Daze of Future Passed

As a requiem for the Sixties, The Big Chill didn't quite hit the mark the first time around, in 1983. Its greatest-hits soundtrack was soul-stirring, all right; it's hard to top the Stones, Marvin Gaye or Aretha Franklin in any decade. But the shameless way in which director Lawrence Kasdan idealized the ideals of his generation unwittingly exposed more vices than virtues, including self-righteousness, sentimental self-absorption and the inability to shut up. By 1983, many of us middle-class white kids who came of age in the furnace of the anti-war movement--and on the outskirts of Black Power--had indeed asked ourselves some burning questions, just like the characters in the movie. Who's teaching in the barrio now? How did I wind up in this suit? Where did our love go? Got any grass?

But unlike the cynics, sellouts and burnouts who inhabit The Big Chill, most of us, by the time we reached our mid-thirties, could acknowledge that, along with the rest of it, we had been pretty stagy revolutionists, less-than-perfect utopians and our parents' children after all. We could look back, learn a lesson and move on without feeling devastated about it. That proved much harder for Kasdan's bunch: Reunited for the funeral of their old University of Michigan classmate Alex, who embodied their best hopes and dreams but who has just killed himself, Harold and Sarah and Meg and Nick and Sam and the other marathon bickerers and blatherers evidently concluded that, once the peace and justice era went up in a puff of hash, you had no choice but to become a guilty corporate lackey, a coke dealer or a suicide.

Oh, really?
There was plenty of glib, ironic sniping in the movie, but it took itself very, very seriously about the lost ideals of a lost generation. Have another look at Glenn Close's Sarah, close to tears and a mother, wondering if her political fervor had even been real: "I hate to think it was all," she laments.

Seen anew from the promontory (all right, the molehill) of 1998, The Big Chill will strike some as a kind of gaudy antique, others as a social sham. Reactions would be similar, I suspect, to John Sayles's 1980 movie Return of the Secaucus 7, which is lesser known but almost creepily similar. Viewers in their twenties will most likely regard Chill with contempt, as another load of self-indulgence from the geezers who are going to leech away their Social Security benefits. On the other hand, if you're still living in your VW bus, burning the lava lamp for Huey P. Newton, Norman Mailer's Armies of the Night and the collected works of Moby Grape, then this will be Paradise Lost all over again. In any event, Kasdan's tuneful lament for a time, scheduled for recycling November 6, now takes on a second encrustation of nostalgia--like a creaky old ship getting a new coat of barnacles.

Consider what's happened since 1983. The generation that meant to change the world (By Any Means Necessary!) in 1968 has inherited the whole untidy mess. We have even installed one of our own--gray now, but still bent on instant gratification--in the little bathroom next to the Oval Office. In fifteen years, left-leaning politics has mutated into vanilla centrism or dreamy new-age "self-realization." Countless thousands of stubborn anti-materialists have been magically reborn as greedy Bull Marketeers. And the idealized dead classmate who failed to make an actual appearance in The Big Chill turns out to have been Kevin Costner--left on the cutting-room floor back then, bankable as all get-out today. Oh, the ironies.

For his own part, director Kasdan has since taken on, among other projects, Wyatt Earp (1994), The Accidental Tourist (1988), and another great gob of soul-searching in the manner of The Big Chill, but for the Nineties, wouldn't you know: Well-meaning but hopelessly solemn, all 134 minutes of his Grand Canyon slipped quickly into oblivion back in 1991.

Watching Chill again last week, I was most struck, as always, by the music. Whether you're a nostalgiaphile or a curmudgeon, just try to resist the Temptations as they sail through "Ain't Too Proud to Beg," or Aretha belting out "A Natural Woman," or the Band doing "The Weight." It's impossible. Otherwise, I found the movie's little quirks--its vast collection of trivia--far more interesting this time around than its leaden message of disillusionment. If the devil's in the details, so is salvation of a sort.

To wit: Remember Kevin Kline's Harold, the well-heeled host of the funeral reunion? The guy married to Glenn Close's Sarah? It had slipped my mind that Harold's athletic-shoe company is called "Running Dog," presumably a riff on "imperialist running dog" conjured up by a guilt-ridden hip capitalist. Do you recall that Kline, in the name of friendship, agrees to provide stud service for single lawyer Meg (Mary Kay Place), who wants desperately to bear a child? Probably. But do you remember what Meg says to him? "I feel like I got a great break on a used car."

Over the years I had forgotten that Nick, William Hurt's cynical drug dealer, drives a ratty black Porsche with a dent in the side--or that he'd managed to get his penis shot off in Vietnam, a la Jake Barnes. It had drifted into the mists of time that the music at Costner's--er, Alex's--funeral amounts to a major-league symbolism alert: the Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" pumped out as a lugubrious organ dirge meant to encompass a generation. I didn't remember that in the first sequence Kline tugs his well-starched white cuff, then his expensive suit jacket, over an expanse of nasty-looking black tattoo. Thus does the former counterculturalist obscure his past.

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