I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a “trainwreck.”
A hopeless romantic who masks her deep romanticism with even deeper cynicism, while holding onto the deep-rooted desire to one day meet Mr. Darcy a man who has the pride and prejudice courage and wisdom to solve the riddle that is me? Sure, I would call myself that.
But that’s a little long-winded. So, I guess “Trainwreck” will suffice as a caption for my crazy.
While I didn’t identify with every element of the movie – particularly, the ubiquity of LeBron James’s face, and a particular joke about the lack of faces like James’s in Amy Schumer’s character’s life – I did identify her character as being close to mine…sort of.
My cynicism keeps 99 percent of the men I encounter at pole-vaulting length. Her cynicism keeps men’s poles in her vault 99 percent of the time. My romanticism is based on fiction. Her romanticism is fiction. (This is a movie I’m writing about, remember?) Yet, despite the lights, cameras and LeBron James, the picture is still largely relatable.
Girl meets boy. Girl meets another boy, and another, and another, etc. Then girl meets special boy who shows girl how special she is to him. Special girl and special boy have an especially special time together…for a while. Then special girl’s and special boy’s special insecurities begin to show.
If you’ve ever found yourself in a similarly special scenario, then you probably have an idea of how the rest of the story goes…especially if you’re single. But don’t unleash your inner-cynic/movie critic just yet.
Yes, “Trainwreck” is a rom-com. Yes, it prominently features an athlete whose acting credits, until this point, were shoe and soda commercials. But the movie also features, what industry folks call, a “slice of life,” which Wikipedia folks call “the use of mundane realism depicting everyday experiences in art and entertainment.”
The slice of life, in question, was taken from the “everyday experiences” of the movie’s writer and star, Schumer herself. In her witty, vulgar and, overall, entertaining way, Schumer dissects herself and her past – and probably even a bit of her present – to assemble a piece of art worthy of note. (No, really; Esquire Magazine calls “Trainwreck” a “masterpiece.”) To me, though, the mastery in this piece of film lies in Schumer’s willingness to tell the truth—or, at least, a story based on the truth.
The truth that many of us use fucking, or the lack thereof, to conceal the fucked-up conditions of our hearts and minds. The truth that many of those fucked up conditions were handed down to us by our parents, whose hearts and minds likely received the fucked-up treatment from their parents, and their parents from their parents, and so on and so forth.
Oh, what a fucked up web we weave.
Fucked-up weaves aside, “Trainwreck” also shows that there’s hope. (Again: This is a movie I’m writing about here.) But you can relax; I won’t elaborate any further so as not to spoil it for you. I’m actually tired of writing this blog post anyway. But what I will never tire of is writers like Amy Schumer who, with sass, crass and a whole lot of ass, still manage to tell a truthful, hopeful and funny story.
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