Dr. Strangelove (or Our Nuclear Family Watches Mushroom Clouds Erupt) - Jan 20 2025

 

Dr. Strangelove

(or Our Nuclear Family Watches Mushroom Clouds Erupt)

Jan 20 2025

Hugs were rare

  —  on special occasions,

or awkwardly

as social norms dictate.

There was no call to share

your day.

And it even felt daring

to say the word “love”;

not just out loud

but to myself.

Clearly, we were not a touchy-feely bunch.

Either repressed, or simply preoccupied

with making a living

getting through each day.

So when I saw my mother cry

  —  really, the only time ever  —

I was 10 years old,

and our nuclear family of 5

were seated in a row

before the silver screen

seeing mushroom clouds erupt

and hearing Vera Lynn’s voice.

It was 20 years after the war,

yet its bittersweet anthem, We’ll Meet Again

must have brought my mother back.

When early on

Hitler seemed unstoppable,

and most of the time

it was impossible to know

if it would end well.

5 terrible years

when hope was scarce

life hard

and friends were killed.

What overcame her

in that unexpected moment?

With all the bombs falling

not so long after Hiroshima,

was it the prospect of war

but this time apocalypse?

Or something from her life

before I came into it?

A time before

that I, a solipsistic child, knew little of

or didn’t asked about,

perhaps

never thought even existed.

But then, aren’t all children little solipsists?

That was the moment

I first saw her as a person

in her own right

  —  ineffable

with hidden depths

and separate from motherhood  —

and not as simply there, as she’d always been,

an eternal presence

taking care.

But what struck me most,

and now, half a century later

I still remember

was seeing such emotion

so openly displayed.

And so, as the bombs fell

and that iconic voice held us all in thrall

I sank into the plush theatre seat

and fixed my eyes on the screen,

unsure what to do

or how to feel.

Just one more lesson

in denial

deflection

detachment.

When the path of least resistance

was to bite my tongue

and pretend I hadn’t noticed.

When, as I’ve now grown to see

words of comfort

or an empathetic touch

would have been far more appropriate.

But wouldn’t she have turned away and waved me off?

To embarrassed by her tears,

too protective

of a private moment

she hadn’t the wherewithal to share?

Because in a family like ours

to cry was unbecoming.

While I was too self-conscious

to show myself,

too inept at emotion

to begin to know how.

When it’s best

to keep your hands to yourself

and eyes straight ahead.

To watch the credits roll

until the very end.

To wait

until the theatre has emptied

the lights have come up

and the curtain has closed.

To when all the tears have been dried

and it’s OK to go.

The waiting until the very end (and I mean “very”!) was actually my father’s thing. He used to be in the movie business, so perhaps he was honouring the hard workers who toiled behind the scenes to make them possible. But I always ungraciously suspected it was his frugality: getting our money’s worth by watching the whole thing. Not a second wasted!

Dr. Strangelove is in my top 3 all-time favourite movies. I love black comedy. It’s a brilliant film, and has beautifully stood the test of time. Peter Sellers’ performance is remarkable, while George C. Scott chews up the scenery. And who can forget the line “our precious bodily fluids”, repeatedly uttered by the cigar chomping general (Sterling Hayden)? I think the black and white not only suits the theme — the either/or of a familiar before and a fateful after; of the contrast in personalities; and of the binary moral choice — but adds to the allure. It gives the film a gritty almost documentary feel that seems both less distracting and less confected than colour. It also firmly grounds the movie in its era. After all, colour film was standard then (no?), so the medium of black and white was clearly an artistic choice.

But I also wonder how much my regard for Dr. Strangelove has to do with this memory?

In my first rough draft, 10 yeas old seemed about right. Later, I checked: I was born in ‘55, and the movie was released in ‘64. Which really seems too old. Not for the discomfort, but the awareness. Kids are not only smarter and grow up faster these days, but I think I was especially clueless: smart academically; but too self-conscious, as well as too inept when it came to managing emotions and dealing with vulnerability.