Splash: Not Your Average Boy-Meets-Fish Rom-com

Almost every weekend, my Mom dropped me and a friend off at the local movie theatre, The Tri-Cinema. Not one of those cool, historical “movie palaces” from the 1920s, the Tri-Cinema was exactly that: three theatres and a large concession stand in the middle of the lobby. No nacho bar, no arcade, no recliners inside. It was as if a furniture store and bowling alley had decided to move in together. They never showed the R-rated movie (note the singular of that phrase) during daytime hours. My parents never had to worry that we might buy a ticket for The Secret of Nimh, but actually sneak into Nightmare on Elm Street. Happiness was a large tub of popcorn slathered in butter “substance,” a Coke, and Molly Ringwald looking pissed and sad and sweet and pissed again.

My adolescence coincided with what felt like an endless buffet of rom-coms: Pretty In Pink, Sixteen Candles, When Harry Met Sally, Moonstruck, Mystic Pizza, Say Anything, Tootsie, Roxanne, Pretty Woman—the list could wrap itself around North America twice and still have a few feet left over. I hoovered them as eagerly as the salty popcorn. Because you know what else coincided with my adolescence? Adolescence. I was reading Judy Blume and feeling very confused about a body that appeared to be waging its own scorched earth campaign against me (Hello acne! Welcome breasts already growing alarmingly asymmetrical and, according to the girls in those Motely Crue videos, entirely too small). Those films were a window on the world for me. They transported me out of my dishwater town and away from my ordinary, dull-times-at-Ridgemont-High life to realities where the quirky, unconventionally pretty girl absolutely ended up with the handsome, popular Jake. Possibility. That’s what these films sold, and I gladly forked over my $2.50 week after week to spend 90 minutes entertaining the notion that this ugly duckling phase might end sooner rather than later. Reader: It did not.

Despite this and all the other ways these movies eventually warped my perspective of romance, I could never quit this genre. Rom-coms are often the perfect antidotes for the uncertainty, cynicism, and turmoil that blankets our day to day in the real world. The formula is as comforting and satisfying as a bowl of greasy mac-n-cheese. But that doesn’t make them disposable or insignificant. I’ve often found that somewhere underneath the meet-cute and run through the airport to stop her from getting on the plane are revealing insights into things like culture, politics, or, in the case of 1984’s Splash, masculine identity. Yes, really.  

Written by Lowell Ganz and Babaloo Mandel (the team behind Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley and a ton of other films like City Slickers and Spies Like Us to name just a few) and directed by Ron Howard, Splash tells the story of Alan Bauer (Tom Hanks), an unlucky-in-love guy from New York City who falls for Madison (Daryl Hannah), a mermaid masquerading as your run-of-the-mill gorgeous, model-ready two-legged person.

While this might sound a little like something dreamed up by a 5-year-old, minus the “and then the boy turns into a spaceship and flies away” part, Splash has roots in the OG fish-hearts-boy love story, Hans Christen Andersen’s The Little Mermaid, published in 1837. Ganz and Mandel put their own spin on the tale, updating it for modern audiences: Madison learns to speak English by watching TV all day in the electronics department of Bloomingdale’s; she hasn’t traded her voice for legs, but instead, somehow, has legs on lease, transforming into her fin when she’s in water; and unlike the little mermaid who longs to stay human and marry the prince (Eye. Roll.), Madison makes it clear that she’s passing through. “Six days, until the moon is full,” she tells Bauer, apparently on a kind of mermaid Rumspringa with a heavy dose of fish-on-dude action. Respect. In short, Ganz and Mandel created a smart, warm, funny take on the source story that manages to still feel relevant more than thirty years after its release. The reason for this, I think, is Bauer: a male character navigating a hybridity that has nothing to do with scales or fins. 

The film opens with a flashback of a young Alan Bauer with his family on a boat somewhere off the coast of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. He fixates on something in the water and impulsively jumps in. Underwater he encounters a little blonde girl. They smile and briefly hold hands before Bauer is rescued and pulled to the surface. Weirdest or most darling “meet-cute” in the history of the genre? You decide. Cut to an adult Bauer: he’s overworked and stressed out running his family’s produce business while his brother, Freddie (John Candy), parties his life away; and to top it all off, he’s just been dumped. After attending a friend’s wedding he drowns his sorrow at a bar, rambling to the bartender:  

I don’t ask that much do I? I don’t ask to be famous. I don’t ask to be rich. I don’t ask to play centerfield for the New York Yankees or anything. I just want to meet a woman. I wanna meet a woman. I wanna fall in love. And I wanna get married. And I want to have a kid, and I want to go see him play a tooth in the school play. It’s not much. But I’m kidding myself. It’s never going to happen. I’m going to grow old and grow lonely and I’m gonna die and I’ll be surrounded by a bunch of rotten fruit.

The 1980s culture of rugged masculinity positioned men as not only the pursuers of women and power, but as entitled to a playboy-like freedom to remain perpetually on the prowl, to shirk responsibility at will or choose none at all. In his thoughtful, sensitive-guy-next-door persona Bauer is already an outlier. This gets underscored in his monologue, which aligns him with a more conventional female perspective in two ways: First, that marriage and family are the primary destinations for women; and second, in how it evokes that cringey stereotype of a woman dying alone surrounded by cats instead of “rotten fruit.” Not to mention the line about the tooth—JESUS, HANKS! MY OVARIES! I can’t even imagine what single women in their 20s or 30s were experiencing watching this scene in the ‘80s, but it probably felt like somewhere between a mild stroke and an alien abduction.

Bauer stumbles out of the bar, hails a cab, and tells the driver to take him to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. He has another boat mishap, falls into the water, and awakes on a beach to find a very naked Daryl Hannah standing in front of him. Before he can process much, she walks up to Bauer and gives him some serious lip action before turning and running back down the beach into the ocean. Now it’s Bauer’s turn to experience the mild stoke/alien abduction combo.

A day or so later, Hannah/Madison, like many immigrants before her, arrives on Ellis Island. She is naked. She doesn’t speak any English. She’s immediately swarmed by a park ranger and crowd of people losing their mind over the spectacle of a tall, blonde, naked woman strolling around as if she were shopping at The GAP. Having found Bauer’s wallet when he fell into the water, she shows his license to the police, indicating with delicate finger-pointing and a beguiling smile, “Him. Please. This guy.” Bauer gets a call at work about this buff blonde woman who apparently knows him and wastes about .6 seconds rushing to the station. Dressed in an oversized I “HEART” N.Y. tee-shirt, courtesy of the Ellis Island gift shop, Madison launches herself into Bauer’s arms for some more passionate mouth-on-mermouth business. The two head to his apartment to read War and Peace and play cribbage. I kid. It’s a one-way ticket to bone town.

Plot-wise, the movie runs along in a conventional way. Two things surface to threaten the lovers’ newfound happiness: One, we know Madison is just passing through; she’s adamant about the mysterious stakes of sticking around longer than six days: “If I stay longer, I can’t ever go back,” she ominously tells Bauer. Two, we meet Dr. Walter Kornbluth played by Eugene Levy, the Tolstoy of comedy. Kornbluth is a highly disregarded scientist stalking Madison in order to expose her true identity and prove himself within the scientific community. It doesn’t take a lot of sleuthing to figure out where the movie is headed.

So while we’re waiting for the inevitable to happen, we get to see Bauer thrown out of his masculine comfort zone. For instance, in a traditional courtship gesture, he buys her an expensive music box from Tiffany. Conversely, Madison trades her rare, seashell necklace to have an entire fountain with a sculpture of a mermaid installed at his apartment. The two had visited the fountain on a walk where Bauer remarked he always loved the piece and was dismayed to learn it was going to be torn down to make room for a new development. Madison gives him the gift that is deeply personal and intimate. It’s the BIG MOVE, the one usually enacted by a man that says something on a soul level like a signed first edition of her favorite book or raising her cat, Dragon, from the dead (Wait, wrong genre, but it’s the thought that counts, right?). It’s not that Madison has upstaged Bauer with a gift that is, let’s face it, a complete mic drop, but rather that we get to see Bauer experience what it feels like to be on the receiving end of such emotional overwhelm, which even by 2021 gender ideals feels a little radical.

Kornbluth prevails. Madison’s mermaid identity is revealed in a shockingly public manner. She’s captured and whisked away to a government research facility. Bauer is confused, hurt, and deeply humiliated. In one scene the research team put Bauer and Madison in a tank together to study their interaction. It goes about as well as you could expect after discovering the love of your life is a distant cousin of Moby Dick. Madison tries to explain, to apologize. Bauer is angry, but ambivalent. He cycles through a nuanced range of emotions that seem to say: I’m hurt. Was it ever even real? How could something and someone who seemed so perfect end up being (literally) something else? And isn’t this the lesson that women in real life have to learn over and over again—accepting a version of love and relationships that is perpetually imperfect over the fairy tale version presented in books and TV and films?

After he’s released, Bauer realizes he’s being a class A-dum-dum and about to lose the only woman he’s completely loved. Kornbluth undergoes his own change of heart and the two team up with Freddie to bust Madison out of marine jail (sorry not sorry aquariums: you are water zoos). They are successful until they’re not and end up being chased by the police and the military through the streets of Manhattan all the way to a pier at the edge of the East River. Decision time: Madison can stay forever, giving up her mer-powers while also being pursued by the government for the rest of her life or abandon Bauer and return to the sea. Literally standing on the precipice the situation appears hopeless until—WAIT!

Madison recalls that it was she who Bauer encountered under the water in Cape Cod as a kid. Not only that, he was safe with her, no scuba gear required. It’s the perfect land-and-sea package. This solves everything! Until it doesn’t. Madison gives it to him straight: If you come with me, you can’t ever go back. Huh. So, let me do the math here. We have a man who must decide if he’s willing to sacrifice the life he knows for a completely unknown, utterly foreign “ever after” with the woman he loves. Is that a cliché or what? Reader: it is not, at least not in the 80s where gender roles were more firmly entrenched and it was still women who were expected to acquiesce in some way—leave a career, move to a new place, drop a passion—to fit themselves into a man’s life and world.  

Does Bauer have the sack to put his money where his fish-worshipping-heart is? Negative. The military choppers circle. The police and army vehicles come screeching up to the end of the dock. “Go,” he says, crestfallen. “I love you, Madison. Go!” They kiss and she dives off the pier. Divers race after her. “Leave her alone!” Bauer screams to the armed frogmen because yelling will do the trick. The first time I watched this film and got to this point my stomach balled itself into a little fist of anxiety. Things were taking a tilt I did not appreciate, Opie. NUT UP, BAUER! I shouted in my heart. And, thankfully, he does because this is still 1984 and audiences would burn the movie theatre to the ground if they were denied their happy rom-com ending. Inches away from getting collared, Bauer realizes his future is under the waves somewhere. He leaps literally and figuratively.

At first, Bauer sinks like a stone. Realizing what’s happening, Madison swims back to him. She kisses him, reviving him, essentially saving him as she’s been doing throughout the entire movie (Eye. Roll.). Two divers close in. They tussle with Bauer and Madison. She lands a smartly-aimed flipper to the crotch on one while Bauer twists the scuba mask off another. Free and clear, the power ocean couple embrace and kiss again before swimming off into the sea version of the sunset. Who knows what awaits them, but one thing is clear: Bauer’s making a life, a whole new self, on Madison’s terms now, and that’s a “happily ever after” I can really get behind.

As I said, possibility—ultimately that’s what Splash gave audiences and still does. Not just in terms of romance and soulmates and sweet endings that promise even sweeter new beginnings. But also in offering a glimpse into what masculinity might look and feel like were it expanded in some way to take into account feminine experiences and perspectives. It’s a peek at where male identity was always headed. In this respect Splash also feels hopeful: that a man like Alan Bauer is no more mythical or strange than a mermaid living amongst us in New York City.

The Revolution Will Be Unusual: Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”

The field of early-80s pop music was littered with artists packaged up and sold like the kinds of action figures I played with: Springsteen was the scruffy, denim-clad, blue collar guy; Huey Lewis was the amiable dad-next-door; Prince was the beautiful, erotic, quasi-androgynous art freak (sexual awakening sold separately).

Women of pop underwent their own marketing make-overs as the industry played catch-up with the power of music television. At the time, there was no way I had the language or consciousness to understand how women in music were, essentially, aesthetically pimped out in service of an easily recognizable narrative produced by the record company to keep the wheels of the money machine greased. But it was all there: In their tight, leather jeans, and defiantly short hair, Joan and Pat were tough girls, maybe bad girls! Madonna was the party girl, oozing sex in parachute pants and mesh crop tops. Annie Lennox was terrifying with a her orange buzz cut and big take-no-mess-mom energy.

I didn’t get how stupid and damaging and politically underhanded it all was because, hello, I was an 8-year-old still sleeping with my Miss Piggy doll. But I was already subconsciously primed to accept my part in upholding the framework of legible feminine personas. All that make-up and skin and coded fashion were like marks on a soundstage telling me where to place myself. For the pudgy girl in polyester who wanted nothing to do with boys and even less to do with whatever criminal activity Pat and Joan were most definitely involved in, I didn’t know where to stand. And then Cyndi Lauper showed up.

Hair the color of a rainbow snow cone, skirts made out of newspapers, belts worn as bracelets, bracelets worn as earrings, Cyndi’s “look” was the love child of a thrift store and a junk yard and and unmistakably her. Even with all the flourishes she applied to her appearance, nothing about it felt forced or theatricalized for the sake of standing out. Cyndi wore her quirkiness proudly, defiantly, like a badge of honor. She was the girl you could count on to team up with you to prank call the jerk who broke your heart. She’d keep all your odd, embarrassing secrets. She’d kick Joan’s ass if that’s what the situation called for and she’d do it all with pluck and a grin. Cyndi Lauper was a new breed of pop music female: she was a funny girl, and that was an action figure I could relate to.

In the summer of 1983, Cyndi dropped her single, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” off her album She’s So Unusual. “Girls” was originally written by Robert Hazard, a Pennsylvania songwriter who traveled a patchwork terrain of musical genres—country, folk—before coasting to a stop in the gritty electronic prairie of early-1980s music. Hazard’s “Girls” is an uptempo song that cooks along underneath a raft of distorted, synth-like guitars to create a 1950s rockabilly feel married with modern pop sensibilities. Add Hazard’s nasal vocals reminiscent of Elvis Costello and Gene Vincent and the whole song feels like it could double as the opening theme to an 80s sitcom about a family with a precocious 12-year-old girl named Dallas. (PS: I would totally watch that show).

When Rick Chertoff, Cyndi’s producer, brought her the song, she blanched. Sung from a male perspective, the tune centered male desire and male privilege: enjoying women without commitment or responsibility and, worse, justifying it within an assumed framework of women’s shallow, superficial needs: they just wanna have fun. Gross with a side of bitch, please! Said Cyndi. I’m guessing, but also a hundred percent sure that’s how that conversation went down.

After she had cleared that up for everyone, Cyndi went about finding the heart of the song, sung from a woman’s emotional perspective, to make it her own. She dropped it into a key better suited to her voice. She drew on reggae and blues influences. She added in a few magic hooks straight out of the Motown songbook and buttoned it up with a basic backbeat on an electronic drum machine to keep it in line with her overall pop style. A version of “Girls” emerged that has not only endured, but remained culturally and artistically relevant through the end of the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, and every Rolling Stones “farewell” tour from then until the present.

In her memoir, Cyndi Lauper: A Memoir, Cyndi talks about how it took a long time for radio to catch on to “Girls.” That might have been true in a national sense, but from where I was listening in my suburban town, “Girls” seemed to follow me from room to room ten times a day, drifting out of the junky table top radio tuned to the local Top 40 radio station. And just in case that earworm hadn’t burrowed all the way into my brain, MTV stepped in to finish the job. The “music television” channel was only three years old at that point, but already making its influence felt in pop culture. MTV was a Terpsichorean fever dream of spectacle and music and pop art and cultivated flamboyance and far too many male musicians working out their mother issues on camera.

Music videos were more than marketing tools. They dislodged music from their static relationship between artist and listener to generate a dynamic, immersive experience for the audience. Videos added a visual layer to the song far beyond what could be conveyed by cover or insert art. It was filmic storytelling condensed and compressed for television culture, inviting the listener, who was now also the viewer, inside a world within, but not necessarily directly representative of, the narrative of the song. For example, Bonnie Tyler’s video trashterpiece, “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” It’s a song about heartbreak, but a video about boys at a spooky Hogwarts-ish prep school who appear to be aliens. Also there are dancing ninjas. Also a group of guys in leather jackets show up who are maybe extras from Grease. Bonnie Tyler is possibly a headmistress or witch or the alien mother. The wind machine budget alone could have been a down payment on a house. All I’m saying is that MTV was not for the easily confused, readily offended, or sober.

However, it was a playground for directors and filmmakers of all stripes to be as off-beat and creepy and funny and artistic as they could dream. With so much airtime to fill—before the network added game shows and broke into reality TV—MTV had this attitude that amounted to: give us your strange and over-thought, your high-brow directors as well as your stuff shot on super-8 by the Pet Shop Boys yearning to be free. It’s not surprising that Cyndi’s playful, cheeky approach to music would be right at home in this digital land of Oz.

“Girls” tracks the lyrical narrative pretty faithfully. The video opens with a shot of Cyndi dancing along a wet street, coming home “in the morning light” to a worried-looking mother (played by Cyndi’s real mom) at the kitchen table. When Cyndi arrives, the two women interact through the lyrics:

Mom (lip syncs): When you gonna live your life right?

Cyndi (rolls her eyes, shrugs, and leans down to give her mom a reassuring squeeze): Oh mama dear, we’re not the fortunate ones! And girls, they wanna have fu-un! Oh girls just wanna have fun!

She dances off down the hallway.

Similarly, the next verse depicts a scene between Cyndi and her on-screen dad, professional wrestler Captain Lou Albano. Albano is a squat, meatball of a guy with thick, curly black hair and a beard.

Dad (lip syncs, adding a goofy, exaggerated finger-wag for emphasis): Whatcha gonna do with your life?

Cyndi (shakes her head, scolding him right back): Oh Daddy dear, you know you’re still number one!

As she sings, she deftly twists Captain Lou’s arm behind him, playfully pinning him up against the wall like a cop collaring a perp. “But girls,” she sings as she releases him, “they wanna have fun!” He lumbers off down the hall like a hairy, Italian porcupine who’s just been run off the farmer’s land. Cyndi looks at the camera and shrugs and laughs and launches into the chorus.

The slight “girl” disarming the beefy tough guy is not only a moment hammed up for visual laughs, it hints at what’s really going on with song: a call to revolution. It’s these brushstrokes of humor—some sly, others silly– applied throughout the video that enable the song’s subversive message to resonate and stick. In someone else’s hands, “Girls” could be saccharine and dismissive—those ditzy broads! But Cyndi not only understood what the song could convey, she was cognizant of how humor might function to open up a larger, more complicated, and, in 1983, definitely unsexy, dialogue about women’s rights. The “fun” in the lyrics has less to do with sexual freedom than it has to do with autonomy and an insistence on the primacy and recognition of a woman’s inherent value, of her rightful place in the world:  

Some boys take a beautiful girl and hide her away from the rest of the world.

I want to be the one to walk in the sun!

Oh girls, they wanna have fun!

As the music rounds like a carousel, Cyndi smiles and laughs and rolls her eyes and tosses her head and kicks up her heels as she dances. On the surface she codes herself as harmlessly feminine (we just wanna have fun!) when she’s actually modeling power for all women.  

This is made visual near the end of the video. Cyndi and a bunch of women form a human train dancing through the city. They gleefully conga down the steps of a courthouse, up the stairs of a subway station, and through some kind of rooftop lounge. It’s as if they are filling up every nook and cranny of the world, taking up space in a way that women would articulate more fully in the next century.

In one part of this sequence they snake through the middle of a street lined on each side with construction workers and other bystanders witnessing this unusual display. Cyndi and some of the other women reach out to give a few of them lighthearted little swats as they make their way through the crowd. It’s an innocuous scene that also works as a quiet revelation. Cyndi and her crew control the spectacle. By making themselves the active agents of the scene, they deflate the more typical dynamic of the objectifying public male gaze to replace it with a suggested reality that privileges women’s participation in her representation as well as in her lived experiences.  

In the end, no one can sit out of Cyndi’s pop feminism parade. A stream of people from all walks of life spill into Cyndi’s small apartment. They swan past her scandalized parents, cramming themselves into her tiny bedroom: a couple of firefighters hump a hose, a guy lifts a stack of pizzas overhead, and even a young Dan Aykroyd, dressed as his SNL character Beldar Conehead (!!!), bounces and grooves to the beat of joy and possibility in a swarm of beautiful, diverse people. And in the midst of it all is Cyndi Lauper herself, jumping up and down in time with the music of an unassuming song that would eventually become an anthem of a new era of social activism. She twists and hops and sings with her arms raised and fists pumping like a prize fighter in the throes of victory.

Me & Cyndi Lauper at a meet-and-greet, 2013. Not pictured: 8-year-old me floating above her body

Rock Rebuttals

Image courtesy ©rockinchalk

Him: Heard it from a friend who, heard it from a friend who, heard it from another you’ve been messing around.

Her: Wow. Really? That’s what this is all about, Greg? Some third-rate intel from, who, exactly? A friend of a friend who got it from a stranger? Wait, did you mean Sharon? Because everyone knows she is crazy jealous of me because of that time we spent the summer at Hampton Beach and I won the Miss Fourth of July Firecracker Contest and got that $100 gift card to Applebees and the cute bartender invited me to go jet skiing with him and not her. So, consider the source, Greg! But seriously, now I’m intrigued. Tell me, what else are you getting from this super savvy, high-level intelligence chain? Stock tips? Government secrets? The cure for diabetes? Maybe instead of listening to gossip that is flimsier than your online cosmetology certificate, you should put some time and effort into this relationship, Greg. Maybe we should go to Hampton Beach this summer. I still have that Applebees gift card you know. I can get us a lot of free drinks. That’s all I’m saying.

Him: Pour some sugar on me!

Her: Eww! Gross! No! Babe, c’mon, we have wall-to-wall carpeting, how would that even work? We put plastic down like serial killers? I suppose the kitchen is an option, but we just got rid of our ant problem. Uggh, just talking about this is giving me flashbacks to when I was six and my family spent a summer at Hampton Beach. I was fishing sand out of my places until February! I’m sorry, babe. Besides, you know I’m doing a month of paleo to slim down for my sister’s wedding. I’m off sweeteners, I told you! I could pour some room temperature carrot juice on you? How about that?  

Him: She’s my cherry pie, put a smile on your face, ten miles wide.

Her: Hello! Hi! My name is Lisa. I have a PhD in gender studies as well as degrees in botany and art history. I was a Rhodes Scholar—twice–and recently awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship to do research at the Sorbonne next year. I am fairly confident I speak for most women when I say that we really don’t appreciate being objectified as food objects to satisfy your juvenile oral fixation. Moreover, this kind of overt sexualization contributes to the systemic misogyny upholding patriarchal institutions and attitudes vis-à-vis women’s inherent value and power. Not to mention that it dangerously conflates capitalist desires with sexual ones—women are not made to be “consumed.” The ongoing fetishization of women’s bodies is a hallmark of toxic masculinity, which makes you part of the problem. You know what? Here, I’m going to text you the deets to our feminist book discussion group. We’re working through the fifth edition of The Feminist Theory Reader, but I’m sure you’ll be able to catch up. And don’t worry: we don’t bite! Ha! Just kidding, we feast on the tears of white male fragility. See you at seven. Bring snacks—vegan, responsibly sourced, fair trade only.

Him: Baby, talk dirty to me!

Her: You know what I want to do to you? I want to slide your hands all over this hot, wet compost pile. Are those eggshells? *Giggle* Mmmmm. I want to feed you week-old sushi from an unlicensed food “truck” in Tucson. I want to skinny dip with you in an overflowing Venetian sewer drain in August. Ooooh baby! Yeah. Let’s eat each other’s boogers! Let’s run naked through an abandoned junk yard overrun with feral cats! Oh God! Oh Yes! ATHLETE’S FOOT! BODY LICE! NASTY, NASTY TOOTH DECAY!!! YESSSSSSS!!!!

Him: My blood runs cold! My memory has just been sold. My angel is the centerfold. Angel is the centerfold.

Her: Sure, I did some “modeling” when I was in college. My Mom has MS and she needed a new electric wheelchair that the insurance company wouldn’t pay for, those dirty sonofabitches. The economic and class disparities in our health care system are egregious. That’s why I became an organizer. I’m with a community action group that works with politicians on the local and state levels to shape healthcare policy. We’re always looking for donors. If you can afford a magazine, surely you can spare something extra to support what is, in my opinion, the most critical problem facing our modern society as well as putting the well-being of future generations in peril. You know what? Here, I’m going to text you the deets to our next strategy meeting and also put you on our snail mail, email, and text lists so you’ll never miss a notification or update. Oh! We’re staging a public protest Saturday, outside of that sonofabitch insurance company downtown. Since you’re into print stuff, you can pick up supplies to make signs and banners. New guy always gets coffee and doughnuts for everyone, too. It’s BYOBC: Bring Your Own Bolt Cutters. That’s a little activist humor! So, so cool we got reconnected! See you there!

Him: You give love a bad name.

Her: OH YEAH? WELL YOU GAVE ME GONORRHEA AND A TERRIBLE CREDIT SCORE! I never should have let you use my credit card to buy that stupid food truck. Who is going to buy sushi from a truck in the middle of the desert? Idiot!

Him: Saying ‘I love you’ is not the words I want to hear from you. It’s not that I want you
not to say, but if you only knew how easy it would be to show me how you feel.

Her: You’re right, John. Sometimes it does take “more than words” to express love in a relationship. How about, I don’t know, emptying the dishwasher for once in your goddamn life? That hair in the shower drain I’m constantly scooping out? Not all mine! Maybe you can take Kiki to the vet to have her dewormed. Actions matter, John. Right? Isn’t that what you’re getting at here? So would it kill you to “show me how you feel” by ASKING ME ABOUT MY DAY OR LISTENING TO ME WHEN I TELL YOU ABOUT THE FIGHT I HAD WITH MY SISTER, NOT THE ONE THAT EVERYONE HATES, BUT THE OTHER ONE! But please, fine, go ahead, tell me more about how you want me to do that disgusting thing with my elbow you saw on some website once.

Him: Beth, I hear you calling. But I can’t come home right now. Me and the boys are playing
And we just can’t find the sound.

Her: Hey Jerry, it’s Beth, again. I guess you’re still at band practice. Really hope that the Roach Riders find their sound. I know how important that is to you. I wanted to do this in person, but I can’t seem to get a hold of you, and, again, I get it, the art and everything. Anyway, so I’ve been spending a lot of time with my old college roommate, Rachel. You remember Rachel. We rented that condo at Hampton Beach one summer. Yeah. Those were some legit crazy days. Remember how Rachel almost got clocked trying to break up a fight between these two girls at an Applebees? Bananas. Anyway, the thing is, spending so much time together with Rachel again made us both realize that, well, we’re more than friends. Like, way more, like, in ways that we can’t even put into words. I mean, Jerry, she’s the love of my life. Wow. Holy shit! I haven’t even said it like that to her yet, but, yeah, that’s it, that’s how I feel! She’s the real deal, Jerry. She’s my everything. We’re planning to move to Tucson to open a bakery. Hope you understand or, I don’t know, maybe you can get a song out of this? I’m babbling. I actually don’t care! I’M IN LOVE, Jerry! Okay, the moving truck is here. Gotta go. Lose my number. Bye!

Horrible, Thanks for Asking

“How are you? How are you doing,” I asked my friend. I asked because I cared and because this is what I know we’re supposed to do to start a conversation.

“Horrible, but thanks for asking,” she responded. There was a beat. We both burst out laughing, gutted by the truth masquerading as absurdity. It was a relief to hear her say what I had been silently yelling every time someone, with best intentions, asked. Being a human requires everything we have these days. At the very least, most of us are dented soup cans, at the worst, we are wrecked like a wild west saloon post-brawl. Yet at the same time, we’re still “us.” We’re still trying to earn a living and show up for our people and get the laundry put away and make life happen. Turns out that between weathering a global pandemic and white-knuckling it through the evaporation of American democracy, making life happen is a lot harder than Instagram would have you believe.

Maybe that’s why early on I made rom-coms a staple in my coping arsenal. I had already cycled through all seasons of The Great British Baking Show so many times that I was starting to gain sympathy weight from all that marvelous gluten and sugar. Rom-coms felt like the next best thing.

I’ve always been a fan of these movies—no matter how dippy or vapid. Depending on where you are in your life or your day, they can work as a kind of celluloid swaddling. As the pandemic has inched along, these flicks helped me check a lot of feel good boxes. They’re set in the past, so even 2002 feels idyllic, quaint. They’re breezily, blessedly formulaic. I can assure you that no brain cells were too taxed in the course of 90 minutes watching Hugh Grant smile shyly a lot. And most importantly, rom-coms exploit the best parts all the things that turn us into human puddles: sweet, quirky friendships; romantic gestures big and small and goofy; on-the-cute-side-of-precocious children; dogs performing charming dog antics; and Tom Hanks doing literally anything. The rom-com world is meant to be a perfect snow globe housing beautiful people finding love, success, happiness, and fresh starts galore. No one pays taxes or fights with their mother (unless it’s all mostly witty banter that ends with mom and daughter drinking wine in front of a cozy fire pit at their beach house). The rom-com is a refuge of unreality, and in these last few months it has been the sanctioned escape I’ve needed.

My friend’s quippy reply was so real and so true that it sounded like it could have been a line from a scene in a Nora Ephron movie. A journalist and cultural writer, Ephron poured her savvy humor and keen intelligence into screenplays like When Harry Met Sally and Sleepless in Seattle that would become the gold standard of the rom-com genre. If she were alive today, Nora Ephron would find a way to make our terrible awful feel less suffocating and doomy, and more like an extremely bad day that everyone is having at the same time, but with more cappuccino and cable knit sweaters.  

I revisited many of Ephron’s films during this stretch because I love them—her writing is witty and whip smart, her characters are relatable, and she recognized the gift that was Carrie Fisher, giving her all the best lines in When Harry Met Sally. I dipped back into Ephron’s catalog craving the kind of pop song love stories rom-coms rely on to transport me from the harsh and cruel reality. While romance does make an appearance, eventually—some very intense hand-holding in the last 3 minutes of Sleepless in Seattle, a very heady walk in the park in You’ve Got Mail, for Ephron romance was a Trojan horse. It was a handy vehicle to deliver more complicated ideas about the nature of relationships in general. I think she really wanted us to think about the messy imperfection of connection, of the beautiful labor that comes with building something true and honest. This takes more courage than the Eiffel Tower proposal. It requires more tenacity than getting him back after the epic screw up. It’s more important and much bigger than winning the argument about the wagon wheel coffee table.

It’s not about finding love; it’s about finding each other. Because we need one another.

I’ve wanted to disappear so badly over these seven months, but Ephron reminded me that we can’t reach each other if we aren’t willing to be seen. It’s not in scripted perfection that lives change and hearts call out to another, it’s in the thousands of seemingly throw-away moments where it’s just our regular selves showing up, breaking through, willing to admit, yeah, I’m horrible too, thanks for asking.

Maya Rudolph: The Funny Girl Next Door

Some funny women are supernovas–Kathy Griffin, Leslie Jones, late-1980s and early-1990s-era Roseanne—filling any space with their massive energy, leaving behind crater-sized imprints carved out by the force of their comedic audacity. I’m forever fascinated and a little terrified of these women. I want to know how they handily gut a room with laughter that scatters the seeds of startling truths. These women don’t just say the quiet parts out loud, they bellow them. We are all better for them.  

And then there’s another kind of funny girl. She’s embedded, like a war correspondent into a squad. She’s the girl who sort of sidles up to your group at parties, standing there quietly until she drops that devastating one-liner or clever observation at the perfect moment to crack everyone up. Timing is not just a real thing, it’s everything. And the annoying part is that it feels like she’s not even trying to be funny. She makes it seem effortless, organic, as natural as blinking, as ordinary as a traffic light. This kind of girl is reliable; she comes with a giggle guarantee. She is the funny girl next door. We are all better for her.

When Joe Biden announced Kamala Harris as his vice presidential pick I was thrilled for what this selection means for the country, for our collective stress level, and for comedy, specifically, for one of my favorite funny girls next door: Maya Rudolph. Within minutes of Biden’s announcement, social media shifted into gear as people excitedly speculated about seeing Maya Rudolph return to Saturday Night Live to reprise her impression of Harris. Emmy-nominated Rudolph was on a Zoom panel discussion for EW when news dropped about the pick. “That’s spicy!” she said archly, channeling a little bit of the serious-but-cheeky attitude she brought to her performance of Harris on the last season of SNL. Politically and satirically speaking, I think we’re in good hands.

When Rudolph joined the SNL cast in 2000, she quickly became the one to watch. Any sketch was immediately funnier with her in it. She proved she could command the center, bringing heavy weight laughs with her impressions of Oprah Winfrey, Beyonce, Michelle Obama, and Condoleezza Rice. She also showed how adept and comically facile she could be on the periphery. Ironically, Rudolph often holds the most power from this position, slyly siphoning comedy from whatever or whomever occupies the focus of the scene to create moments that are indelibly funny.

It is pure delight to watch Rudolph add texture in supporting characters such as the bubble-gum snapping Jodi Dietz in the “Bronx Beat” sketch or in roles meant to be purely atmospheric and unremarkable. One instance (and there are many) that stands out is an SNL sketch with host Alec Baldwin who plays an obnoxious playboy hitting on women in a Brazilian nightclub. Ruldolph and Fred Armisen play a singer and guitar player duo performing quietly in the background. Armisen plucks a soft, generic bossa nova melody, Rudolph keeps time with a shaker. The two sing nonsense lyrics meant to sound Portuguese-ish. Their whole demeanor is laid-back, chill to the point of seeming stoned.

Rudolph and Armisen as bossa nova duo

The soothing lilt of their meandering tune that doesn’t seem to have a beginning or end, like the most deadly kind of Muzak, punctuates each of Baldwin’s pathetic attempts to score. It doesn’t take more than Rudolph or Armisen stressing one of their nonsense lyrics or drawing out a sound at the end of a line to elicit laughter. Rudolph is someone who commits fully to the comedic reality she creates, whether that’s in voice-over work for an animated series, as a character without any lines who is one half of a Brazilian bar band, or as, suddenly, one of the most prominent women in America.

The 2019 debates were bottle-necks of candidates trying to land a sound bite or coherent policy statement in broadcasts that felt like reading Proust would go much faster and be more enjoyable. For all comedians tapped to play any of the candidates on SNL there was no shortage of physical, vocal, or personality characteristics to exaggerate and lampoon. Kate McKinnon turned Elizabeth Warren’s mid-western inflections into a nearly South Carolina drawl. Larry David played an even more crotchety and belligerent old-man version of himself as Bernie Sanders.

Without any pronounced tics or stand-out public gaffes, Harris was always going to be difficult to satirize. Enter the funny girl next door. Rudolph painted Harris as tough and sharp, but breezy, even longing a little to, like, just be liked, you guys! “I’m also America’s cool, aunt,” says Rudolph in one debate sketch, “a fun aunt. I call that a Funt.” Rudolph bypasses the goofy, elongation of Harris with comic elasticity to, instead, play her measured and contained; she’s serious about this presidential thing, y’all, but she’s also not above breaking open the bag of cookies in her shopping cart to snack on while she shops. It makes the way Rudolph mugs for the camera or swans onto a debate stage as Harris sporting a martini glass refreshingly funny.

It’s the brush strokes of authenticity Rudolph applies to her take on Harris that reminds us: this is still a very real person and, all joking aside, attention must be paid. Satire is vital to any civil society. When it’s aimed at public figures and those in positions of power and influence, satire is a potent leveler. It realigns the person with the regulars, you know, the commoners from whence they came. But more importantly, satire help grease the wheels of critical discourse. And we are going to have to be critical of Harris. I know we’re all riding a bit of a high from seeing an intelligent, poised person on the national stage, sorry to cold water the mood, pals. Harris doesn’t get a pass because we’re excited to see someone who doesn’t look like they just stepped off the Mayflower rising through the ranks in public office. She doesn’t get a pass because she’s a woman, or because she’s smart, empathetic, can find Belgium on a map and, I don’t know, crystal clear on the whole Nazis not being very fine people thing. Harris is stepping into a role with massive amounts of unseen responsibility that will cause reverberations for generations. We need to keep accountability in the mix.  

But we also need to laugh. Good God, Lemon do we need to laugh. We need the Funt and, fortunately, the funny girl next door is ready to deliver.