When Harry Met Sally (2017)

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Last night I saw “When Harry Met Sally” at Logan with my great gal pal, J, who I should have apologized to for reciting quotes during the movie.

It still holds up. Even though there are no cellphones, that Marie pulls out a physical Roladex to set Sally up, that she and Jessie answer actual house phones (with apparently their own lines) and that they flag down a cab instead or ordering an Uber, it worked for me, more than re-watching old SATC episodes (though many of those are still relateable.)

“When Harry Met Sally” is one of my favorite movies of all time, definitely my favorite rom com.

It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it start to finish and I was honestly worried that some things would bother me in my “advanced” age and in this state of Trump and all that is terrible.

Thankfully, even though Harry is clearly a man-splain-y, annoying dude, he is not pushy, or aggressive. He listens without interruption or suggestion when Sally tells him over lunch what happened with her and Joe. I’ve noticed more and more that Jessie’s reaction to him explaining himself after sleeping with Sally and his quick departure are not of annoyance for having to listen to him prattle on, but a genuine “you messed up dude, but sure, keep thinking you didn’t.”

While I was never a huge Princess Leia person, it was definitely bittersweet to see Carrie Fisher. I always loved the character of Marie.

My only negative take away is simply that it still paints a very movie-ending summary of how relationships, love and connection “work.”

“At least you can say you were married” says Sally’s friend Alice when Marie implies Sally should get out there, lest she end up like a guy who got divorced, took his time being single, and then died six months later.

“And you’ll spend the rest of your life knowing someone else is married to your husband.”

The ultimate goal is weddings and marriage.

Add in the elderly couples who have been married for over three, four, even five decades, and you have a “realistic” fairy tale ending that is out there for all of us.

I’m sure a large reason this movie always struck a chord with me was an unrequited crush I had on my best guy friend. I would listen to Alanis Morissette’s “Head Over Feet” on blast, lying in my bed in anguish.

Maybe even now it feels a tinge bitter that no one has ever gotten down on one knee for me, that all of the conflated gestures that make me worthy of love never presented themselves.

In high school, my friends pitied the fact that I’d never been asked to a dance. So they convinced one of their boyfriend’s to ask me to Homecoming. It was a real “Carrie” moment, minus the blood, fire and actual late blooming love connection.

Movies do this to us. We’re supposed to want someone blasting Peter Gabriel from a boombox outside our bedroom window.

My love for WHMS lives on. But now I can watch it without emotional attachment and the aching desire for something that is only made for the screen.

 

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