My 23andMe results just say 'Donnie Darko'
Or, why your favorite movies will always be a little embarrassing
My swiping thumb never skips over a Letterboxd “top four” video. The premise is simple and perfect. A correspondent asks people, usually celebs on a red carpet, to name the four films that make up their holy quartet of cinema. (On the movie-logging app, users can designate their four favorite films, like a MySpace top eight but with less cyber-bullying.)
Some folks demur. Some leap right in. Some spend valuable TikTok airtime pontificating about what “favorite” even means. You can see the wheels turn behind Emma Stone’s eyes. Michael Fassbender calls the choice “easy.” Colman Domingo goes straight to “It’s a Wonderful Life” and ends with one of his own films, which, go off, king.
If their roster leans too heavily toward the arthouse, commenters either applaud their taste or accuse them of trying too hard to look like they have taste. Sometimes, a celeb will go full campaign trail and embrace good ol’ American blockbusters. Give a top four of things like “Jurassic Park” and “A Goofy Movie,” and someone’s going to comment, “They’re so real for that.” Same principle that got Kamala Harris to book Tim Walz for her first headlining tour.
There’s an understanding here: The four films you call your favorites say a lot about you. Best not show your ass. That’s curious in a post-poptimism world, where the only guilt in cultural pleasure is to express guilt at all. And yet, I also feel the creep of exposure when proclaiming my “favorite” anything.
It feels like taking your shirt off at the pool.
Choosing a fave instantly implies an inviolable bond to that thing. If it’s a work of art like a movie — something that popped out of a stranger’s head and heart — you may find yourself feeling accountable for every choice made on the screen. After all, it’s not just something you like, or even love. It’s your favorite. You’ve turned it into one of your identifiable traits, like a hometown or mother’s maiden name.
Someone probably watched “Baby Geniuses,” bore witness to its infant abominations, and thought, “This is part of who I am.” And good for them. That’s a level of self-assurance that even Madonna can’t touch.
I daydream about committing my own Letterboxd top four into the public record. Possessed by the immortal spirit of Matlock, I prepare the case in my head. The defendants are “Donnie Darko,” “My Own Private Idaho,” “And Then We Danced,” and “The Green Knight.”
It feels easy to claim “My Own Private Idaho” and “And Then We Danced.” They’re pretty gay and very hot, and both helped me divine a sense of my own desires. But the former is a weirdo Gus Van Sant cult classic that makes Keanu Reeves recite Shakespeare, and the latter is an obscure Levan Akin movie from Georgia (the one with lingering vestiges of Soviet rule, not the one with peaches).
They might feel a bit like film snob answers.
David Lowery’s “The Green Knight” only came out in 2021, but I instantly fell for its scuzzy version of Camelot, fantastical images, and excellent Dev Patel-ery.
Still, I wonder if something so new can really stand solid in my core four.
And what to make of “Donnie Darko,” Richard Kelly’s turn-of-the-millennium mindfuck that’s had a great second act as a dorm room poster? It has nostalgia value as one of the first movies I rented with my own Vulcan Video membership. Plus, it kicked off a so-far-lifelong love affair with trippy shit.
Plus-plus … it’s a good movie, yes? That’s not controversial. I think?
I start poking holes in my own case. It’s an indie-heavy lineup, which doesn’t reflect my abiding love of trash. Should I swap in “Grind” or “Mannequin”? My most-watched movies of all-time are unquestionably “Spider-Man” and “Call Me By Your Name.” Perhaps it’s disingenuous to exclude those. Turner Classic Movies raised me, and Katharine Hepburn induced my homosexuality at an early age, so I used to have “Bringing Up Baby” in the list. And also, do I really love any of my top four more than “Columbus” or “Home Alone”?
I will offer up any of these as favorites, if asked, and not even under the gun of red carpet content. As I list them off, they’ll come with a deep, nasty little desire to be liked. Such is my way. No matter how genuinely I love those movies, I will always brace for a politely pointed “oh.”
Perhaps your favorite things are supposed to be a little embarrassing. They do their work to shape you, and maybe they stick around, maybe they fall away. Building yourself involves taking off a lot of shirts at a lot of pools. How nice, to love a movie so much that it becomes a crucial thing about you, just as vulnerable and mutable as any of your parts.
And that said, no one ask me what I thought about “Garden State” when I was 18.
Something rad this week
Every week in Turning Out, I’ll include a recommendation: something I’m watching, something I’m listening to, something I’m reading, something I wrote and that I need people to click on because I want to save up for a Jet Ski.
This week: I’m on a real Glen Campbell kick. When I pulled “Wichita Lineman” out at karaoke a few months ago, I experienced shock and disgust that no one had heard it before. (Despite it being Paul Rudd’s favorite song.) Lately, Campbell’s 1969 single “Galveston” is on heavy rotation.
Written by Jimmy Webb (hi cousin) amid the Vietnam War, it’s got everything I want from a country song: pageantry bordering on camp, social consciousness, and delusion about Texas:
“Galveston, oh Galveston/ I still hear your sea waves crashing/ While I watch the cannons flashing/ I clean my gun/ And dream of Galveston.”
Me, normally: Texas beaches are God’s mop water buckets. Me, listening to Glen Campbell: Should I get a rifle? Or at least a timeshare.