Dear MC,
I must apologize for two things: 1) for taking so long to respond on this blog (I could make up some excuse about caring for my aunt's cousin's cat, but instead I'll admit to flopping around and trying to put off the inevitable doom of moving into adulthood), and 2) not reading Jojoy Moye's Me Before You. However, I do fully intend to, upon watching this film, rush off to the bookstore, and grab as many copies of Me Before You as possible (or, you know, just one). As such, my response will be strictly limited to the movie, which, not to sound like a pretentious ass (I'm going to sound like a pretentious ass), functions as a text quite similarly to that of a novel--its narrative structure is nearly identical, the reader, or viewer in this case, relates to the characters in similar ways, and in both novel and film, what isn't said is arguably as important as what is.
Basically, it makes you feel all the feels. But more on that later.
First I will respond to your initial question in which you ask if a reader can create meaning that isn't necessarily intended. I answer with a resounding yes. You know how much I love New Criticism and Formalism, but, much to the new critic's chagrin, a text does not exist in a vacuum. The only reason a text, and consequently an author, can become popular, is if the reader relates to or feels a close affinity with the text in some way. As the reader lends success, the text must speak to the reader in a form other than lecturing. The text must allow the reader to, upon completion of the novel/film, go "yes. This. Everyone must know this. Allow me to spam all of my social media with this newfound enlightenment."
Basically, in human terms, the creation of the text is the conception. The reader and viewer's interaction with the text is the life. This life is impossible without the creation of meaning.
And I found a lot of hidden meaning in Thea Sharrock's portrayal of Louisa and Will in Me Before You (yeah for smooth transitions). As you previously noted, this film tells the story of a disabled man's love for an able-bodied woman. While the film tackles the issue of physical disability, I saw Will's isolation and desperation to relate to those with whom it was impossible to relate to and thought of my own life in which my own mentally disabled brother is left quite isolated due to his own limitations. As this is a romantic film, I am almost positive that Sharrock's initial motive was not to uncover the day-to-day struggles of living with a disability (in fact, I would argue that there was a good bit of romanticization of disability. But more on that later). But, because of my specific situation, I was able to relate to and derive meaning from the film in ways that a majority of the viewership may not.
And I was sad. But weirdly, as you pointed out, I paid money for and enjoyed the experience of being sad.
I wholeheartedly agree with your hypothesis that we, as viewers, enjoy being sad, as we enjoy relating to fictional characters on a human level. But, to take this proposal a step further, I would like to introduce the importance of place in the context of human experiences. Admittedly, I have been thinking about place a good deal in preparation for my departure of the place I call home, but it relates to movie-going to a relatively high degree. I would suggest that while this movie lends strong emotions no matter where the viewer is, watching the film at a movie theater, specifically with other people, heightens the sadness.
Why is this the case? This hypothesis is still largely unfounded, but in my experience, the viewer's association with a fictional character's emotions is two-tiered: the viewer seeks to relate to the character's human experience itself, but in doing so, she creates a human experience with the other theater-go-ers who are doing the same thing. This act becomes powerful in which we are reminded that we are not alone in experiencing sadness or pain.
If you think about it (and stretch the imagination, like, a whole lot), this makes perfect sense. The whole notion of shelling out $10 to sit in a dark room with a bunch of strangers is a little odd, but group entertainment has been around for (insert historically accurate number here) years. And this notion of intensely feeling with strangers around you makes sense due to how we as humans congregate. We come together in large groups, in large part, to grieve or celebrate. The most beautiful, intense, human experience come from severe sadness or severe joy. In thinking about going to see a beautifully sad movie in the same way that we may think about going to a wedding or a funeral, we see that not only are we relating to the experience itself, but we are relating to those around us. And this is a beautiful reminder that we are not alone in feeling deeply about the human experience.
I certainly shared a more meaningful experience in seeing this film with my friends and those who also felt no shame in crying at the cheesiest of moments than I would watching it on my laptop. It's a powerful reminder to be assured that I am not only allowed to feel intense sadness, but that it is a bonding experience to feel intense sadness.
This experience is what makes us human. And it's what makes illnesses like depression such a monster--at its most dangerous, it strips someone of feeling, of a sense of humanity. It tricks someone into feeling that he is both alone and numb. Even when we feel ostensibly "negative" emotions, we can be re-assured that we are still living, that we are still human.
As you are well aware, I was sucked into every last scene in the film. I unabashedly adore cheesy romances. But as I hinted at earlier, there were a couple themes that I, and several others, took issue with. In depicting the issue of physical disability, Sharrock seems to suggest that Will's limitations serve as a vehicle (no pun intended) for the able-bodied woman to discover herself, to recognize her own worth in society. This movie runs the risk of arguing that the disabled's needs are second to the able-bodied's desires. As it glosses over the daily hardships of living as a paraplegic (like the primary caretaker doesn't have to help her client go to the bathroom? What?), much of the film is devoted to the romantic ideal of changing someone who is stuck with the pesky little problem of merely having a bad attitude.
Also, a good deal of the disabled community takes issue with the suggestion that the solution of dealing with a disability is to commit suicide. So there's that.
But that's me getting on my high horse. Which is the question I have for you. Clearly this film was meant to be a light, predictable form of entertainment. It was certainly not meant to be met with the scholarly eye (that's what I call my eye when it's read a total of like, two scholarly articles). It's largely unquestioned that things like ableism and sexism still run rampant in our society. There is an ever-expanding collection of media that seeks to expose and change that phenomenon.
Me Before You is not a part of that collection.
So my question is this: does this lack of exposure make a "stereotypical" film inherently problematic? I want to remain a critical viewer and member of society, yet I also want to enjoy a cute, albeit simplistic, movie without the consequent guilt of watching a romanticized depiction of something that is aggressively un-romantic. Yet I also know that people want to watch cute things, dammit, without being lectured about the consequences of ableism. I am fully aware that I am running the risk of being "that person" who gets offended at everything that isn't explicitly trying to expose the issues of our society. So how can we be successful critics while still finding that balance of enjoying cute media?
Until next time,
Kira
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