Barbie and the pain of being alive

A spoiler-free musing on Barbie and death because who doesn't want that.

This isn’t a review…more a musing. But I wanted to forewarn you that I talk about death a lot in this piece. And I’m very aware that folks in Tāmaki Makaurau had a devastating day today. I’m also aware that this week has been brutal for mums who survived postnatal psychosis and depression. My love goes out to everyone grieving and feeling too much. You’re not alone. Please take care when reading - I hope this piece isn’t upsetting for you. It’s not meant to be. You’re loved. Arohanui - Emily

As I settled into a sold-out screening of Barbie, with my girlfriends and my gay friends, I really did not expect to find myself crying and thinking about death.

Ahead of the movie I chucked on the hot pink suit I have never had an occasion to wear and I tried to rally. I was exhausted but excited about the film. I needed escapism and I could already tell by the trailer that Barbie would deliver.

I went in knowing any commentary people would expect from me would be some kind of rumination on whether Barbie is feminist and if it is, is it feminist enough? Within minutes of the squeals of delight from the mostly girlie/gay audience, I knew the question didn’t matter. We only demand ideological purity from media made for and by women.

Probably, the only thing you need to know about Barbie is that it’s very funny. It’s absolutely packed-full of one-liners. You barely recover from wheezing at one quip before you’re hit with another.

It’s also just a delightful film.

Pure escapism and fun. Really fun. God, remember when movies used to be fun?

My face hurt from smiling, I clapped, I whooped, I clung to my bestie and screamed when I saw John Cena.

I was also caught off guard by how emotional the film made me. I cried. In a movie about Barbie!? What is wrong with me?

I think when I look back on 2023, I will think of it as a year of intense and painful loss. Like a lot of people I feel a little like I’m walking around bruised, trying not to bleed all over everything.

A friend once told me she knew she needed help with her grief when she found herself telling a petrol station attendant about her mother who had died six months before. Her mother and the immense loss within her bled into every conversation she had, everywhere she was. Our own conversations were all about her lovely mum. I told her I didn’t mind, that I understood as much as anyone who hasn’t lost their mother can understand…But she was still always sorry.

It was as if she felt that if she didn’t use every word she had in tribute of her lost loved one that the words she had left might be lost too. I feel this way so often. I want my words to have meaning in a way that’s difficult to articulate. I want words that are alive, I want them to bring the people I love back to life. I want them to keep people alive.

Grief is so powerful it renders us mute and makes us turn to poetry, to art, to writing, to films. We want to know ‘has anyone else felt this exact same way?’ ‘Do you hurt like this too?’ ‘Does it get better?’ ‘How do I stop the bleeding?’

We want witnesses to our pain and we want nobody to feel as we do even as we know they do. We want the world to stop with us and the world continuing feels like an assault. Yet, life feels more precious than ever. That the world keeps turning is something we are suddenly aware of when before we took it for granted.

Our turning planet feels gripped by hurt. How do we hold the grief of years of a pandemic that has stolen an unquantifiable amount of lives? How do we hold that when the death of a single person in our lives brings pain beyond measure? We don’t. We can’t.

Barbie lives in a world with no pain. No grief. She has her dream house. Her dream wardrobe. Her dream job: “doctor!” “lawyer!” “pretty!”. Her best friends (every night is girls night). Her dream life. Everything is perfect and nothing hurts.

When she leaves Barbieland and enters The Real World she immediately acknowledges that it feels violent. There’s a quip about how the unknown fear (that has no origin or end) that she has now is anxiety. The audience roared with laughter and I did too. Feeling seen feels good.

I quickly realised the premise of the film is one so many of us have pondered: If we could choose to be human, would we?

Life hurts. Every time you love someone you know you’re facing losing them. Everybody dies. Having children has added another layer of fear for me. Becoming a parent has been the most extraordinarily terrifying and wonderous experience. I adore being a mother, and not a day goes by that I don’t feel some kind of hum of terror. It might only be for a second - but some days it’s for hours. How to cope with that? Well, And is the conjunction of my life. I am constantly reminding myself that there’s more outside my petrified vision.

I am terrified and I can do this.

I am so worried about my baby and I know he’s stronger than he was two years ago.

I am so sad and I am grateful to be able to feel.

Everybody dies and everybody lives.

I am exhausted and I am alive.

My heart feels utterly shattered because my friends are not in this world and I want to stay in this world.

“Goodnight Barbies! I am definitely not thinking about death!” - indeed.

I get that nobody wants an author’s existential crisis with their comedy movie review but a) of all - this isn’t a review and b) of all - you might not believe me, but this is what Barbie is about.

Yes, we colour and find our own meaning in all the media we consume - but also, explicitly Barbie is about choosing to live in this painful world.

“Humans only have one ending. Ideas last forever.”

And I choose this. I choose a crowded theatre filled with delighted humans. Fraught as it is, painful as it is to feel all these fucking feelings all the time. I choose to hold hands in the dark and squeal with joy at the sight of John Cena as a Mer-Ken. I choose delicious popcorn. I choose singing at the top of my lungs on the drive home. I choose curling around my baby as he sleeps. And that is more than enough (Kenough?).

I choose to try. To feel. To keep going.

And.

And.

And I’ll keep trying. Keep feeling. Keep going.

I will keep loving.

This is being alive.