Film Noir is one of those classic genres of cinema that is almost instantly recognizable. We know what we're getting ourselves into as soon as the lights go down. The lighting, the framing, the high contrast between light and dark, the imagery and subject matter all cue us: we're watching a noir movie.
But according my my cinema teacher, at the time these films were made, no one went to the studio and said "I want to make a film noir." The genre is something we have applied in retrospect to a group of films made in a certain time, with certain techniques, to fit prevailing tastes. Now we can see these similarities and group them under the heading "Noir." At the time, people were just going about making good movies.
When I was little, my mom would tuck me in every night. She'd come lie down with me and we'd talk about the day. That was our time to reflect on things that we'd learned, on things that were bothering me, but I hadn't been courageous enough to bring up in the day time, or in public. It was in these times that she taught me how to cleanse my energy and calm myself, as well. I don't remember when we stopped doing that, but I have a very clear memory of the night when I realized, as I was putting myself to bed, that she'd stopped tucking me in. And even then, I couldn't recall when it had happened. The transition itself had been imperceptible. It was only upon reflection that I realized things had changed.
I'd be willing to bet that most people were afraid of some kind of monsters as children. And most of us hid under our blankets. We devised ways to encase ourselves entirely in the safety of the comforter, leaving only a tiny opening to breathe through.
And then, at some point, we stopped. At some point I stopped sleeping under my pillow. I no longer lie awake wondering if Communion-style grays (I have an alien problem) are staring impassively at me through the window. But I don't remember when that fear left me. Burying my head under blankets and pillows used to be a fool-proof way to protect myself against whatever horror I'd either invented, read about, or just watched on TV. But no matter how hard I try, I can't pin down when that ended.
At a party last week I met a stranger who had known someone I went to high school with. When I was a freshman, this mutual acquaintance had been a senior, and I have distinct memories of how mature and sophisticated this guy was. I mean, he was a senior. In my mind, he'd been a grown up, while I was still a goofy kid.
As the conversation turned, I sat back for a moment and realized that I am 10 years older than he had been when I knew him. So in retrospect I can say that of course he didn't have his shit together, he was an 18 year old kid himself.
A few months ago I read K an old poem I'd written a while back. It was about the nights when I'd lie awake, battling my demons and trying to stay sane until daylight or sleep came. In it, I said that someday I would read this to a lover, and it would be difficult for him or her to understand, because in that future someday I'd be sleeping peacefully through the night.
Reading that poem to K, I started crying. I had forgotten about those nights. Somewhere along the way, I had made my peace with night time. And looking back, I can't recall when those nightly battles ended.
So many transitions in my life can only be seen when looking backwards. They are often trends that I don't notice until I look over my shoulder and think "when did that change?" But because the change was slow, consisting of many pieces adding up over the course of months or years, there can be no fixed moment to point at.
I'm beginning to think that that's what growing up is about. We struggle and work on ourselves, on our goals and relationships, and enormous change rarely happens overnight. "Yesterday I was insecure, possessive, and had trust issues. Today I am confident, self-assured, and able to trust the people who deserve it." That sounds great. But it doesn't happen that way. Today I am insecure and possessive. Tomorrow hopefully I'll be slightly less so. The day after I might be a bit more, because progress isn't a simple line graph. It's waves on a beach, coming in, going out, but each one on average a little higher than previous waves.
Someday I will be confident. I will be free of possessiveness, and I will be able to trust those who have earned it. But I won't be able to see such monumental change while I'm in the middle of it.
Like film noir, these transitions can only be defined in retrospect.
