Impractical Magic

Musings of an Anxious Millennial Writer #03: The enduring legacy of corny chick-flicks.

I am, by no means, a cinephile. I'm whatever the polar opposite of that is. I'm bad at watching movies (my letterboxd even says so). My favorite movie of all time is Adventures in Babysitting. I've gone nearly 35 years from this earth without ever seeing classics like The Godfather. I didn't watch the OG Star Wars until a year ago, and only half paid attention. I finally watched Blade Runner, my husband's favorite movie, without falling asleep (thank you, Alamo Drafthouse).

I'm a Halloween fanatic and enjoy a good horror flick, but I'm hard-pressed to name a notable favorite. I've seen numerous bad movies, some out of enjoyment (especially as an avid fan of MST3K and Rifftrax), and many I didn't realize were terrible until years later. As a teen who didn't drink, smoke, nor drive, the occasional trips to the movies were one of the few adventures I had—and the mid-2000s were a rough time for decent movies. (You can disprove this—you’re probably right—but remember, I'm really bad at movies.)

But I enjoy what I enjoy. In the rare occurrence that I spend time sitting at home watching a movie, I peruse the various streaming apps (my God, why are there so many?) in an often-futile attempt to put on airs. I look for psychological mind fucks, indie darlings, and devastating documentaries. I'm not one to need to see Oscar winners, but if Vulture sings a movie’s praises, that might sway my opinion of and desire to view it. But, in the comfort of solitude, my decisions become much more manageable. I will likely settle on one of the 10 to 15 movies I watch when I'm alone, the ones I once owned (or, I should say, my mom owned) on VHS.

And when the weather turns from summer to fall, when there's a crisp chill in the air, and when scant crunchy leaves are littering the ground, there's only one movie I want—no, NEED, to view. That movie is Practical Magic. Nothing marks the start of autumn for me like my annual viewing of the 1998 Sandra Bullock/Nicole Kidman masterpiece. Watching it is ritualistic, setting the tone for the rest of the season. I have every line committed to memory. I know precisely what scenes Kidman will slip back into her Australian accent. From my teen years mining message boards and ravenously studying info from IMDB, I know where all the continuity errors occur.

Rewatching Practical Magic now, I can decidedly say one thing: it is NOT a good movie. But it is one of my favorites. The acting is uneven, vacillating from over-the-top to disinterested. The story feels rushed. The secondary characters are one-dimensional. It is, quite simply, a hokey chick flick. But that doesn't have to be a bad thing. Sometimes we need movies just for comfort. A period of 90 to 120 minutes where we can turn off all the noise in our brains and just vibe. This is what rom-coms and chick flicks have always been for me. Background noise when I need respite from the heaviness of life. But they're more than that, too. They represent a time in my past. A time of togetherness.

My family didn't do much when I was growing up. We didn't travel. We didn't go to the movies together. Didn't go sightseeing. We barely even ate dinner together, instead grabbing our respective plates and shuffling off to whatever room we were previously in. (Not that there were many options for that, either, so meals shared together were out of convenience more than anything else.) The TV became our unifier, our gathering place. Our apartment overflowed with VHS tapes, most of which were chick flicks that appealed to my mom. Movies like Working Girl, Sabrina, and My Chauffer—all of which I found dreadfully boring. There were a few romance-adjacent movies we both enjoyed, like Overboard (I still consider this a favorite of mine, as problematic as it may be), My Girl (which never failed to make my grandfather cry), and Corrina, Corrina (which felt more poignant than romantic, if flimsy at times). It wasn't until my mom fell in love with one romance flick in particular that we started to share a bond.

While You Were Sleeping had it all—Peter Gallagher's eyebrows, exaggerated caricatures of Italians, taking advantage of someone's loss of consciousness with a long con (remember, I loved Overboard). And the glue that held it all together: the affable, adorable Sandra Bullock. Bullock quickly rose to the top of my list of favorite actresses, nearly surpassing the former reigning queen Goldie Hawn. We voraciously consumed all her other chick flicks, watching Hope Floats over and over, no matter how much it made us cry (plus it also had that handsome crooner Harry Connick, Jr.—swoon!). We were true blue fans. So, when we saw the first commercial drop for Practical Magic, we were instantly entranced. And as such, we waited for the film's VHS release with bated breath. (Remember, we didn't do many things, so seeing it in theaters was never really an option for us.)

We made the journey to Suncoast one Thursday evening upon its release. We purchased a copy—ready for our first ever official movie night at home. We loved it from the first viewing, especially as avid fans of many witch-centric media properties (Hocus Pocus, Sabrina the Teenage Witch, Teen Witch, and the recently premiered Charmed). Witches were big, and we were all in. We'd continue to rewind and watch the movie regularly. Mom even purchased a copy of the soundtrack on CD, which we’d listen to on repeat during rides to school. We eventually replaced our constant rewatches with another film—Miss Congeniality (Forces of Nature just never hit quite the same way).  

There's a lot to be said about our collective endless rewatches of not just Practical Magic but of all these feel-good movies. It was clear they became objects of comfort to my mother and me, and still do, even into my adult years. The simplicity, predictability, and impossibly happy endings soothe the soul when it needs it the most. It doesn't matter if there are plot holes, rushed storylines, or the idea of margaritas turning tired women into drunken, volatile maniacs. None of the cheesy things take away from how the movie makes me feel. It also has Stockard Channing, who played a role in another of my beloved chick flicks, First Wives Club, which had the added appeal of both Bette Midler AND Goldie Hawn.

As an adult, chick flicks no longer appeal to me. I haven't found myself gravitating towards movies like Under the Tuscan Sun, Eat, Pray, Love, or any of the Mamma Mia’s (though, interestingly enough, I did very much enjoy the movie Muriel's Wedding as a kid. I even had a poster of it on my wall. But that's a story for another time). This film genre no longer sparks the same joie de vivre in me. But that's ok. I have my comfort media a-plenty. All the movies mentioned above, plus others like That Old Feeling (Bette Midler), Heartbreakers (long cons), and Moonstruck (exaggerated caricatures of Italians).

But Practical Magic will always hold the top spot in my heart. I'll always want to wear long, floral skirts, visit New England, and listen to Stevie Nicks and Joni Mitchell on long drives. I have the soundtrack recreated as a playlist on Tidal. I even bought the book, and let me tell you, it makes the movie look deserving of an Oscar.

As fall can bring about rebirth, my ritual of immersing myself in something that gave me joy throughout childhood feels like a significant step in honoring the past and cleansing myself in preparation for new beginnings. I only half-heartedly believe in these sorts of things, but, dammit, I still try because—ladies, there's a little witch in all of us.