Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver, the other is gold.
While most of us might know this adage about friendship from a Girl Scout song, I think it also applies to something a bit unexpected— movies.
Almost nothing beats the feeling of walking into the movie theater — armed with a comically large Diet Coke and a bucket of popcorn — and settling down into a reclining seat to watch a long-awaited new release.
The anticipation, the excitement and the hope of reward fill the theater.
When I was a kid, this feeling was reserved for the newest iteration of Gru and his minions. Now, that feeling is for the rare movies brimming with star power and social media buzz, like “Barbie” and “Challengers.”
But I truly believe nothing can beat sitting down to rewatch an old classic.
The “Barbie” and “Challengers” of the world deserve their silver status, but the tried-and-true favorites will always be gold.
One of my personal gold-standard films, the 1989 rom-com, “When Harry Met Sally,” ends at a New Year’s Eve party. The titular characters have reunited, and around them, partiers in puffy gowns and tuxedos are singing “Auld Lang Syne.”
Harry, having sprinted down the streets of Manhattan to proclaim his love to Sally after years of missed opportunities and miscommunication, asks Sally what the song means, admitting, “My whole life, I don’t know what this song means.”
Sally replies, “Anyway, it’s about old friends…”
From a young age, I’ve always felt that the characters in my favorite movies were like old friends.
My first love — in terms of movies — was “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,” introduced to me by my dad at the ripe age of nine years old. My dad likely regretted coming home bearing that bargain-bin DVD, because for the next year of my life, I was obsessed.
Within a few weeks, I’d forced all of my elementary school friends to watch the movie with me. Within a few years, I’d created an army of unbearable children, constantly spewing the film’s iconic lines in perfect unison— “Never had one lesson!” “Ferris Bueller, you’re my hero,” “When Cameron was in Egypt’s land… let my Cameron go.”
“Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” probably rewired my brain chemistry — and for good or bad, shaped me into the chronic rewatcher I am today.
I quickly moved on to familiar territory with John Hughes’ “The Breakfast Club,” then expanded to other quotable cult classics — “Clueless,” “10 Things I Hate About You” and “Dazed and Confused.”
At sleepovers, on weekends or after school, my friends and I would pile onto the couch to queue up an old favorite for the fifth or 50th time. Even during the COVID-19 pandemic, we’d convene virtually for weekly movie nights, texting each other inside jokes.
Once I headed off to college, my favorite movies became a reminder of the comforts of my home. Whenever I was having a hard day, I knew I could visit my “old friends” — albeit through a laptop screen.
For those who decry rewatching as boring or pointless, this might all sound a little cheesy or depressing, depending on your interpretation.
But rewatching a movie isn’t just a way to stoke childhood nostalgia or consume the equivalent of emotional comfort food. It’s also a way to learn more about yourself — to understand how you’ve grown by measuring your changing experiences against the unchangingness of a film.
As a child, “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” was an aspirational picture of high school — a world that seemed light years away and full of possibilities.
My high school experience was a lot more AP exams and Zoom lectures than 1961 red Ferraris and elaborate pranks. Now, soon to graduate from college, I understand the film to be mostly a fantasy — and I’ve wholeheartedly accepted my status as a Cameron Frye type, rather than Sloane Peterson.
But after dozens of rewatches, I’ve come to understand its greatness doesn’t just lie in the famous, flashy scenes: Ferris catching a foul ball at Wrigley Field, taunting the snooty waitstaff at fancy restaurants and singing “Twist and Shout” in the middle of a massive parade.
Underneath the surface, the movie is also a meditation on individuality, freedom and the fleetingness of youth.
At 21, my favorite scene isn’t one of the big comedic moments or exciting set pieces. It’s the trio’s wordless trip to the Art Institute of Chicago, set to the Dream Academy’s ethereal cover of The Smiths’ “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want.”
A simple scene that flew over my head on first viewing, Cameron’s personal revelation in front of Georges Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” is now a moment on film that moves me in a way not much else can.
If nothing else, it’s a tribute to the transformational power of art.
Even if you’re not a rewatcher at heart, don’t forget about your old friends — consider returning to a childhood classic.
Old friends – movies, books, people – really are the best friends. And you’re right, they are all worth revisiting. Thank you for the reminder. Well done, Ruby.