Carol and I watched a movie on Sunday called "Harvey. 1950. Jimmy Stewart.
About Elwood P. Dowd and his 6 foot 8 inch invisible rabbit named Harvey. Magnificent movie.
Carol has been pestering me to watch it for a long time. Typically I prefer movies with machetes and beheadings but I am really glad I watched Harvey.
One chunk of dialogue exploded my head.
Elwood P. Dowd talking:
"Harvey and I have things to do. We sit in the bars, have a drink or two and play the jukebox. Very soon the faces of the other people turn towards me and they smile. They say 'We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fellow.' Harvey and I warm ourselves in these golden moments. We entered as strangers and soon we have friends. They come over. They sit with us. They drink with us. They talk to us. They tell us about the great big terrible things they have done and the great big wonderful things they're going to do. Their hopes, their regrets. Their loves, their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. Then I introduce them to Harvey, and he's bigger and grander than anything they can offer me. When they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back, but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us. That's too bad, isn't it?"
There is a lot of emotion, empathy and insight in those words. The line that cracked my skull was "nobody ever brings anything small into a bar."
How true. How perceptive. If you walk into a bar to kill your pain, it doesn't matter what the source of your pain is. A collection notice on an overdue bill, the fact that your house burned down, or you lost your job. Or you are just feeling down. Or your fucking back is killing you or your kids don't talk to you.
Whatever the reason, it is huge to you. Huge.
Such a delicious surprise, this movie. Sounds silly but it is far from that.
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