When I first watched the movie Elf, I laughed like everyone else when Buddy the Elf poured maple syrup on his spaghetti, but later I thought, Wait, why is that so outrageous? After all, North Americans regularly eat waffles and syrup, sweet and sour pork, and other combinations of sweetness and carbohydrates, so why not syrup and spaghetti? Yes, it's still a gross and funny combination—but it also exposes a weird, contradictory aspect of our eating customs.
Maybe a better example of the power of social convention is the lesson Buddy gets from his human brother about proper dating etiquette. The brother tells Buddy that he should take his female co-worker on a date by asking her "to eat food," but it has to be "real food, not candy." The movie is again obviously making a joke by pointing out that a custom North Americans take for granted seems arbitrary and strange from a kid or elf's perspective. What makes this joke especially interesting, though, is that it exposes a puzzle in American culture. From a biological perspective, you would think we'd eat sweets and only sweets on many ritual occasions, since enjoyment of sweet tastes is one of the few biological universals we humans (raised by humans) share. So why aren't we supposed to just sip maple syrup and nibble on fine chocolates on first dates?
There's an even better authority here than mere biological science: Matt
Damon in Good Will Hunting. In the Harvard bar scene in this movie,
after Skylar (Minnie Driver) gives Will (Damon) her phone number, she says,
"Maybe we could go out for a cup of coffee sometime?"
"Great," Will says, "Or maybe we could go somewhere and just eat a bunch of caramels." Skylar is baffled, so Will explains, "When you think about it, it's just as arbitrary as drinking coffee."
Will is making a good anthropological point: our culture has some
rather arbitrary rules about what we must eat and drink during
key rituals.
Elf similarly exposes the cultural side of U.S. customs that
are usually taken for granted, from food habits to escalators. Buddy reminds us
that an escalator really is a scary machine with gnashing metal teeth, a modern
contraption that is literally and metaphorically "earth-shattering."
His escalator ride creates a perfect body metaphor for the disorientation
caused by culture shock.
That’s what culture shock does at its best: it gives us a fresh way to see things, including escalators and hyperbolic advertisements for the “world’s best cup of coffee.” ("You did it! Congratulations!")
The popularity of movies like Elf confirms what psychological researchers have found: humor and good thinking often go hand in hand. Even neuroscience research proves comedy and cognition are linked: on fMRI tests, the same parts of research subjects’ brains light up when they solve word puzzles and when they watch videos of stand-up comedy. At least with some comedies, we're laughing and making sharp realizations at the same time.
None of this rules out critiques of Elf, but others have already articulated these points (e.g. representations of race, gender, and sweatshop elves), so let me end with a more personal story about Christmas and escalators...
Several years ago, right after Christmas, I was flying out of Newark
Airport, not far from New York City, where Buddy had his adventures
("and then I walked through the Lincoln Tunnel"). I always love airports—the
intersection of cultures, the people in transition—but the Newark Airport is
fairly large and impersonal, and on this particular morning, it was filled with
long lines and grumpy people. I overheard one passenger say to a counter
attendant, "How friggin' rude." I myself was low on sleep and
rushing to catch a flight back to the West Coast, so I tried to keep my head down and
not interact with anyone.
Newark Airport, Manhattan in background. Credit Ramriot, Flckr.
When I got to the foot of an escalator, though, a middle-aged woman in an Indian sari tapped me on the shoulder and stopped me. She couldn’t speak English, but she smiled broadly and started to guide the hand of a small boy toward me. A couple confusing possibilities raced through my mind. Was this a trick to exploit my sympathy for what I took to be a mother and her cute little kid? Did she want something? Or was she simply lost?
She just kept smiling, offering me the little boy’s hand, and speaking in a language I couldn't understand. Then I figured out the problem. She had two little boys (her other son was even younger, about 2 years old) and a large suitcase in tow. She couldn’t hold onto her two sons' hands and the suitcase while riding the escalator. She was forced to do what no parent should ever have to do: ask a stranger to take their little boy's hand in a crowded public place.
Suddenly it all made sense, and I felt like a jerk for having distrusted her. Of course I agreed to help.
When the boy put his hand in mine, the harsh airport atmosphere melted away and I felt it—human connection.
Riding up the escalator, the little boy held my hand and looked back and forth between me, the moving stairs, and his mother, standing right behind him, whispering words of assurance. Once the boy got a little older, he'd surely treat the escalator like a joyride or mundane part of life, but in that moment he simply looked confused.
I wanted to make sure they made it to their gate safely, and suddenly wished I
could find out all about them—where they came from, where they were headed, who
was waiting for them on the other side. But the mother just mumbled a quick
thank you, took her boy’s hand, and sped off in the opposite direction.
I never saw that mother and her boys again, but I've wondered about them. I hope they reached their destination.
We could all use escalator rides like that—moments that move the
ground beneath our feet.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment