The Task: Watch and write about every movie on my shelf, in order (Blu-rays are sorted after DVDs), by June 10, 2015. Remaining movies: 243 Days to go: 248
Movie #134: Groundhog Day
Groundhog Day is a perfect movie, and my absolute favorite work of Harold Ramis (he wrote, produced and directed the film). Framed as a silly little movie that takes place in a silly little town on a silly little holiday, Groundhog Day is actually an utterly flawless encapsulation of the human condition.
Phil Connors (Bill Murray) is a Pittsburgh weatherman sent into Punxsutawny, PA with his producer Rita (Andie MacDowell) and cameraman Larry (Chris Elliott) to cover the emergence of the groundhog and report on its modern mythological ability to predict the weather by virtue of whether or not it sees its shadow. Phil is egotistical and snide, with no use or interest in this quaint town, its people (or any people in general, especially if he thinks they’re below him, which almost everyone is), or its rituals. He wants to get in and get out as fast as possible, but when the crew is waylaid by a blizzard Phil failed to see coming, he winds up reliving the day over and over and over again. Every day he wakes up at 6AM, and it’s always February 2. The people he meets, the events of the day, they never change.
What’s really beautiful about the film (aside from the fact that Bill Murray would probably have been an excellent weatherman if acting and comedy hadn’t worked out) is that Phil experiences all the joy, all the fear, all the pain, all the boredom, all the arrogance and all the hopelessness we all would feel in this situation. The first time it happens he’s confused, of course, but then he starts to take advantage of it. He seduces Nancy (Marita Geraghty), he robs an armored truck, he goes on joyrides. He gets drunk, eats anything and everything he wants, and sometimes he just acts silly. Soon he tries to take advantage of his position to seduce Rita, but she’s not as easily maneuvered and it becomes more and more evident that the less spontaneous their interactions are — the more times Phil has relived the same moments in an effort to get them just right — the less authentic and moving they are. Every time, he drives Rita away. Every night ends in a slap when he goes too far. He becomes despondent, desperate, suicidal. He kills himself any number of times, any number of ways, but still wakes up at six the next morning. The same morning, actually, forever and ever.
The movie, of course, only shows a couple dozen of his days, but it lets us know how long this has been going on. The day he spends dressed like Clint Eastwood in an old Western, he announces he’s seen Heidi II over a hundred times. When he tells Rita he’s a god, he says “Well maybe the real God uses tricks, you know? Maybe he’s not omnipotent. He’s just been around so long he knows everything,” and he indicates it would take six-seven months to learn to flick a card into a hat as well as he does. So Phil has obviously been stuck for a very long time, and he’ll be stuck even longer before he gets it right.
At Rita’s suggestion that maybe this kind of immortality isn’t a curse sets Phil on a path of self-improvement. He does good deeds, reads classic literature and learns to play the piano. He saves a few lives, a few broken bones, a wedding (check out Michael Shannon as the Wrestlemania-loving groom!), and who knows what else when it’s all said and done. He can’t save everything, though, as evidenced by the homeless man (Les Podewell) who dies that day no matter what Phil does. Some things you just can’t change, and that helps Phil to be appreciative of the time he has and not to waste it.
And he doesn’t waste it. He’s spent, likely, years in this timeloop, learning all about this town and its people, getting to know and to care about them. He knows their rituals, their habits and even their deeply held desires. He knows Rita, too. “You like boats, but not the ocean. You go to a lake in the summer with your family up in the mountains. There’s a long wooden dock and a boathouse with boards missing from the roof, and a place you used to crawl underneath to be alone. You’re a sucker for French poetry and rhinestones. You’re very generous. You’re kind to strangers and children, and when you stand in the snow you look like an angel.” And more than just knowing her, he’s grown to truly love and honor her, as only someone who’d spent a lot of time with her could. But he’s also learned not to pressure her or rush her. He may not be able to have her forever, but he can love her all the same, and he can keep that love for himself because it is so precious. It is at this point, when he’s redeemed his soul in this way and learned true empathy and compassion, that he gets to see tomorrow.
There’s just nothing that isn’t sweet and touching and important about the primary narrative of Groundhog Day. Yes, a lot of it is silly. Stephen Tobolowsky is silly as Ned Ryerson. (Bing!) The senile old ladies are silly, as are the entire cast of characters dilly-dallying around town. The groundhog is silly. The entire premise of the holiday is silly. And silliness has been Bill Murray’s stock in trade, like, forever. But by being silly it also amplifies the absurdity of life itself, an aspect of the human condition that largely goes unexamined. Groundhog Day is saying that sometimes life is painful, sometimes it’s hard, sometimes it’s depressing, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes you can bend the world to your will and sometimes there’s nothing you can do. Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes everything is silly. It’s all just part of being alive. And while we’re alive, we should make the most of it. Live life to the fullest, be our best selves, and we will be rewarded. That’s what Groundhog Day is really about, and it is perfect.
Viable Option 