“These types of films remind me of why I went into film.”
From my big-brained, cynical-eyed, film major friend, that is the highest endorsement I’ve ever heard of a movie. He gave it after we watched Paterson, a 2016 film starring Adam Driver in the titular role as Paterson, a man who lives in Paterson, New Jersey. He lives there with his wife, Laura (Golshifteh Farahani) and his dog, Marvin. He drives the city bus and practices his true passion: writing poetry. Paterson (the film) documents how Paterson (the man) observes everyday facets of Paterson (the town).
The film is about… well, not much really. It’s a one-week slice-of-life with the man. The opening scene shows Paterson waking up at 6:15 a.m. on Monday. The closing scene also shows Paterson waking up at 6:15 a.m. on Monday. It is simply seven days of a dull life told in two hours. There’s little plot. Not much happens. The subtitle of the film could easily read “Adam Driver Walks Around Town For Two Hours.” But in the dullness and mundanity of Adam Driver walking, real beauty arises.
Paterson’s poetic observations about the world around him show the meaning in mundanity. In a box of matches, Paterson finds a symbol for his love. In the bottom of a glass of beer, Paterson finds gladness. In an alley he’s seen a thousand times, Paterson finds inspiration and affirmation through a ten year old poet. That’s what the meaning of Paterson (the movie) is to me: finding beauty in the little things. All these observations of beauty in boredom accomplish something that I’ve never seen done well in a movie: Paterson is “meaning without message,” as my friend Logan put it. In a movie where nothing happens, everything matters. Even the air — that unfathomable, invisible and unknowable mass — that surrounds Paterson is taken in by the senses and transformed to poetry:
I go through
trillions of molecules
that move aside
to make way for me
while on both sides
trillions more
stay where they are.
——
The character of Paterson is governed by his strictly repeated daily routines. I would like to take us for a walk through his day in order to see, through his eyes, where the beauty of Paterson’s life lies.
Every day, Paterson wakes up at the same time without an alarm, not because he’s got a fantastic circadian rhythm from living without a smartphone; no, Paterson says it’s because of his “silent magic watch.” Paterson finds even his own unconsciousness magical.
Every day, Paterson eats a cup of Cheerios for breakfast. He eats a small cup, full of plain, unflavored, bland Cheerios—the most boring breakfast meal there is. (And I’ve only had black coffee since fall break). But Paterson’s cup is beautifully painted with the same swirling black and white design that Laura puts on everything. It’s a very nice cup. Paterson finds even his cold and lonely breakfast warmed by Laura’s love.
Every day, Paterson walks to the bus depot, sits in his seat, and pulls out his “secret notebook” — which isn’t a secret — to start his poetry writing for the day. Every day, Donny, his coworker, interrupts Paterson’s creativity to ask if he’s ready to start his bus route. Every day, Donny complains ad nauseam about all the horrible things happening to him. His daughter needs braces and he has a rash, the poor guy! Every day, Paterson responds, “I’m ok.” Paterson, inside a grimy old bus, next to a chronic whiner, inside a dreary warehouse, puts pen to paper to write his sharp appreciations.
Every day, Paterson drives his route, picking up pairs of passengers living out their humdrum lives. A pair of guys brag about all the girls they’re totally getting. A pair of disaffected teens admire a 19th century Italian anarchist who lived in Paterson. A pair of kids speculate about the fate of a famous old boxer who was charged with shooting up a bar. Paterson sees — or rather hears — some of the most revealing moments of character from these townsfolk while trapped inside a truly unremarkable environment.
Every day, Paterson walks back home from work, and he fixes his tilted mailbox. Even that task is laced with meaning; the habit is so ingrained that we later see Marvin the dog run out and tip over the mailbox post, just to welcome Paterson back home. Every day, the couple eats dinner, such as the horrible awful no-good cheddar cheese and Brussels sprouts pie on Thursday. When Laura said, “cheddar cheese and Brussels sprouts pie,” I got really excited, because that would make for a fantastic quiche. I’ve definitely made that kind of quiche before too. I’ve made a lot of quiche. But this wasn’t a quiche. This was a pie crust filled with cheddar cheese and Brussels sprouts… and nothing else. Apparently that didn’t work quite as well, which I could have easily told Laura. You gotta have something in that pie to create a filling, not just a mass of salt. The great thing about pie, and why it’s such a fantastic dish, is the fusion of homogeneity in the filling and contrast in the texture of the dough. Pie is a truly universal food — universal in the Aristotelian sense of unified diversity.
For those keeping track, we have now dedicated ten sentences to describe a ten second bit in the movie. Why? Because that detailed zoom into life is exactly how Paterson shows meaning. Items of no significance — such as pie — are universes in themselves.
I could go on describing Paterson’s daily routine. These same instances of significance in the smallest events come up in almost every scene of Paterson’s life. He walks to the bar with Marvin, loosely tying him to a pipe despite a warning that an English bulldog of Marvin’s value could get “dog-jacked.” Marvin, the dog Paterson doesn’t even like, is of great and significant value. On their walk to the bar, Paterson overhears someone rapping in the laundromat. In that dingy place where no one wants to be, some real art is being made. The bar itself is probably the most interesting location in the movie. Paterson goes there for respite, but there he witnesses the most dramatic scenes of his week. The bartender’s wife yells at him for taking her money. A truly sad failing actor tries desperately and violently to mend his totally one sided relationship with a girl. In what should be his place of calm rest, Paterson finds the shadows that underlie all good art.
All these observations, appreciations and notations culminate in the final part of Paterson’s day. He goes home, walks down the stairs to his little basement library, and opens his secret notebook once again. The interrupted musings from the morning, the honed and scratched-out lines from lunch, and the focused pondering of the bar combine at Paterson’s desk into poetry in that single special book — where he makes meaning out of mundanity.
——
Don’t take my prior description the wrong way; this isn’t a boring movie. Yes, nothing happens. But when that nothingness does come about, you’re incredibly invested. From the very beginning of the film, on Monday, you’re made to look forward to the weekend. During those two days, Laura will go sell her cupcakes at the farmers market stand, potentially launching her dream business, and Paterson will go copy his secret notebook at the Xerox place. Those are indeed two nothings, but director Jim Jarmusch makes you care about them so, so much. Inordinately much. Ridiculously much. Absurdly much. What I’m saying is that confections and paper made me cry.
Ten paragraphs ago, I told you that Paterson finds meaning without message. It doesn’t tell you to go write poetry in front of a waterfall or to learn how to play the guitar or to get rid of your phone or to read the collected works of William Carlos Williams or to save the world or to realize that the true beauty you’ve been seeking was the friends you made along the way. It doesn’t need to tell you to do that, because Paterson can take a simple, everyday box of matches and set it in front of you and call it wonderful:
As if to say even louder to the world
Here is the most beautiful match in the world.
Maybe Paterson won’t give you a message. But I’m not as subtle a writer as Jarmush. Take some time — five seconds — to admire the preciousness of God’s creation. Give thanks for the beauty found in the mundane. Paterson finds gladness at the bottom of his beer glass. As I write this, I found some gladness in the bottom of my tea mug a few minutes ago. I’m not asking you to write a poem, but I do want you to look around at what you have received, and thank He who freely gave it.
Paterson is available to stream on Amazon Prime Video.
