About Harrison Ford
The nice thing about having a newsletter—and arguably the only reason to have one—is that you get to write about anything you want. And that is why I've decided that the rest of July is Harrison Ford Month at the Marx-Ennui Reader.
July, after all, is the month that brought us Harrison Ford: he arrived on our earthly plane on July 13, 1942. I can recite his birthdate as mindlessly as my own because, as those who know me can attest, I know my Harrison Ford.
My affliction began early, at the age of six, which was when I first watched Star Wars on TV. Prior to this, I'd had a minor infatuation with John Travolta in Grease. It did not, could not, prepare me for what I felt for Harrison Ford, for the confusing, delirious intensity of it. Since I had no vocabulary for this feeling, I understood it as the simple desire to be around Harrison Ford at all times. So I made him into one of my imaginary friends and took him everywhere with me.
Now, when I look at photos of Harrison Ford from that period, I understand full well what I was feeling and have perhaps too much vocabulary for it.
I understand why I followed him through the Star Wars and Indiana Jones trilogies, through Frantic and Sabrina and The Devil's Own. I understand why I was even there for him through Regarding Henry, and why I made my mother take me to see Working Girl in the theater when I was 12. I understand why, after watching Harrison Ford go undercover among the Pennsylvania Dutch in Witness, I briefly fantasized about becoming Amish. I understand why I read both of his unauthorized biographies before I was in high school and why, even now, hearing or reading his name provokes in me a feeling without resolution.
I have written about parasocial relationships and their inherent silly impotence, and I know, I know, that this is that, no better or worse, no more special or less embarrassing. And yet there is still something to it that remains pure for me, probably because I came to Harrison Ford as a child and love him in the same innocent, eternal way I love ice cream and inchworms.
He remains a constant for me, a steadfast reminder that there are good things in life, and of the joy of aligning one's tastes with someone or something that does not betray them. Harrison Ford has been famously laconic/grumpy in interviews and made some questionable film choices (although really, who among us wouldn't like to believe that the silver lining to getting shot in the head is becoming a better person?), and the fact remains that he did get his ear pierced upon turning 50. But he's never been truly embarrassing, or canceled, or fucked up his face with plastic surgery, or married someone too young to have a fully formed frontal lobe. Really, he hasn't done anything except be very good at being a movie star, the kind that people talk about when they talk about how there are no more real movie stars anymore. Every time I hear someone moan about this, I want to say, But we still have Harrison!
Yes, he's almost 84 years old. But he's still here and still very much what a movie star and parasocial crush should be. And so for the next three weeks I'm going to write about him. Because he's Harrison Ford, but mostly because I can.
What I'm consuming this week:
Reading: Katherine Faw's 2017 novel Ultraluminous, about an unnamed sex worker, is very dark, very funny, and a fast, excellent read.
Watching: I re-watched Tootsie the other night and it reminded me that almost nothing is funnier than Dustin Hoffman calling Dabney Coleman a "macho shithead."
Listening: The Eagles, "Take it Easy". Arguably the gold standard for songs about male sluts.
