Groundhog Day, reconsidered

There’s a classic movie called Groundhog Day that I’m sure you’ve seen. With Groundhog Day fast approaching (have you done your Groundhog Day shopping?) I thought that the movie was worth another look.

You probably know the story, but forgive me if I recapitulate: In the movie, Bill Murray plays a vain, ego-maniacal weatherman stuck in Punxsutawney, PA after their traditional Groundhog Day festival (due to inclement weather that he failed to predict). He is somewhere he doesn’t want to be, surrounded by people he doesn’t like and doesn’t want to get to know. I’m sure we can all relate to that.

But here’s the plot’s main gimmick: He goes to sleep on the night of February Second and wakes up the next morning…on February Second. He has all of Groundhog Day, which for him was fairly miserable the first time, to live over again.

And every morning thereafter, it’s still Groundhog Day. Every morning he wakes up and it’s February Second. Every day he has to see the same people, live through the same events, face the same blizzard that keeps him in Punxsutawney forever and/or a day.

His reaction is predictable, and predictably narcissistic. He can only define what’s happening to him in terms of how it affects him. Eventually he realizes that his actions will have no long-term consequences…he can do whatever he likes and never have to face the end results of said actions. As he puts it, “I am God…well, a god.”

But these “god-like” abilities aren’t enough for long, as he comes to realize that there are some things that he just can’t have no matter how many times he reaches for them. He becomes suicidal, and tries various creative ways to end his life. Without success…every morning still wakes up in the same bed to the same song playing on the radio (I got You, Babe by Sonny & Cher) in a town where the weather is always the same (miserable), the people are all the same (boring), the theater is always playing the same movie (Heidi) and the TV station runs the same episode of Jeopardy for all eternity.

Then one February Second he stumbles over a homeless man he’s been stumbling over for months (years?) of February Seconds and hardly noticing, and he buys him a meal. When the homeless man later dies he assumes the responsibility of saving the man’s life.

He can’t. No matter what he does, no matter how hard or how often he tries, the old man dies on February second.

As he comes to realize that there are some things that he cannot do, he starts to focus his life toward changing the things that he can. There are other lives that can be saved in Punxsutawney, other people that he can help in many different ways. And that’s where his life begins to change, though stuck seemingly forever on the second day of February.

This is when he makes what I think is his greatest discovery; that learning is his salvation, that learning will never be repetitive if he never stops learning. Every day becomes a new challenge, even when it’s all the same day.

He begins to improve himself. He makes use of the city’s library and becomes a voracious reader. He takes a piano lesson…the same lesson every day, but starting from a slightly more advanced position each time. Eventually he becomes a good jazz pianist. (I can only speculate how long that took; certainly years of February Seconds.)

And for years of February Seconds, he gave of himself to the community that he could never leave. Whenever a life was in danger, he was there. Whenever anyone needed help, with a flat tire or a personal crisis, he was there.  As often as necessary, because tomorrow they’d face the same difficulties, the same crises, and the one man who knew it would always happen would be the only man that could help.

He didn’t do it for personal gain, since any gain or recognition would never carry over to the next day because, in his world, there really wasn’t a next day. I remember him berating one boy he’d just saved (for the x-thousandth time) saying “You have never thanked me!”

He wasn’t doing it to be thanked. He was doing it just to do it. To make a difference in someone's life even if that person would never remember what he had done for them.

And eventually he came to a February Second that was perfect. He’d helped as many people as he could, saved as many lives as he could, made as many friends as he could, and managed to win the heart of a woman who, on February First, had hated his guts. And when he woke up the next morning, it really was the next morning—February Third—and he was in the arms of that woman.

(Please forgive me if my memory of the film is inaccurate in spots; it's been years since I've watched it.)

OK, so what have we learned?

Well, you should have learned that your life cannot advance unless you advance. Or something.

I was due to be born on Groundhog Day, but I was born the day after. (The joke I’ve always told is that I poked my head out, saw my shadow and went back in.) In recent years, this has not been a happy time for me; my late mother’s birthday has just passed, my late brother died at the end of January and his funeral was on a February Second. I haven’t felt like celebrating my birthday for years; at this time of year I tend to think about death.

But I keep hoping that each year will be different, that I will see life in the middle of winter, that I will be able to do something other than mourn for what I have lost. I think that’s why I wrote this missive about a movie that is generally regarded as not much more than a comedy, albeit a good one, and that I think deserves to be given more consideration. Perhaps I am looking for February Third to dawn with hope this year.

So did it work?

I don’t know. Ask me on February Fourth.

The Blues Viking
The thoughts expressed here are mine and if you don’t like them you can get your own damn blog.