Everyone has a first memory, or at least a memory that somehow becomes your “first memory.” Mine was Star Wars. The story goes that my dad decided it was a good idea to take me to see the new George Lucas epic in the theater. My mom thought he was nuts. He won out, the sights and sounds of a Star Destroyer literally flying over my head imprinted itself in my mind, something I would never, ever forget, the memory that first scratched itself like lovers’ initials into the tree trunk of my mind. Well-worn action figures followed by ensuing decades of repeated viewings and memorized lines proved, on this occasion at least, my father was right, my mother wrong. I was 3 and a half years old.
It was the first of a lifetime of seeing movies with my father. He loved the movies. He could appreciate a drama and something arty every once in a while, but action and comedies were his thing. His favorites were probably the comedies of Mel Brooks — “The Producers,” “Young Frankenstein,” “Blazing Saddles” — and the early work of Woody Allen was something he introduced me to early on, the visual Allen’s character in “Take the Money and Run” playing cello in a marching band was the kind of gag that hit him right in the sweet spot. There were Star Wars sequels and Indiana Jones flicks in the theater among others, sure, but this was the 80’s we were talking about and so, in our house, the VCR was king. My father was generally an earlyish adopter and it wasn’t long before he was programming the device to record movies at all hours. Coupled with our new HBO subscription, our home library started to grow, dad fitting two movies to each tape, creating some interesting combinations on each VHS. My friends still joke about a post-concert all-nighter they spent sleeping over in my basement, digging into my dad’s collection, and the smooth segue from “When Harry Met Sally” into “Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”
The VCR ended up being multiple levels of tech to uncover, like an Indy Jones archaeological dig. From programming the overnight tapings to newfangled concepts like rewind and fast forward right on the TV, it was all part of the fun for dad. One evening we were watching the girl-passes-as-boy comedy “Just One of the Guys,” when the protagonist flashed her bare breasts to prove that she was, indeed, female, not the dude she was pretending to be. If you thought it might be uncomfortable as an eleven year old to take in your first bit of cinematic nudity with your dad sitting right there, how do you think I felt when he hopped up with a start? I started to squirm, wondering what he was going to say, maybe an awkward mid-film birds-and-bees lecture or worse? Nope! Dad leapt to the VCR, employed first the rewind and then, with an amateur’s skill, paused the tape right on the moment of, er, truth. When he turned around with a grin I will never forget, I wasn’t sure if it was the boobs or the fact that he’d successfully employed his newfound ability to pause a film at any moment he wished. That was power.
WIth the VCR becoming more central to our household day-to-day, another important figure entered our lives: the video store guy (or guys, there were actually two of them at our local rental spot). His role was rabbinical, his word something to be reckoned with. He was always correct, like a good teacher, his recommendations offered as if we had thought of them ourselves. I remember how a “do you like Woody Allen?” prompt led to dad and I going home and watching “Zelig,” one he had never seen, together sort of piecing together the brilliance of the film and really, for me, discovering what a really good film could do. Another I-think-you’ll-dig-this recommendation from the VSG was “Fandango,” an early Kevin Costner road trip film with a raucous classic rock soundtrack. The end credits of the movie were set to “Can’t Find My Way Home,” which fortuitously had my dad pulling his original “Blind Faith” vinyl out to prove to me that he did indeed know the origin of that song. It was another moment I will never forget, as it was the day I discovered my dad’s record collection and perhaps the day I discovered music discovery itself. As important a day as there was in my upbringing, all thanks to a casual recommendation from the video store guy and a father who was game to try, and then, kindly rewind, almost anything.
Over time watching movies at home no longer meant time with dad, but rather an excuse to be alone with my girlfriend and, not too long after that, it was off to college, developing my own cinematic tastes independent of my father. Although it was a small triumph when we watched “Zelig” in a Jewish Experience Through Film class I was taking and I got to feel a little smart for having already seen it in high school (thanks again, VSG!). Years passed, VHS begat DVD’s, remote controls at dad’s seemed to proliferate, but there were always movies to watch when I was home.
For better or worse, there is no real life “pause” button, it’s “play” sometimes, more often feeling like “fast forward.” When it became clear that there was nothing left to do for dad’s cancer, my parents decided they would move to be close to my sister and her family. My brother and I drove to their house to help them go through everything as they got ready for the move. We put in a full day of sorting, arranging and throwing things away, it was physically and emotionally exhausting. After dinner, the only natural thing to do was watch a movie together. Dad being dad, he had a DVR filled with options, not to mention streaming on multiple services and pay-per-view. A million options and not a thing to watch, as the old joke goes. Even though he was happy to embrace the newest tech, he kept his Netflix account such that he still had one physical disc mailed to the house (“you get better movies that way.”). So, we checked what DVD he had on hand. It was “Guardians of the Galaxy.” My brother and I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it yet, it was a flick right up his alley. “Oh, we’ve got to watch it!”
I had somehow forgotten that the story starts off with the death of a parent by cancer, but we survived the momentary awkwardness of the opening scenes and spent the rest of the evening silently enjoying a great movie together. I can’t recall if my dad fell asleep before it was over, but I prefer to remember that he I’m-just-resting-my-eyes dozed once or twice somewhere in there. That was his way. The credits rolled, we all agreed it was great, we said our weary goodnights and went to sleep.
While there was the next morning, a quick breakfast, hugs and a tearful goodbye, I like to think of the last moments I spent with my father as sitting in front of that TV in his darkened den, watching a movie, a comic-book take on Star Wars, more or less. It makes for a good final memory, if you’re lucky, you get to have one of those, too.
