Watching the final Harry Potter film made me cry. I sat there, thinking of what it means to be at once caught up in the moment and to be so aware of the moment; thinking of what it means to know a childhood is at an end, ushered out with such a spectacular finale.
There’s something wonderful in watching the people in a theatre watching the movie, sometimes warranting more attention than the movie itself. Of course, with Harry Potter, I was only able to tear my eyes away from the screen for a fleeting moment, as I leaned down to sip my Diet Dr. Pepper. I looked around at the faces, totally and completely engrossed in the screen. And I thought, this is something. This is a pop-culture phenomenon. A book series that has swept the world over and enraptured it, captivated it, claimed it.
We are all a part of something bigger than ourselves. A work of art that allows us to transcend ourselves. There were moments of the film that left me breathless, in awe of the fusion of some of the best of written art, performed art, digital art, sound art. There were moments that were heartbreakingly beautiful in their culmination of seven books, eight films. But what were those books and films, independent of their own worth—what were they to me? Hours of bliss that went on and on and on, beyond the limits of hours. I took my childhood dreams and hopes and poured them into the books and films that suddenly appeared and answered a need I had.
The epilogue was disappointing in its nature, exactly as it had been in the book. It felt like a forced conclusion, an insulting, abrupt reminder that it has all come to an end. I looked at Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint during the final scenes, thinking of them as adults, guessing their emotions at finishing a project that has consumed their childhoods. They must feel elated. Shell-shocked. Empty. Free and liberated. Fulfilled and disappointed and unsure—of what the future holds.
They felt a joy in the final scenes that complements the reluctance, the sadness, the mourning on the part of the audience. For us, the new magic is done. We can look forward to revisiting words we’ve read before, many a time; we can anticipate watching movies on a rainy day that we can quote verbatim. They will be new for me again only when I read them to my children and watch their excitement, their joy, and their wonder as they visit Harry’s broom cupboard, ride the Hogwarts Express, enter the halls of Hogwarts for the first time.
I didn’t really cry during the movie because Fred had died. Or shed another tear because Snape died a death he didn’t truly deserve, after living a life he hadn’t really deserved. I didn’t feel another few tears slip down my face because Hermione cried when she couldn’t rightfully prevent her best friend from sacrificing himself—and so she offered to sacrifice herself too.
I cried for how much Harry Potter has meant to me. The film, as a representation of the entire thing, the whole endeavor, had earned my tears. It humbly demanded them. Oh, how I needed some small form of emotional release for everything I was feeling as I watched the final two hours, the final hour, the final half an hour, the final few minutes, the final scene. I wanted, I want, it to go on and on.
But the new stage is done for Harry Potter and for childhood. As the already-worn bindings of my books can attest to, Harry Potter and I know each other well. I will visit the pages of those beloved books again and again, until I meet death as an old friend (hopefully). Albeit reluctantly, however, it’s time for that unwritten span of time that lies between Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows and its epilogue. That span of time between childhood and the climax of adulthood.
As wonderful as growing up with the characters of Harry Potter has been, as comforting as that which has already been written is, as challenging as being a full-blown adult will be, I can’t truly doubt that this stage will be wonderful too.
I mean after all, look at how magnificent a childhood it was.
No comments:
Post a Comment