“Hello, neighbor. So good to see you again today.”
I don’t cry a lot in movie theaters. So when I tell you that I cried when I saw Won’t You Be My Neighbor?, and did so each of the three times I saw it in the theater, that says something. So, indeed, does the fact that after the third one, I was an ugly-cry mess for hours afterward.
Having established what I consider sound bona fides as an admirer of that wonderful documentary, let me tell you that I was skeptical from the jump about A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood. I distinctly remember seeing the trailer for the first time and being upset. Did we really need another Mr. Rogers movie one year after Won’t You Be My Neighbor?? Who would even want to see a fictionalized representation of this American hero? I promised myself I would boycott the movie.
As should be obvious by the fact you’re reading this piece, I’m glad my supposed boycott was brief. More directly: I fell in love with this movie instantly, and knew it was something special. (I would come to find out later that my journey with this film was in several ways parallel to Tom Hanks’—more on that later.)
In fact, it’s become a Film Lit Pitch success story. When I started this Film Lit Pitch enterprise, this film was a fringe member of my Film Lit curriculum. I didn’t know that I knew how to teach it, and given that I considered Won’t You Be My Neighbor? required companion viewing, I didn’t think there was enough time to show both films and discuss A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.
But studying the film for this project, and developing the very post you’re reading, changed a lot for me. And so, as I write, the film is now a core member of my curriculum, paired with Jaws in my semester-opening “Making, Breaking, and Bending the Rules” unit. (I came up with a compromise: introduce students to the real-life Fred Rogers with a few clips from the documentary, and then watch and discuss Neighborhood, and then close with showing the students the final scene from the documentary.) I’m still experimenting with how to teach it, but this semester I think I found a method that works.
That last sentence does not do justice to how excited I am with what happened the second time I taught this film. To be sure, the first time wasn’t terrible. Students enjoyed the film, and were able to discuss and write thoughtfully (and, at times, beautifully) about it. But my sequences and progressions were not nearly as cohesive as I’d like. And then came second semester, when, using a new analytical frame, I saw immediate and dramatic positive results. What is this analytical frame, you ask?
“Is that not the answer you were hoping for?”
Mr. Rogers is the film’s antagonist.
Let it sink in.
Now, let’s talk about it. According to director Marielle Heller, Mr. Rogers is too “evolved” to make an effective protagonist—there’s not much room for him to grow, and his arc is not compelling enough to carry a picture. But when pitted against our “broken” protagonist Lloyd, he makes a heck of an adversary. (For more on Heller’s logic, and her own journey with the film, and Hanks’, check out this San Francisco Chronicle article.)
After all, he evinces many elements we might expect from our classic antagonists: He is relentless in his commitment to his goal. He is smart. He is skilled. And he seems to have overwhelming support behind him. (See, for example, the subway scene. And, while I’m here, I have to tell you that according to Tom Junod, something like that actually happened in real life. I mean. Children and adults singing Mr. Rogers’ theme song to him, in a subway car. It gives me goosebumps even to just write that. And while I’m here, I should encourage you to read the wonderful Esquire piece that inspired this movie, “Can You Say . . . ‘Hero?’”.)
Moreover, he stands between our protagonist and his goals. Now, Lloyd (at least before the last act) would have a hard time articulating most of his goals, but it’s important that we do. Yes, of course, if asked, he would say he wants to get his work done and be a successful writer, father, and husband. What he is less likely to admit is that he is also determined to hold on to the hate and anger he has for his father. In addition, he is committed to letting everyone else see the world as he does: through the lenses of disappointment, cynicism, and misery. When he says he writes because he wants to “change the world,” he means show everyone the reality he lives in. (Perhaps unfair to mention, but in a deleted scene, he tells friends he is excited to interview a soon-to-be-disgraced Mark McGwire because “all heroes die.”)
Fred, a creature of will and goodness, methodically hands Lloyd loss after loss. Employing a technique familiar to any screenwriting conference attendee, Fred refuses to answer questions he doesn’t want to. When asked about the distinction between himself and the supposed character he plays on television, Fred dodges and skillfully elicits the truth about Lloyd’s “play at the plate.” After entering the conversation bent on cracking Mr. Rogers, Lloyd tearfully pours his heart out.
Joanne inadvertently aids and abets Fred’s campaign. Lloyd’s choice to describe Fred as a “living saint” is telling, and shows us the psychological safe space Lloyd has sought: learning from his first conversation with Fred that he is authentic, Lloyd has pivoted. When he begins his conversation with Joanne, he no longer believes that Fred is a fraud. Now, he believes that Fred lives in an alternate reality. Pigeon-holing Fred in this way allows Lloyd to avoid confronting the reality that his cynicism comes from his own shortcomings. Joanne’s insistence that “he’s not a perfect person” explodes this theory, and fuels both Lloyd’s obsession with Fred and his own insecurities.
Desperate to stem the tide of losses, Lloyd awkwardly confronts Fred in the subway with the notion that his show is too dark for children. Fred has little trouble with this attack, and turns around and expresses gratitude that Lloyd has actually watched the program. More confounding to Lloyd is Fred’s response to Lloyd’s follow-up about “death, war, divorce”: he ignores the question entirely and tells him about Maggie Stewart’s sign language lesson about “friend.” The ensuing chorus leaves Lloyd more than a little flustered, as it begins to dawn on him that, as the saying goes, if you have a problem with Mr. Rogers, you have a problem with yourself.
Perhaps the most frustrating loss is in Fred’s New York apartment. Lloyd is convinced he has the drop on Fred. He has gotten Fred to admit—indirectly—that helping so many people with their problems is a burden. He has gotten Fred to admit—directly—that he and his family sincerely struggled. And yet, even in his most vulnerable moment, Fred has little trouble thanking Lloyd for his compassion and perspective; and all Lloyd can do is sigh and begrudgingly mutter, “You’re welcome.” Fred cements his victory by once again turning the topic of conversation to Lloyd and his relationships as father and son.
“I’ve never met anyone like you in my entire life.”
It’s hard to imagine a more compelling culmination of Fred’s campaign to defeat Lloyd’s cynicism than the restaurant scene. Especially given the fever-dream sequence that led to Lloyd somehow ending up at Fred’s house, Lloyd is no longer in a position to fight; after all, he vulnerably concedes to Fred that he is “broken.” But even on this front Fred is unwilling to concede, and forces Lloyd to acknowledge the good in him, and in his relationship with his father.
It’s not clear whom Lloyd thinks about during the minute of silence. I will say, though, that it makes a lot of sense to think that he thinks about his mother, Andrea, Gavin, and Jerry. He’s overwhelmed, and finally realizes why Fred was so intent on defeating Lloyd in his quest to spread cynicism: Lloyd has many love stories in his life, and the toxicity he was determined to carry around with him poisoned all of them.
From a film teacher’s perspective, Fred’s camera spike is what makes this scene truly special. Fred is engaging the viewer, forcing them to go through the very same exercise that Lloyd is. It’s uncomfortable and awkward at first, and it’s an important filmmaking choice. It makes the scene (and the movie) more personal. Fred’s stare tells the viewer that his messages are not just about helping Lloyd; they are about helping us. It’s just wonderful.
(Quick pause to say that I also love the cameos in this scene: the real-life versions of Margie, Bill, Mr. McFeely, and of course his beloved Joanne.)
“There is no normal life that is free from pain.”
Fred at the piano gives us an ideal ending to this ideal film. Fred himself has told us that one way he releases his anger is to pound all the lowest keys on a piano. (Quickly: that his demonstrative pantomime of this habit interrupts Lloyd asking about his burden is just adorable.) And Joanne has confirmed that Fred “has a temper.”
But while it’s all well and good to know about Fred’s capacity for anger in theory, it something else altogether to see it in action. It’s unclear what Fred is angry about. (That subquestion itself leads to some fruitful class discussions.) What is clear, though, is that his release of anger imbues him with humanity.
Among others, one message from this close seems to be that Fred is, after all, imperfect. Thus, we should not admire him because he is a saint. We should admire him because he falls short of his own ideals at times, but shows himself grace, and relentlessly tries again, and again, and again.
“Thank you for doing that exercise with me.”
See you March 22nd, when we discuss Dr. Strangelove (1964).
p.s. If you’re new here, you might find these two posts helpful: the Film Lit Pitch Introduction and the Film Lit Pitch Coming Attractions.