REPO YOUR ENTHUSIASM (5)

By: Marc Weidenbaum
April 15, 2024

One in a series of 25 enthusiastic posts, contributed by 25 HILOBROW friends and regulars, on the topic of “offbeat” movies from the Eighties (1984–1993, in our periodization schema). Series edited by Josh Glenn.

GROUNDHOG DAY | HAROLD RAMIS | 1993

In 1993, the year Groundhog Day hit theaters, that furry near-term Nostradamus named Punxsutawney Phil gazed into the meteorological future and saw his shadow.

Historical records of this Americana hokum date back to the late 1800s, when Groundhog Day first became an annual ritual at Gobbler’s Knob, an inland Pennsylvania town with the sort of Capraesque name that lends itself to fables mixing homespun moralizing, commercial appeal, and a smidgen of self-awareness.

Groundhog Day legend has it that if Phil sees his shadow, winter will last another six weeks. What Phil — and Phil’s handlers, and the makers of the film Groundhog Day — certainly didn’t see coming was that 1993’s elongated winter wouldn’t hold a candle to the staying power of the movie itself.

Thirty-plus years later, Groundhog Day remains an archetypal re-watchable movie, in part because it’s about rewatching. Our flawed hero (named Phil, like his marmot counterpart) relives the same day over and over. It’s It’s a Wonderful Life reworked for memories trained on instant replay.

When he first identifies his metaphysical conundrum, the movie’s Phil (played by Bill Murray on a smarm offensive) falls into despair. He eventually accepts the scenario as a challenge of self-repair, cycling through countless days as he learns to navigate minor hurdles, carve ice sculptures, play piano, and win the heart of a girl.

Now, as a fixed document, Groundhog Day doesn’t change with each viewing — but as we rewatch, we observe anew. And over time, the movie shifts — both for Phil within the story and for the admiring viewer — from paranormal comedy to transcendental wisdom: from wish fulfillment to personal fulfillment.

Of course, too much of a good thing is a curse. Witness Stephen Tobolowsky, who from Silicon Valley to Memento has played characters who reference his role as Ned Ryerson, Groundhog Day’s overeager insurance salesman. Recently, in commercials for Lays potato chips, Tobolowsky got stuck in a supermarket buying one bag after another, a mock-Dantesque warning against typecasting.

To a degree, Groundhog Day has suffered a similar fate. The loops in Phil’s life are central to its renown, earning comparisons to Buddhist samsara, putting the 10,000 hours myth of mastery to shame, and racking up enough fan theories to overstuff a Reddit thread. Which is unfortunate, because what really matters about Groundhog Day — what elevates it beyond playful post-modern exercise — is how the movie ends, when it breaks free of the looping.

After getting over himself, Phil escapes the day that has kept him imprisoned, and he walks right off his B&B’s porch into the great unscripted unknown. The end of Groundhog Day is perfection, all the more so for how meaningless it would have been without what preceded it — otherwise it would be a “happily ever after” as vapid as any promise Walt Disney made to impressionable children. Instead, we witness an act of bravery from someone who just two hours — or perhaps hundreds of years — earlier had kept the world at bay through a veneer of snark and disdain.

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REPO YOUR ENTHUSIASM (5)

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