There's something magical about the way the sun meets the water at the end of a Sacramento summer day. It looks idyllic, yet it wasn't like it signaled anything special. It's just how the rivers look as the sun sets, and that's the thing about Sacramento: at the end of the day, it's quite a plain place to have grown up – and that's what makes it the perfect setting for a film like Lady Bird.

Hours of discussion can arise from a film like Lady Bird – the mother/daughter relationship, Catholic high schools, Danny – but what I want to talk about right now is Sacramento.

I know that Lady Bird is not the definitive piece of art about Sacramento, but it is art, nonetheless, about a place that often is not the setting for art. Its marriage of my hometown, my high school experience, and my favorite writer (Joan Didion, a Sacramento native – and occasional critic – herself) felt like a memory: passing through all the tree-lined streets, dreaming of living in the Fab 40s, my 16th birthday at Tower Theatre, buying outfits for school dances from Thrift Town. And seeing it all on screen was the love letter I always wondered if I would write one day about a place that I loved.

If you follow me on Twitter, you might already have seen me tweeting about The Tiger Hunter, but I wanted to dedicate a blog post to it because I don't know how much I was able to really express in 140 character chunks.

I meant for this week's blog post to be a Dear Evan Hansen reflection, but a combination of family obligations plus crashing on a few projects with tight deadlines has resulted instead in – you guessed it – another tag/list.

I'd say "oops," but it's my blog so I suppose I can do whatever I want on it :) So this week: the Disney tag! (Note: I'm excluding Pixar films from this.)

1. A scene in any Disney movie you wish you could experience.
The lantern scene from Tangled.

2. An unforgettable experience/moment you've had at the parks.

Meet the Patels is one of those films where you know the tensions, and you can probably assume how it will end. But even if you're right, it's still one of the most delightful journeys to go on because you've become drawn into the hearts of the characters you get to know through the camera.


Although my own family has never been one to pile pressure on regarding marriage (although my mom did say half-jokingly to my grandma last year that neither my sister nor I were going to get married, causing complete panic and anxiety in my poor 92-year-old grandma's heart), I definitely get the cultural conversations in the film. Like how parents don't want you to date at all while you're in school because "it's a distraction," but then the second you're in the working world they want to know why you aren't married yet? Been there.

When I was little, my parents used to say things like, "Just marry a Chinese boy. It'll make things easier."

"What do you mean easier??" I used to ask.

Their answer: "He will understand our food, our traditions."

It was like we were on another planet.

My autographed You've Got Mail poster from the raffle at Housing Works' "We've Got Mail" event in February.

It's taken me more hours than I'd like to pay proper tribute to you after your passing, but here is my attempt now: a letter to heaven, and I hope it finds you well. You may wonder why write this to a woman I never knew, but as Chris Matthews put it the other night: "Because this is about us."

Your writing was more than words on a page, on a screen. You were a storyteller in every sense of the word: it's because of you that I know that complicated matters of the heart can indeed be put into words, and that none of us are ever alone in loving, losing, or learning to begin again.

I was only a child the first time I saw one of your films. I have loved them ever since. There was something different about the heroine of your stories--the way she laughed, the way she spoke (so eloquent, so real), the way she rolled her eyes and brushed the hair from her face. I so wanted to be Kathleen Kelly (part of me still does today) because even though she lost at some things, she won too, and isn't that the message we all need? You can fall and you can fail--in fact, you will fall and fail a lot--in love, in work, in friendships, in life...but pick yourself up. See, I've had falling outs with friends, and I've made mistakes for 23 years, and I fell for the wrong person once who's since broken my heart every day for two years now...but it'll all pass. I believe it.

Yes, let yourself grieve, and feel every emotion of the pain of what you had and what could have been, but you'll be okay. And, please, don't be afraid to start over.

The themes of your films strike a timeless chord, and even though future generations will never know that familiar dial-up sound, there's still something about the characters and their journey that captivates hearts and souls. "I always recognized in those stories pieces of people I knew and conversations I had had," Linda Holmes wrote on NPR after learning of your passing. "They were like choral compositions where everything else is just pretty sounds, but you can pick out the alto line because you sang it in choir fifteen years ago. You could never reproduce the entire thing without amplification and help, but that one part makes sense."

Sleepless in Seattle taught me something about loneliness as much as When Harry Met Sally taught me about growth. The way I write, the way I speak, the way I think has been subtly influenced by your writing, and you share the credit (and, let's be honest, the blame)--along with Didion and Plath--for the messy and emotional basket case I can be, and the messy and emotional words that have led to these blogs.

From your films to your essays, and your forays into topics of friendships, romance, feminism, aging, and more, the pages of the book you created truly never tired. Charles McGrath's obit in the Times for you ended with a bit of your writing that brought forth the simplicity of why people--why I--adored you:

Ms. Ephron’s collection “I Remember Nothing” concludes with two lists, one of things she says she won’t miss and one of things she will. Among the “won’t miss” items are dry skin, Clarence Thomas, the sound of the vacuum cleaner, and panels on “Women in Film.”

The other list, of the things she will miss, begins with “my kids” and “Nick” and ends this way:

“Taking a bath
Coming over the bridge to Manhattan
Pie.”
You saw New York differently than so many, I'm sure of it. You saw life so differently too--not that you lived it differently, but that you knew how to express it differently, and more authentically than most.

Nora...it was nice to have met you.

Ciao,
Traci

A late exchange led to a simple and sad truth the other night: "Life seems to be about learning lessons a little too late to apply them."

I've been thinking about films and stories that shake a person into realizations and wondering why more of us don't immerse ourselves in things that will "wake us up." Perhaps because there is a danger in drowning and getting lost in those stories, but Cheever always made a point to tell us to stay grounded and not forget to go back into the cave with the knowledge we attained outside.

For the past few weeks, Midnight in Paris has been on my mind--not just because it's a delightful film, but it contains a delightful message that isn't thrown in your face. While some films beat their message into your brain (I'm looking at you, Legend of Bagger Vance), this absurd romp through place and time makes you nostalgic and desperate for the days of yore, only to slowly pull that sweet morsel away from your mouth at the last second before you overindulge.

I won't spoil the film for those who haven't seen it (and you really should see it), but the story's hero, Gil (Owen Wilson), stumbles upon another decade in Parisian history when the clock strikes midnight and is tossed into the world of Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Picasso. But in the morning, he's back to the present and his less-than-pleasant fiancée (Rachel McAdams) and her snooty parents and pretentious friends. Every night, he returns to his 1920s romp and flirts with the beautiful and enigmatic Adriana (Marion Cotillard) and every night he drinks in the freedom; every morning, he yearns for the night. Then he discovers, Adriana yearns for the past as well--except her past is even farther in history for Gil. That's when he realizes that his past, the one he yearns for, is Adriana's present. "Maybe the present is a little unsatisfying because...life is a little unsatisfying," he says to her.

This is the heart of the film, the message Allen is trying to convey. He doesn't need to explain the fantastical time travel and, by the end of the film, that's far from your mind. The realist who is bothered by the lack of explanation has clearly missed the point, and so I'm hoping you can wrap your mind around this realistic point: live in the present moment.

It's another thing Cheever used to always say, and I can point to all the times it was scrawled in large letters in bright ink on the top of my notes for the day. It's so much easier to be nostalgic for the past and think of it as a "better" or "simpler" time, or perhaps a more "interesting" one. We can ignore all of the problems associated with those past decades and focus on the things that interest us precisely because we don't actually live in those times. I'm sure a hundred years from now after we've colonized Venus, citizens will look back to 2011 and say, "I wish we could live in those days!"

Marion Cotillard and Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris.

I think what Gil says is true: we are constantly dissatisfied with our present because it is human nature to be. We're always looking backwards or forward, never appreciating what we have right here, right now because we seem to have a hard time just being happy. And what is "happiness" anyways? We want to believe the grass really is better on the other side of the fence, so we're always searching. I think sometimes we take our own torment too seriously--is life really that harsh?

The general answer, in my opinion, is, "No," but we're so concerned with the idea of "happiness" these days. In last month's issue of The Atlantic, Lori Gottlieb examined this conundrum too in her article "How to Land Your Kid in Therapy": "Nowadays, it’s not enough to be happy—if you can be even happier. The American Dream and the pursuit of happiness have morphed from a quest for general contentment to the idea that you must be happy at all times and in every way."

Which ties into another Midnight in Paris lesson, despite it having been said by one of the most annoying characters of the film: "Nostalgia is denial--denial of the painful present. The name for this denial is golden age thinking--the erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in. It's a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present."

Now to just remember these lessons during the next existential crisis...

Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling in Blue Valentine.

Blue Valentine is a heartbreaking look at the inevitable destruction of romance and love. Okay, that's a little harsh--it's more like life slapping you in the face a bit, really. For those who haven't seen it, I won't spoil the plot. Instead, you can read about it over in the New U in Mallory's review from last week. Go ahead.

Moving on...what I both liked and didn't like about Blue Valentine as opposed to its more mature counterpart Revolutionary Road is how much the filmmakers force the audience to feel. Revolutionary Road felt more distant in time/space; Blue Valentine, felt more real because it was more of a "that's the fucking future" than the 1955-setting of RR. It also felt real because there were many parts that were familiar, and that's the most depressing thing about those sad films and sad songs and sad stories we hear from time-to-time. The things we relate to are what affect us the most. It stirs up emotions we know we have inside of our hearts, yet can't always seem to access.

I wouldn't call myself the most romantic person in the world, nor would I consider myself a heedless optimist. I'm afraid I haven't been the best person to discuss love and relationships with, but I think my concept of marriage has been skewed by recent events and observations. My first failed marriage aside, I honestly can't see myself as a family person, though Kristen said she thinks I'm most suited for family life. "You'd make an awesome mom," she said the other night. "I can tell by the way you act with friends and other people." I don't know if that's something I can necessarily get on board with, though the one thing that struck me as odd while I was back home last and going through old family photos was this desire to form and love a family as much as my own mother did for us. "At the end of the day, sometimes all you have left is family," she said once, and I've never forgotten that.

But then, of course, comes a film like Blue Valentine to make me re-think that. But, honestly, I don't think it's scared me away from marriage completely. I don't really feel any differently about it now than I did two days ago. I know that right now I'm not prepared for all that stuff and, hell, I might not even be ready for it in a year or two or three. The fact that I wasn't as affected by BV, though, makes me feel okay about life though, because it means I don't have unrealistic expectations--the kinds I used to have and the kinds that have killed relationships for me in the past--about love anymore.

Having said all of that, I would recommend Blue Valentine as a film because it's a good slap across the face to the dreamers out there who think life is a fairytale with no bumps and bruises along the way. I'm not saying we're all destined to be bitter and alone, but we need to expect some detours along the way to our happily ever afters.