Bridges of Hollywood

Recently, a friend of mine was sharing her perspective on marital happiness with me and she mentioned a movie she had seen years ago, which marked her deeply. As she spoke, I began to feel a tremendous degree of empathy and compassion for her. I could see that her heart had been heavy for years with a longing that had not been addressed in the way she desired it to be. I could also see that she had come to believe that the answer presented in this Hollywood script was a fitting metaphor for the lives of those who long for something more.

This movie turned out to be a superbly acted story about a middle aged couple living on a farm. The wife, an immigrant woman - I will call her Cheryl Street, is a stay at home mother of two appropriately self absorbed teenagers. Her husband, Jim, is a hard working farmer. Quiet, gentle but distant and soon to be traveling to a state fair with the kids.

Left all alone to her esoteric taste in literature and music, Cheryl's thirst for a fuller life is finally quenched when on a hot and humid afternoon, a lost traveler - Flint Westwood, asks her for directions to a local bridge (a bridge to nowhere but trouble).

What happens next is a glorified presentation of the birds and the bees. Preconceived to feel unintentional, this plot can only be believed by Flat Earth Society card holders. You see, Flint Westwood happens to be a seasoned, smooth talking, self proclaimed "world citizen". A writer and photographer who speaks quotable thoughts at will. 

Wait, there's more!

Flint offers to help in the kitchen - in middle America during the 60's. He is muscular, has a killer smile, loves the blues, and get this; he's spent a few days in Cheryl's tiny home town half way across the world; simply because he "thought the country was pretty and decided to get off the train." 

Really?!

I obviously haven't deciphered the fairer sex the way I need to. But this concoction of testosterone, mystery, (pseudo) wisdom, charm and sensuality are to a female, what a beautiful woman sitting on the hood of a rare muscle car, holding a pizza and a beer in one hand and a pair of Super Bowl tickets in the other, is to a man. It can hardly be resisted.

Don't get me wrong, I can accept 2 hours of fantasy as a way to disconnect from the monotonous pressures of everyday life, but Bridges of Hollywood (and too much other entertainment) goes beyond that, if we view it as a believable and dignified story on how to cope with an uninspiring marriage and a repetitive existence. 

The audience doesn't witness Flint Westwood lose his cool when after half a century of doing things his way, he is now forced to consider the needs of a life partner. We don't get to see if Flint's charm is toned down around Cheryl's lady friends. We don't see Flint become short with Cheryl because of his hernia pain or see her scowl at his exuberant flatulence in bed. We aren't made aware of what kind of venereal gifts this man who admittedly says he is "not a monk" has brought with him, after decades of philandering around the world. We don't see the newness of a fresh sexual relationship wear off. We don't see the results of his awkward choice to abandon his beloved lifestyle in favour of his latest conquest, or any other of life's tiresome drills.

You may feel that I am harsh in my assessment, but I too have my own story with one (Miss) Westwood. 

For a short time in my life, I allowed someone other than my beautiful princess to be the recipient of my emotional consideration. It was innocent on the surface, but very wrong. While I didn't allow it to cross that uncrossable line (which this movie unrepentantly blazes past), I got close enough to feel the warmth of the fire which destroys so many relationships today. Although, this happened years prior to our wedding day, I have learned that this type of behaviour causes lasting scars in those we love most. And according to statistics it does absolutely nothing for our own long term fulfilment.

My hurting friend was particularly touched by the scene in the movie in which Cheryl is sitting in a pick up truck with her husband, who is unaware that his wife's tempter is parked just ahead waiting for her to break free of her misery and run into his arms. Cheryl's hand grips the door handle tightly, as she struggles to decide her destiny. In the end Cheryl chooses to stay in her wearisome reality, sacrificing her will and breaking Flint's heart in the process. 

My friend vowed to never let that happen to her, if she is ever presented with a similar choice.

While most of us would not admit to drawing counsel from a movie, the fact is that such well executed cinematic productions often leave us with a sense that we are living a defective life. And while that may be true in a completely different sense, the solutions offered in those same productions accomplish little else other than appeal to our rawest instincts by serving up a carefully prepared appetizer of the right dream, paired with a main course of fruitless risk.

By "right dream" I don't mean the arms of a new lover, but the experience of love in a way so tangible that all else in life pales in comparison.

I hope that my ambitious friend, and you, don't ignore the itch that may be telling you something is amiss in your life (and that you work to remedy it), but that old and well travelled bridge to greener grass is nothing but a make-believe diversion best left to motion pictures.