Ariane de Gennaro

How does one identify a modern classic? Is there a particular viewing experience that constitutes a film worth adding to the cannon of media literacy? I think that there is, and I would like to make a submission. 

When I was little, my favorite movie was “The Sound of Music.” (Which I am aware is already a classic, but stick with me.) I have always loved beautiful movies, and the saturated, technicolor depiction of the Austrian Alps satisfied my youthful cravings for a life with a setting that was worthy of its happenings. 

My appreciation of the polished nostalgia in the film bordered on obsession. I went through a period when I was five years old when I would watch “The Sound of Music” every day after school. I went as far as to cast a live production starring my family members, and, not understanding the political component of the film, cast my cousin in the role of Rolf the Nazi. The show never got off the ground. 

But perhaps my favorite part of “The Sound of Music” was the added introduction that Julie Andrews filmed for the 2001 rerelease of the movie on DVD. In the intro, Andrews — who somehow still looks exactly like Maria did when the movie came out in 1965 — walks the decades-old set and ponders why the movie-musical has retained such a place in the collective consciousness. She posits the centrality of the family, the core morals and the invigorating soundtrack as possible explanations, before settling on something else.

“‘The Sound of Music’ lives on because it offers a promise that, if you have faith and persevere, you can follow every rainbow until you find your dreams,” Andrews finally decides. 

This answer, which quotes the climactic number “Climb Every Mountain,” is admittedly trite, but as a child, I loved the idea that there were qualities in a work of art that could render it timeless. 

It wasn’t, however, until about eight years later that I finally identified that X factor Julie Andrews had searched for in her explanation of the movie’s longevity. I was 13, looking for something to watch and decided to give a cheesy-looking romcom called “About Time” a try. 

If you’ve seen “About Time,” I hope you would agree with me, that truly, the only word to describe it is perfect. It is so nonsensical, so awkward, so humanly imperfect that it is able to shine in its encapsulation of what makes it worth it to be human. The movie came out in 2013, and, although it is written and directed by the screenwriter of classic romantic comedies like “Four Weddings and a Funeral” and “Notting Hill,” Richard Curtis, managed to stay relatively under the radar in the years following its release. The story follows self-conscience and lanky Tim from adolescence to fatherhood as he figures out how to incorporate his family’s secret super power — and stay with me here — time travel, into his quest for love. 

I don’t want to say more about what happens in “About Time.” I believe it is a movie that can be best appreciated when you watch it completely in the dark. But I do want you to know this. Experiencing the world of this movie, as it is charming and low-stakes and so utterly and wonderfully fictional, is a feeling akin to eating the perfect strawberry on a blisteringly hot day. It is that rare viewing experience where you feel you are more than an observer. 

I am aware that those are cliches. They are intentionally so, since “About Time” — and this, I believe, is the commonality between those timeless, delectably wistful movies like “The Sound of Music” — is that they remind us that those cliches stem from human experience. With their particular brand of fantastical banality, these films help us find those elements of our own lives that adhere to art. They are beautiful.