In Praise of Rewatching

Some weeks ago, my son Jake and his boyfriend Vi visited for a few days with the express purpose of doing little but rewatching favorite movies. The simple rule was that we would only screen movies at least one of us had never seen. The plans went a little awry (we saw way fewer movies than expected, especially given our outsized ambition to just eat, sleep, and watch), but the project reminded me of the utter joy I get from a rewatch.

What is it about a rewatch that satisfies so? For me, it’s like settling in on the couch for the most necessary visual comfort food. Films and TV episodes I’ve seen maybe ten times revive and rekindle useful memories. The fact that they don’t change, even as you do, means you can revisit something that retains a kind of original power, like a first love, a first high, even a first loss. They offer the promise that some things endure, and because of that, they’re a natural antidote to ennui.

Rewatches provide a sense of communal and familial warmth. And I’m no binge-era amateur, either; I have hundreds of DVDs and Blu-rays, and I even wore out the many VHS tapes of classic movies my late father meticulously recorded and ID’ed, movies we would watch and rewatch together. And clearly, I’ve passed this need on to my own kids. When my adult daughters visit, my copies of Barbie: Fairytopia, Barbie as the Princess and the Pauper, and Barbie of Swan Lake are always at the ready.

That this project with Jake and Vi failed to live up to quantity expectations didn’t affect the quality. In fact, with the addition of a second visit, we ended up with some fifteen hours of viewing. I wouldn’t trade any of it, especially the movies that helped me to work through some things I’ve continued to struggle with.

To the slate of movies—The Usual Suspects, Harvey, Goodfellas, Yellow Submarine, and A Hard Day’s Night—we added most of The Beatles: Get Back, Peter Jackson’s mesmerizing 8.5-hour Beatles docuseries. I’ve seen it at least seven or eight times by now, always focusing on the brilliant move of introducing, in the middle of Episode 2, the real savior of the doc—keyboard master Billy Preston, whose style and smile energized the Fab Four and allowed them to find their Let It Be mojo. I’m a sucker for a hero story.

Annuals and Perennials

I’ve long had a list of films I watch about once every year, each of which offers lessons worth repeating. So, when the annual spirit hits, I’ll be sure to put on In the Heat of the Night (because this incredible meditation on race, perhaps the only movie I’ve ever seen where every single performance is perfect, is also a master’s course on how vulnerability can turn distrust into respect and friendship), Hear My Song (lessons include: never be afraid to say “I love you,” movies can be perfect and delightful, and most importantly, it is impossible not to fall deeply for Ned Beatty, especially when he’s risking his freedom for love), My Man Godfrey (a wacky classic which suggests that a once-proud homeless man who has experienced shattering loss is savvier than the aimless rich folks whose lives he changes for the better… plus it has Carole Lombard), My Favorite Year (why would I deprive myself of rewatching the “Brooklyn dinner,” the most joyous, funny scene in movie history?) and The Thin Man (love hath no greater practitioners than Nick and Nora Charles).

I’m happy to admit it: Most of my choices are utterly charming feel-good movies. Are we supposed to rewatch movies that make us feel bad? Even tension, drama, and dark tidings serve their purpose, sometimes testing our tolerance, or reminding us that there’s always a route to resolution, and a measure of justice. And I need justice. 

Watch and Relearn

For Jake and me, all the choices were rewatches; we crossed titles off Vi’s list and nothing disappointed. That’s also a big ambition of a shared rewatch—you want your fellow viewer to get the same initial-watch thrill you once had. Just try to imagine how glorious it was to hear my girlfriend Shari say, “I’ve never seen a single episode of The Twilight Zone.” That meant I could, in essence, DJ a playlist of greatest hits from one of the best artists ever. Pure heaven.

While The Usual Suspects is a terrific “spoiler alert” nugget (I’m not talking about its famous ending; I mean, spoiler alert: Kevin Spacey is a monster on screen and off!), I left most fixated on Harvey and Goodfellas (as different as two films could possibly be). The 1950 madcap dramedy Harvey stars James Stewart as the mild-mannered Elwood P. Dowd, who believes his best friend is the title character, an imaginary six-foot-four rabbit, with everybody else not only failing to convince him Harvey isn’t real, but in fact coming to understand the joys of what Harvey teaches. Elwood’s sister Veta (Oscar-winner Josephine Hull) also begins to accept her brother for exactly who he is.

It had been a while since I’d seen the movie and had forgotten that Elwood only began to see Harvey after his mother died. Now, watching this again, years after the 2021 Covid death of my mom, followed a year later by the loss of Dave, my only sibling, from pancreatic cancer, turned this into an unexpectedly cathartic experience, as I quietly wept through scenes of great comedy, allowing a very tall imaginary rabbit to guide me through a grief journey.

Goodfellas, Martin Scorsese’s 1990 mob classic, was a challenge. I’ve been generally unable to watch any series or movie of this nature since the 2023 random gun-violence killing of my beloved nephew Ben, and the subsequent murder trial that included evidence I will never be able to unsee. My therapist suggested that a rewatch could help with this particular PTSD; if I saw something where I knew when the violence was coming, I could either look away or try to regard it intelligently, instead of emotionally. The exercise helped, and I made it through.

All the Beatles rewatches were, of course, like the best kind of dessert. Reviewing the innocence of those four lads remains a joy.

The group rewatch has its collective advantages, but the solo rewatch is sometimes even more of a wondrous, indispensable exercise. It’s like inviting old friends or loved ones back into your life. So I’m planning that time for the near future. My baseball-loving dad may be long gone, but my Blu-ray of Field of Dreams remains at the ready. And if I play it, he will come.