The Second Half of Little Women; Dying

Stories that end badly. Rephrase: stories that end with people re-adjusting their definition of happiness to suit a generally more bleak world:
-Skins, seasons 1 and 2
-Degrassi (up to the school shooting episodes)
-Braveheart; come to think of it, most sweeping epic movies too long to fit on one DVD disc
-Titanic
-Lord of the Rings
-The Sound of Music
-Casablanca
-Aida; come to think of it, most things with an Act Two
-Little Women

"Little Women" was possibly my first real encounter with the horror of getting older.
The second part is boring.
There is less Christmas, less light, less family gatherings, less love, more tears, more wrinkles, more grey, more disease, the death of Beth, and a general feeling of forced contentment. Does she really love Gabriel Byrne (Or the Professor, if you read the book)? That sure happened fast. Seemed to me that Jo was really meant to be with Laurie. I guess this is okay, even though he is less attractive than Christian Bale and generally less fun. Beth is still dead.

My good friend Courtney and I were talking about this "denouement conundrum" in light of the British show SKINS this past weekend--keep in mind that Courtney was perhaps the only person in life to go through her premium girl adolescent years unaware that Beth in "Little Women" dies because of some woefully misinformed abridged children's version of the book. Like "Little Women", SKINS begins in a kind of blissed out family paradise--there are these fabulous characters, and very small bad things happen to them (drug runs gone awry=scorched skirts by the fire), but things are acceptably alright because within these certain constructed worlds, the worst things that CAN happen are scorched skirts and crazy dealer goose chases. Then suddenly, someone is hit by a bus (or gets scarlet fever. Keep up, now) and the whole WORLD is dramatically jolted. I will try not to be naive, but there's an important difference between stories like these and stories that are presupposed as tragedies or stories that are less well-written or stories that seem to live within the same world the whole way through a play, in that even crazy things are not outrageously unexpected. And I know that "good dramatic structure" calls for exactly that which I have just decided I hate in an epic--something shocking and terrible and irreversible in every way. But my problem is less with the jolt and more with life after--in a lot of media, it seems to me that people try to jam this concept of "bittersweetness" into an ending. But no one can convince me that life with the grungy German professor, however lovable, is better than life with Marmie in the Christmas of 1865. I will not buy that life fleeing the Nazi's in Austria is more fun for the VonTrapp family singers than playing with elaborate marionettes in matching curtain-costumes, even with a hit song at the end about climbing mountains. These people are all settling and fake smiling and trying to make me believe that through the haze of my tears, there is light. But is it actually a good story (or worse, is it just a horrible thing to know about life?) if I refuse to believe them? What am I missing?

I guess it might be worse if things ended in bald tragedy, maybe certain Shakespeare being an exception. If TITANIC ended with the shipwreck, I would probably be righteously pissed off. But does anyone really feel comforted by an 88 year old woman dropping a bajillion dollar necklace off the side of a boat? Does James Cameron really think he can get me to smile this way? Leo just died because some bitch would not roll over six inches on her piece of driftwood. I don't care if Grandma was "a dish", I don't care about Bill Pullman (is it Bill Pullman?) releasing his money-grubbing diamond dreams in favor of the magic of hearing a little old woman talk about her life for three hours. This is MOVIE-caring.

Maybe people--meaning both the makers and the watchers--are afraid of letting things end badly for beloved characters, because it is either too horribly depressing or too painfully much like real life or awful urban legends in kind. I know the movies are about escapism. But I wonder what creates the sort of sick compulsion to destroy me and then MEEKLY attempt to build me up again? That's like giving a hobo a sandwich, yanking the sandwich away, and then offering a piece of gum with the smiling dipshit gravitas of someone who actually believes that gum is BETTER than a sandwich, maybe because gum is somehow more morally fulfilling. But this isn't true. Sandwiches are always better. And maybe, maybe I rescind the tragedy bit--certain sad endings might be better, because then at least I don't feel either condescended or lied to. It will hurt, but I can probably take it. Just know that if you take the sandwich, there is no turning back--I don't want your gum. Reviewing my list, the possible exception to this metaphor might be the end of Casablanca and the beautiful friendship line--but THAT'S the cinematic gold of a lollipop, or something, which is so delightful and unexpected that you could almost forget about what you've already been offered and denied (sandwich). That might be the formula, the difference between good endings (re: movies I like) and jerk endings (re: movies I don't like).

"Little Women" is a Potbelly's Italian sub and a stick of Orbit.It is the specific crux of this essay because it is the most about me.

Becoming more lucid: it's that thing again about "settling"--I feel, in my heart, that the tragedy and horror of "Little Women Part Deux" is irredeemable by the ending because everyone acts like it is supposed to be a wonderful happy finish but it is not, and could never be, as happy as the beginning. This is growing up. This is dying. But if re-adjusting standards of joy to grown-up pursuits and ideas is the notion, then I will decide to hate this movie full-stop (well, probably not. It's delightful)! I won't allow "growing up"="having SERIOUS as opposed to frivolous problems"="fun vs. lame"!

I had a day--today--where I worried that this was happening to me in the real world. I remembered for a split second the way I spent time, on average, when I was drifting around between 9 and 12: my cousins and I playing make-believe games, and me writing stories all the time, and Christmas being more fun, and less people having cancer and less people being dead and more fun stories circulating in general. Why is life sadder, the older you get, is it just to do with longevity and probability? Really losing innocence, meaning that people stop lying to you? I don't want to be lied to. But I also don't want to go to the gym, or worry about money, or be one of those obnoxiously embittered single women on Valentine's Day in New York who feels compelled to mention booze or drugs in accordance with weekend plans, and I don't want to be lonely, and I don't want to do the dishes. I'm not saying there were less problems when I was 11, necessarily (because I did burn skirts. And later, I had a fair share of run-ins with drug dealers) or even that the problems then did not hurt as much as they do now, but rather that life is becoming "Part Two." And it IS less fun, sometimes--in some ways, obviously, not. But I am beginning to worry above all things that if my life for some reason were never to change but rather continue on the trudging, fumbly, uphill trajectory without a bus or a case of scarlet fever to deter or energize or alter it, I will not even be one of these aforementioned thrilling stories but rather the person who CAN truly be comforted by some cheap, stupid, piece-of-gum ending. That might be what it is to be lonely or lost in the first place, looking for silly solutions. But we're older now--that's the point. Too old to be silly.

This all sounds very dramatic, looking it over. I swear I am not trying to compare my life in any way to "Lord of the Rings". But I want truth, I do, I want it above all, I want always to know the difference between the feigned/pretended and the authentic (lalala ACTING SCHOOL). I can't phrase this correctly: I want to grow up. I do want a "Part Two". But does it really HAVE to be so much more BLEAK? And almost worse, does it have to end in a comforted, stupid lie because I'll undoubtedly be so lost and bleak that I need a lie? I only want the truth.
But I also do not want sad things...

Best ending of all: resucitation. "It's a Wonderful Life". George Bailey (sigggggh) on a bridge: "I wanna live again! I wanna live again!"

I wanna live again!