture-free, the dolls remained on view the next couple of days. Our house looked like the home of one of those crazy lonely ladies who order dolls from the Home Shopping Network and talk to them like they're family.

It is now four days since our flood. We're supposed to have hot water again soon. We've already made countless trips to the dump. And, we're planning a massive exodus to the nearest laundromat. I've vowed to clear out any and everything that we no longer need. As my Scarlet O'Hara doll would vow, tiny plastic first raised high, "As God is my witness, that flood is not going to lick me!"

Events like this one — painful, expensive, frustrating events — help put things in perspective. After all, despite all the drowned belongings, I can still say (as I often do to my daughter), "They're things, not people." No one was hurt. We didn't lose our home. Apparently, we didn't really need most of the stuff in our basement. There was a reason why agency samples were down there rather than family photos.

My future granddaughter's dolls, however, are now safe and sound (and in Jo's case, rebuilt), in acid-free, archival storage boxes, under my bed. Two stories above sea-level.