Why You So Obsessed with Me: Transporting Feelings Again (and Again) Through Film
About the series: “Why You So Obsessed with Me”
We all have our obsessions — that T.V. show we can’t seem to stop rewatching, that ex that still lingers in our minds even after blocking them, that fixation on a certain musician that we would do anything (anything!) for. Some are juvenile interests that make our lives more entertaining, while others can slide into dangerous territory (like that ex, for example). And when the word “obsession” gets paired with any marginalized identity, the term has an even more negative connotation — think LGBTQ+-centric fandoms or “feminine” interests. At Camp Thirlby, we want to explore these obsessions and deconstruct the concept to be a potentially liberating one, which is where our series “Why You So Obsessed with Me” comes in. To the tune of Mariah Carey’s song, our Camp Counselors have delved into their various obsessions even more to unpack what they might mean for their lives and identities, entailing the movie they can’t stop watching or their fixation with the scary, scary future. Whether it’s a method for them to grow into their obsessions or decide to leave them, these memoirs act as a shrine to the things we love, and maybe love too much.
It’s officially day 24 of quarantine (or whatever day it is, now that you’re reading this), and I plan on watching Portrait of a Lady on Fire later this week — for the sixth time.
I’ve also been juggling two other hefty projects — my eighth rewatch of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and my third rewatch of One Tree Hill. While the latter is a bit more embarrassing and a lot more COVID-19-panic-induced, I still get concerned looks when I disclose that I’ve seen all 144 episodes of Buffy eight whole ass times, considering most of my peers can’t even get through its first season. When I get defensive — “I know eight watches is a lot, but I started the show when I was 14!!!” — I begin to ask myself: Why do I keep watching the same old media (literally, of over two decades) when so much “better” media is being made every month?
This obsession of rewatching things sounds like an activity only reserved for a soon-to-be grad who is now indefinitely stuck back at home with her parents, longing for the touch of another human and to wake up from this nightmare just to be faced with the alarming reality of a global pandemic. So of course I’d immediately run to my favorite high school T.V. shows, feeling the comfort of my dear friends (excuse me, characters) of Buffy and the guilty pleasure of the sheer chaos that is One Tree Hill.
But no, this has been a long-running habit of mine since I decided at 15 to watch Buffy again, Skins a few more times, and my favorite movies of Rushmore, (500) Days of Summer (albeit its manic pixie dream girl trope), and Across the Universe every time I was down in the dumps — a bit too often in high school. I continued this with queer media come college; I’ve been annually rewatching The L Word since I first watched it my freshman year, and if I’m looking for higher quality (and a quick watch), I immediately go to season three of Norway’s SKAM. I thoroughly enjoyed going back to a piece of media I had watched years prior, diving back into a past self that was seeing those scenes with fresh eyes, and that, on a deeper level, was in a totally different point in life — maybe of growth, maybe even of devolution, but not quite to a point of obsession.
Still from Call Me by Your Name, ℅ of Sony
But then, in the winter of 2017, I was going through my first real gay heartbreak, the kind you see in movies, although this melodrama was just a product of being a baby gay. Yet, at the time, I thought I was experiencing true pain, and just like that, Call Me by Your Name was released only four days later. I left my matinee showing with mascara on my cheeks and the odd dichotomy of feeling both grief and solace — it captured that cinematic heartbreak I thought I was feeling oh so perfectly, giving me the comfort that I simply wasn’t alone in this process. I watched it twice more at the theater in the same week, watching the ending scene of Elio, the fictional ‘80s protagonist, crying to Sufjan Stevens transform into my own process of grieving — a heavy dose of crying paired with sad gay music. I watched it again when I went home for winter break, this time in the solitude of my childhood bed, hitting me where it hurt even harder, realizing that I was officially obsessed with the film.
Some would call my decision to keep watching the gay tragedy over and over again in the span of a month ridiculous; why should I keep reliving my heartbreak through Timothée Chalamet’s tears and James Ivory’s Oscar-winning screenplay and instead attempt to move on? To me, rather than viewing this film as a method of avoidance, having watched it over ten times in a single year was both a reminder of my once-unbearable heartache but also an escape from just that — while I was pining after a person who moved across the country, at least I wasn’t pining after a person who moved across the Atlantic to live a heterosexual, married life. This was my way of moving on, I told myself. I found myself watching it again, years later, during another soon-to-happen breakup. I deemed the movie to be my gay heartbreak cure, allowing myself to dive into the characters’ collective sadness and the depressing lyrics of “Visions of Gideon,” wanting to loop the lyrics of “I have kissed you for the last time” for eternity.
Still from And Then We Danced, ℅ of French Quarter Film
So, was I only obsessively rewatching media to remedy my sadness? I believed that to be true, until I was simultaneously deciding to not process an inexplicable breakup and conveniently flying off to a 2019 queer film festival in Prague for my LGBTQ+ film class, an experience that acted as the perfect heartache cure and introduced me to my next favorite film. My conflicting feelings were masked by the ten-day-long dream-turned-reality of being in Europe to watch gay movies (a requirement of the trip!), explore the locals’ favorite spots until 4am each night, and naturally dive headfirst into a European fling with one of the city’s residents. The Georgian film of And Then We Danced, the queer coming-of-age story of Merab, a competitive dancer attempting to find his place through the conservative tradition of Georgia and his budding romance with fellow dancer Irakli, wrapped those feelings up perfectly. I watched it in a fully-packed theatre filled with queers all across the world, and with the film’s ending credits, the entire theater blew up in applause; all I could think to myself was: I cannot wait to see this film again, and again, and again and again and again. Immediately after, we went to a dimly-lit pub, raving about the film over a few pints and dissecting each detail like it could save the world the next day in class. I reenacted scenes of Merab’s dancing while at a club with my aforementioned fling, feeling a similar queer liberation the movie carried.
I left Prague a week later, feeling bittersweet from having experienced those ten days, from having to leave them and its people behind for my not-so-exciting life, but mostly from knowing I wouldn’t be able to see And Then We Danced for at least another month. And when I did see it again at a limited screening in Maryland, every emotion of my trip came rushing back. It made me long for those memories and everything I felt that first time watching, forming a void of which that mostly empty theatre in Silver Spring could not entirely fill. Instead of acting as a means to process heartbreak like Call Me by Your Name, it represented two hours of holding my breath, transporting to a more magical time that I could only get back through watching the film, or at least listening to Robyn’s “Honey” — featured in a pivotal scene in the movie. I watched it for the third time when it was officially released to DC theatres in February, sobbing one last time, still reeling from the film’s beauty that reflected everything that I had in Prague and everything that I long for today.
Still from Portrait of a Lady on Fire, ℅ of Neon
I soon became That Girl Who Can’t Stop Watching The Same Three Gay Movies when I watched Portrait of a Lady on Fire for the first time last winter break when I was stuck at home, attempting to manage a confusing mess of yearning for too many crushes and sort of getting back together with an ex. Isolated from my personal connection to the film, I could (and continue to!) rewatch it over and over again until my dying day. It’s that good! I’ve told absolutely everyone, from online crushes to queer friends to every person I’ve ever dated to my straight parents to stop whatever they’re doing and watch it. On a personal level, it only heightened my yearning and increased my tear count; yet, I still had similar feelings of I cannot wait to see this film again, and again and again and again. I rewatched it a week later, and then the week after that, absorbing every single artful detail and poetic phrase, wanting so desperately to have a romance like Héloïse and Marianne’s despite the fact that I was about to enter my “fun and casual” dating phase that only flopped on its head weeks later.
At the time, I was afraid of forgetting what it felt like to fall for someone; this numbness terrified me into thinking that I had been hurt too many times to let my guard down again. Yet, Portrait let my guard down in more ways than I thought possible — in yearning for their slow-burn lesbian love story, in experiencing their queer, feminine liberation, in grieving over their imminent end. I kept watching the French film, no matter how immensely I felt, to hold on to just that — just as Marianne tells Héloïse: “Don’t regret. Remember.” I chose to remember all the longing and loss I experienced from the moment I first watched it in December through when I saw it in theaters on Valentine’s Day, feeling more romantically disoriented than ever. Yet, I strangely felt grounded this time around, as I was able to confront this vulnerability with my best friends by my side. I watched it again a few weeks later, pre-quarantine, when I was feeling especially lonely and longed for the same sense of comfort I always received from Portrait, reminding myself that I’m allowed to feel even when I would do anything to not again.
And now that I’ve lost track of the number of days I’ve been in quarantine, my loneliness has transcended to lengths I didn’t know possible and my hunger for touch has made it quite difficult to focus on anything but seeking a quarantine-crush that could attempt to fill this void through a screen. So, I’m watching it again, ready to immerse myself in yearn-heavy cinema — although I absolutely do not need more yearning in my life.
But I’m also experiencing inexplicable grief and anxiety right now, personally worried for my future sans the closure I’ve been desperately seeking all four years of college and cosmically mourning the state of our world, a burden I find impossible to carry. Few things are bringing me joy right now, so going to the shows and movies I’ve seen an absurd amount of times seems to be the only cure. Simply knowing that Call Me by Your Name will transport me to that gay heartache yet another time feels more assuring than the massive bouts of anxiety I have felt on a daily basis, and I’d way rather take the ability of And Then We Danced to, without fail, lead me to tears over crying from this current crisis. My sixth watch of Portrait will hopefully be a temporary bandaid for my Corona-induced yearning; One Tree Hill is throwing me and my twin sister back to high school as we watch together, which was an oddly simpler time; I’m syncing up my rewatch of Buffy with fellow Camp Counselor Geordon just to feel some sort of connection. While I’ve always been inclined to my obsession with rewatching media since early high school, it seems to be a good practice to carry into stay-at-home orders and the uncertainty of the world. Instead of entering a world of new media, filled with uncertainties and false hopes that seem to be driving this pandemic, I’d rather obsess over the things I already know — it’s comforting to have at least one source of stability.
About the Author
Natalie Geisel (she/her) is a senior at The George Washington University studying women’s, gender, and sexuality studies with minors in English and communication. Her love of writing sprouted from starting her fashion blog in high school, and her current written work focuses on topics of LGBTQ+ content, culture, and identity. Launching and managing Camp Thirlby was out of interest in intersecting gender and sexuality into the world of youth and wellness, hoping to add marginalized voices, like her own queer one, to an underrepresented community. When she’s not writing, she spends her spare time at dance rehearsal, attending local indie shows in the DC area, or finding the best cafes that serve oat milk. She’s passionate about inclusive sex education and sustainable fashion and thinks everyone should be, too. You can view all of her written work on her website.
