On the enduring appeal of fantasies, romantic and communal.
Every September, as part
of the first-year orientation activities, Harvard screens Love Story (1970)
for its entire freshman class. The screening is partly self-referential, as the
production was one of the last allowed to film on the university’s grounds (it
caused sufficient damage to contribute toward a change in university policy
that now prohibits such filming) and so offers a rare opportunity to see actual
Harvard buildings and settings on the big screen; and it’s partly
tongue-in-cheek, as orientation leaders and administrators dress up in
‘60s/’70s apparel as part of the experience. But however ironic our young
American filmgoers might tend to be, there’s still something quite striking
about an annual Harvard screening of a film designated one of the
most romantic of all time.
It’s not just that Love Story is
self-consciously and thoroughly romantic, though—it’s that it creates its
romance through a combination of just about every relevant cliché and
stereotype, of both Harvard and love stories, possible. Its star-crossed lovers
from opposite sides of the tracks (he an elite Harvard legacy and hockey
player, she a working-class student supporting herself through school) fall in love at first sight
and pursue their romance despite opposition from his snobby Harvard father,
supporting each other through the darkest of times and coming out on top, only
to meet a tragic fate through an unnamed terminal illness. Indeed, Love Story is such a collection of
romantic clichés that it even coined its own, in the enduring catchphrase “Love means never having to
say you’re sorry” (which is ironically perhaps the least accurate cliché in
human history, as anyone who’s ever tried to make a long-term relationship work
can attest).
The film’s romantic fantasies are generally universal and longstanding,
more connected to Romeo and Juliet than Harvard. But they certainly utilize two
distinct but perhaps interconnected stereotypical images of Harvard and higher
education in America—the elitist, legacy side embodied by Ryan O’Neal’s path to
the school and romance; and the upward mobility, American Dream side
exemplified by Ali McGraw’s. (In that sense and only that sense, perhaps McGraw’s
untimely demise could be read as more cynical or socially critical than clichéd.)
Just as the film’s lovers do, our current narratives of higher ed embrace the
democratic, upward mobility image and reject the elitist, legacy one—and of
course, the former is indeed a far more positive goal, one deployed in direct
response to the latter’s historical and ongoing prevalence. But it’s worth
recognizing that both are fantasies, simplified and romanticized images of
identity and community that must be analyzed rather than taken for granted. I’d
apologize for saying so, but blogging means never having to say you’re sorry.
Last Harvard movie tomorrow,
Ben
PS. What do you think? Other images of Harvard or higher ed you’d
highlight?
No comments:
Post a Comment