We all have certain favorites that we like to turn to this time of year–go-to movies or television episodes or songs that beckon like a lighthouse in the dark. And certainly, in my adopted state of Vermont, “dark” is an apt description. The winter solstice occurs during the heart of the holiday season. Sunset is early. Sunrise is late. In between, there are frigid, snow-filled days, gloomy with gray clouds that hover low over the frozen land like unwashed, soiled laundry.
It’s no wonder, then, that many people look for a tonic, some reliable holiday classic that never fails to elicit a feeling of warmth and thankfulness, of appreciation and goodwill. For me, movies such as It’s a Wonderful Life, Meet Me in St. Louis, and Trading Places serve to brighten my December, offering annual strolls down memory lane, retaining their luster and their shine.
The list of holiday classics is long, though. I never have the chance to watch as many movies or select TV shows as I’d like to in any given holiday season. But this month, I thought of one movie in particular that I hadn’t viewed in years, and I made a firm decision to remedy that oversight. So, just last night, after a day in which nine inches of fresh snow had fallen on the Green Mountain State, I popped in the DVD, settled in with some popcorn and hot chocolate, and enjoyed . . .
Surely, Miracle on 34th Street is a Christmas classic. Filmed in 1947, it as endearing now as the day it debuted in theaters seven decades ago. And though I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen it, many of the scenes instantly came back to me as I watched, like being reacquainted with an old friend, too long absent but the memory of whom burns bright and vibrant in the soul.
The plot of Miracle on 34th Street is simple–corny, even. And yet–there is a magic to this movie, and when the final credits roll at the end, you feel better for having watched it. While Miracle on 34th Street is undoubtedly a Christmas movie, and deals with the theme in specific point of view–the true gift of this film runs deeper. The crux of the plot centers around a lawyer’s attempt to “prove” that Santa Claus exists. And in true vintage Hollywood fashion, he accomplishes this, and then goes one further by “proving” that an eccentric old man, who calls himself Kris Kringle and who plays a department store Santa at Macy’s in New York City, is, in fact, the genuine article.
For me, though, the heart of Miracle on 34th Street has very little to do with Santa, or even the holiday itself. It has to do with faith. with the limitless power of thought, the vistas of our imagination, the lifelong struggle, and opportunity–even as we grow older and assume the responsibilities of adulthood–to retain at least some spark, some essence of our youth.
At one juncture in the movie, old Kris Kringle has a talk with Susan, a serious, thoroughly sensible little girl. Susan tells Kris that she doesn’t like it when her friends and classmates play pretend games. Such things are “silly,” she says–echoing her practical and everything-is-factual-and-tangible-minded mother. Susan thinks to pretend is to depart from the real world, and is therefore a waste of time.
Kris flips the argument on its head, turning the perceived flaw into a strength.
In order to pretend, he tells the girl, you have to have the ability to imagine.
“Imagination is a place all by itself,” Kris explains. “A separate country. Now, you’ve heard of the French nation, the British nation. Well this . . . is the imagi-nation.” He promises her it’s a wonderful place. “How would you like to have a ship all to yourself,” he asks, “that makes daily trips to China? And Australia? How would you like to be the Statue of Liberty in the morning, and then, in the afternoon, fly south with a flock of geese?”
Susan nods, moonstruck. The old man is unlocking something heretofore buried inside of her, something real and essential, and needing to come out.
We all need the occasional flight of fancy. We all need the ability to take a step back, temporarily forget about the bills, the doctor appointment, the in-box, the stack of papers on the desk, the planning for the party next week. Granted, planning for the party next week is important. And those bills won’t pay for themselves. But it’s all too easy to get stuck on a treadmill, or caught on a straight and narrow path, hemmed in by featureless gray walls.
The Kris Kringle from Miracle on 34th Street, in crisp black-and-white, the department store Santa Claus from the 1940s, the physical, earthy, jocular fellow, is a relic, the sights and sounds around him a living, moving time capsule. But he has much to say to us even now, on the cusp of 2018.
The imagi-nation is a magical place, not just during the holidays, but the whole year through.
I’ll be sure to see you there.
Have a wonderful and blessed holiday, and thanks so much for reading!
–Mike