There's got to be more than flesh and bone...All that you've loved is all you own
I very often come up with ideas for things to write about in this journal, but the vast majority of them either fall by the wayside or get pushed back several months (or even years) before I finally find the time and motivation to actually sit down and write them. Case in point: When I first saw the wonderful Disney/Pixar movie "Coco" in June of last year, I was absolutely blown away and knew it was something that I needed to write about in order to process all of my feelings. That never ended up happening, but a week or so ago, during the days leading up to Dia de los Muertos, I had a strong and sudden urge to watch it again. And so I did, and now here I am to spew out what I'm sure will be way too many words of navel-gazing drivel about how much I adore this film. So hold on to your butts, y'all, cuz here we go!
The first time I saw "Coco" was emotionally overwhelming in a way that was beyond anything I've ever experienced before with other movies. Sure, I've cried during movies many times in my life, but the ending of "Coco" absolutely decimated me, gutted me, obliterated me to a degree that I never would have anticipated. I remember watching it at home with Natalie, and I was literally just sobbing uncontrollably during those final scenes, trying in vain to stifle my blubbering so that she could still hear the movie (and so I wouldn't embarrass myself too badly). So why did "Coco" have such a profound impact on me? I'm going to get into all of that in painstaking detail in a minute here -- but first, a brief digression...
It was really interesting watching the movie again last week, because while I still loved it and was still tremendously moved by it, it wasn't quite the emotional outpouring that hit me during that initial viewing. This got me thinking about how during the last few years, in an effort to make myself feel, well, anything, I've often found myself returning to works of art that in the past have given me "all the feels," as the kids say. But the thing is, it's really hard for something to hit you that hard over and over again, especially when you already know everything that's going to happen. I usually chalk up this phenomenon to the idea of expectations, and how they can play a huge factor in how something affects you. The first time I watched "Coco," I was expecting to enjoy it, maybe even to love it, but I was certainly not expecting to be knocked on my ass and left lying in a puddle of my own tears. The second time around, however, I was fully expecting that to be the case -- but here's the problem: How can any work of art live up to such lofty expectations? Should we really expect something that blew us away in the past to keep doing so every single time after that, for the rest of our lives? It doesn't really seem fair, now does it?
The funny thing about this phenomenon is that while I've experienced it quite a few times with movies and TV, it happens to me much less frequently with music. Perhaps that's because songs are typically only a few minutes long and so, by their very bite-sized nature, they're meant to be experienced over and over again. On the other hand, TV and film are long-form mediums that often rely on plot twists and the element of surprise as a major part of their appeal. Sure, anyone can get sick of songs or albums if they hear them too much or if they find that they've grown out of them as they've gotten older, but I find that the vast majority of the time, music inherently rewards repeat listening. You can listen to a song once and maybe not care for it that much, but then you hear it a few more times and it gradually (or suddenly) worms its way into your heart, whether it's the next day, or a few months later, or a decade later. In other words, music is an art form that can actually grow emotionally richer with greater exposure, whereas movies and TV, as amazing as they can be, almost always have the greatest impact upon first viewing -- and maybe they're not even really designed to be viewed multiple times. I realize that I'm making a vague generalization here that has plenty of exceptions (there are a number of movies and TV shows that I've loved just as much or more on later viewings as I did the first time I saw them), but overall it feels like a true statement. Or maybe I feel this way because I love music more than any other art form, and I'm just identifying one of the many reasons why. Who knows? But it's something that I've been thinking about quite a lot lately. Anyway, now back to our regularly scheduled programming...
I don't want to spend too much time summarizing the plot of "Coco" here, because A.) This journal is mainly just for me, and obviously I don't need to be informed about the plot of a movie I've already seen multiple times, 2.) Anyone out there who would care to read this many words about a movie would surely have already seen it before, and D.) Even if someone wanted to read this without having seen the film, they could just look up the plot summary online anyway. But just for the sake of setting the scene, here's a basic recap of the events of "Coco": Miguel Rivera is a Mexican boy who loves music but whose family has banned it from their home for decades. This is because a few generations earlier, Miguel's great-great-grandfather -- a professional musician -- abandoned his wife and child (whose name is Coco) to pursue a career in music. Miguel soon learns that his great-great-grandfather was none other than Ernesto de la Cruz, who is widely considered to be the greatest Mexican musician of all time and who Miguel worships. Miguel desperately wants to play in a talent competition that is happening on Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), but unfortunately, his grandmother smashes his homemade guitar before he gets the chance. Heartbroken, Miguel breaks into de la Cruz's burial site that night to borrow his guitar and use it in the competition. Instead, he finds that he has crossed over into a new realm, one where the living can no longer see or hear him and he can suddenly see and hear all the dead people who are returning home to be with their loved ones for Dia de los Muertos. Miguel travels to the Land of the Dead to find a way to bring himself back among the living. He learns that he needs the blessing of one of his deceased relatives, but none of them will give it to him once they find out that Miguel wants to be a famous musician, just like his great-great-grandfather. Miguel sets off to find de la Cruz and receive his blessing so that he can go home. Along the way, he meets Hector, a quirky vagabond, and the two vow to help each other out. Hector will help Miguel sneak into de la Cruz's annual Dia de los Muertos concert, and Miguel promises to return a photo of Hector to Hector's daughter to place it on her family's ofrenda (altar) so that she can remember him before he disappears forever. During their journey, Miguel and Hector grow closer, and Miguel learns that Hector is a very talented musician in his own right. Miguel eventually makes it to de la Cruz's mansion and finds a way in before the concert. There, he meets de la Cruz, impresses him by playing some songs for him, and informs him that he is de la Cruz's great-great-grandson.
However, after speaking with de la Cruz, Miguel learns that Hector and de la Cruz were musical partners when they were young before de la Cruz betrayed him. Hector had a wife and daughter and wanted to give up the hard life of a touring musician and return home to be with his family. This infuriated de la Cruz, who then poisoned Hector, killing him, and stole his book of songs and his distinctive guitar. De la Cruz then used Hector's songs to achieve immense fame and fortune, while Hector died as an unknown, with his wife and child (Coco) thinking that he abandoned them. At this point, Miguel realizes that Hector is his true great-great-grandfather, and he is horrified to discover that de la Cruz murdered Hector. Willing to do whatever it takes to protect his legacy, de la Cruz sends Miguel and Hector off to a dungeon for what appears to be certain doom. However, they are soon rescued by Miguel's dead ancestors. The group hatches a plan to sneak into de la Cruz's concert to take back Hector's photo and return it to Coco before it's too late. During the concert, they wind up exposing to the enormous crowd that de la Cruz is a fraud and a murderer. Sadly, Hector's photo is lost in the scuffle with de la Cruz. Miguel receives the blessing he has been seeking from his family members, who now support his dream to become a musician. Miguel rushes home as fast as he can to make sure his great-grandmother Coco does not forget Hector, which would cause him to vanish into nothingness. He plays de la Cruz's most famous song, "Remember Me" -- which was actually written by Hector for Coco when she was very young -- and Coco sings along with him as she suddenly remembers all the words, and her memories of her father come flooding back to her. The entire Rivera family then learns the true story of Hector and what happened to him all those years ago, and that he did not abandon his wife and child as they had believed for so long. The movie ends with a flash-forward to a year later, with Miguel joyfully playing songs for all his relatives in their backyard on Dia de los Muertos, as well as several shots of all the de la Cruz memorials around town being torn down and replaced with statues of Hector, the rightful heir to that rich musical legacy... Wow, that plot summary took me A LOT longer than I thought it would, haha. Oh well, at least it helped refresh my memory about everything.
There are so, so many things to love about "Coco" that allow it to transcend the tag of "kids' movie" and make the leap into the realm of truly great, profound art. I could devote a whole bunch of words here to the many surface pleasures the film has to offer -- namely, all the amazing music and the beautiful animation, especially the drop-dead-gorgeous depiction of the Land of the Dead, with a stunning bridge of marigolds leading to an endless, glimmering cityscape, which is populated by people's deceased loved ones, all of whom are illustrated as a diverse tapestry of calacas (skeletons) that are still recognizable as their living selves. Then I could talk about the incredibly rich and detailed story or the deep, complex, flawed characters and all the creativity and imagination required to seamlessly bring these different elements to life. Then I could discuss how the film so fully embraces ambivalence and moral uncertainty in a genre that usually favors the simplistic and one-dimensional. But none of that would really capture why this movie impacted me so strongly. No, when it comes down to it, the thing that makes "Coco" an all-timer for me is that in so many ways, it is pretty much the quintessential Jeremy movie, haha. It's a film that seems tailor-made for my personal tastes, but it also challenges and expands upon some of my most long-held convictions in brilliant and unexpected ways, rather than just reinforcing these previously held beliefs. How so? Well, I will get to that in more detail soon enough... But for starters, "Coco" touches on a lot of big ideas about music, death and family -- which are probably the major themes that I return to the most, in my own music and writing, as well as just in my thoughts in general. These themes are portrayed so poignantly on an individual level, and they each hold enough meaning and substance to carry an entire film, but it's the way they are all expertly intertwined that gives "Coco" its one-of-a-kind magic. The movie also packages all of this stuff in what is essentially a warm and loving embrace of Latino culture. Even though I'm Cuban and not Mexican, so many of the people, places, songs and traditions in "Coco" feel like home to me, and that serves as the icing on the cake that cements my love for this film.
Anyway, let's start with the family theme: It's not exactly a unique idea for a work of art in any medium to tout the importance of family, but "Coco" does it better than 99.9% of them. It certainly helps that Miguel and his relatives feel like a real family, certainly more so than you would expect out of any children's flick. And it's not just the typical warm and fuzzy feelings of family bonds that the movie aims to elicit. There is plenty of that, to be sure, but there are also deep-seated resentments that need to be resolved, as well as intense yearning to break through the barriers that a well-intentioned but restrictive family unit can place around you. The Rivera family has forbidden music from its home ever since Miguel's great-great-grandfather abandoned his wife and daughter (or so they think), which puts Miguel at odds with the people he loves the most, creating an unseen rift as he is forced to hide his desire to become a famous musician and cultivate his passion in secret. The family's rash decision also robs them of a lot of joy and beauty, as they seem content to continue the longtime family business of making shoes and unwilling to consider artistic pursuits as anything other than a waste of time. Still, despite their short-sightedness, there is a lot of love between them. They are a tight-knit group, with four generations all living together under one roof, sharing their lives with one another in ways that we simply do not see in modern American culture. There is also tremendous respect shown for family history and the loved ones who have been lost over the years. This is most clearly seen through Miguel's grandmother's reverence for Dia de los Muertos and in fastidiously maintaining the family's ofrenda, which pays homage to deceased relatives and serves to keep their memory alive.
One of Miguel's greatest shortcomings at the start of the film is that he does not appreciate this family history, nor does he recognize the sacrifices that the people on his family's ofrenda have made to give him the life he enjoys today. It's difficult to fault a young kid too badly for failing to show proper respect to the past, but this conflict sets much of the film's drama in motion, as Miguel strives to achieve his personal dream of musical greatness while running away from the closed-minded forebears that he believes will never understand him. But during the journey that follows, Miguel gradually comes to realize all the things that he has taken for granted in his life, not to mention how his relentless pursuit of musical glory has perhaps veered too far toward selfishness at the expense of his family. Meeting the spirits of his true great-great-grandfather Hector, his great-great-grandmother Imelda, and a number of his aunts and uncles in the Land of the Dead gives Miguel a whole new perspective. Especially after the deep bond he develops with Hector, Miguel is able to see how failing to appreciate your family's history and pass on their stories to future generations has dire consequences: It causes them to vanish forever as they become fully untethered from the living world. Miguel realizes that he is part of something bigger than himself, that family bonds are stronger and deeper than any other form of human connection.
Someone like de la Cruz, who only thinks of himself and his musical career and legacy, believes that he can circumvent the traditional concept of family by instead building a world of millions of fans who adore him. He literally has a song (which Miguel sings in the movie) that goes, "Music is my language, and the world is my family." In some ways, this is a beautiful sentiment that expresses the universal power of music to connect us and create bonds between people who lack a conventional family unit. Lord knows that it's something I've long believed and preached about, but there is also a darker side to this perspective that I understand all too well. In my more insular, self-centered moments, I can usually convince myself that music is all I really need. When you're a loner and a homebody, it can become all too easy to believe that by diving headfirst into your personal music world, you are actually connecting with the beating heart of humanity -- because the music makes you feel fully alive, unlike most other things in life -- when all you're really doing is satisfying yourself. For someone like me, that means retreating to my little music bunker at home and playing/writing/recording/listening to music without ever really sharing it with other people. For someone like de la Cruz, it means bypassing the idea of close family and friends in favor of only establishing superficial connections. Everyone around him is either a diehard fan who worships him, a loyal servant or employee, a yes man who agrees with him no matter what, or some combination of the three. Even though he is universally beloved and his music has touched millions of lives, his life is essentially empty because there is no one who truly knows or loves him. Luckily for Miguel, by the end of "Coco," he realizes all the flaws that come along with cultivating fame and fortune at the expense of authentic human connections. He understands that only by creating a real family, one filled with people who love each other selflessly and unconditionally, can any of us have a truly meaningful life. Only then can we find others who care enough about us to carry on our spirit after we're gone.
OK, so now let's talk about death: It's a topic that I've long been fixated on, as so many of my previous entries in this journal can attest. For as long as I can remember, death is a concept that I've struggled to understand and to make peace with. Maybe it's the permanence of the whole thing or the grand mystery that surrounds it, but it's something that has always troubled me. Even as a pretty laid-back, mellow person, thinking about death can fill me with crippling fear and anxiety if it crosses my mind at the wrong moment. I suppose it's mainly the idea of someone suddenly being gone forever, destined to become nothing but a gradually decaying memory -- and then eventually, everyone who ever knew that person will be gone too. And at that point, it's basically like the person never existed in the first place. Once my mind starts going down that path, it inevitably leads me to nihilistic questions like, "Well, if that's the case, if we all just end up gone and forgotten one day, then what's the point of living at all?" From there, it's all too easy to fall into a depressing spiral that can be hard to pull myself out of. When I've mentioned these dark thoughts to people, many will attempt to reassure me by falling back on the traditional Christian notion of heaven (which I still sort of believe in), saying that those of us who are good people will enjoy an eternal afterlife. Others will try to cheer me up by saying that we all live on through our family and friends and all the lives that we've touched. Our spirit endures, they say, through the love that we've shared with others and the wisdom that we've passed down to them. And while that is a touching idea that I mostly agree with, it still somehow feels insufficient. Call me greedy or narcissistic, but that's just not enough for me. I need something more in order to feel like death is not simply the end of the line. (This is one of the reasons why I often focus so much of my time and energy on making music. It's comforting to think that there is something tangible you created that will outlive you, something that provides some insight into your soul as a human being.)
This is where "Coco" comes to the rescue... I was already quite familiar with Dia de los Muertos before seeing the movie, and I feel like I understood the main concepts and beliefs behind it, but for some reason the film brought these ideas to life for me in a such a profound, gut-wrenchingly personal way. Finally, here was a perspective on death that felt satisfying to me. "Coco," and by extension the holiday of Dia de los Muertos, presents a much healthier, more positive way of looking at death. Beyond the festive holiday atmosphere that recognizes our departed loved ones by celebrating their lives with exuberance and joy, there is this sobering and uplifting truth at its core: We can live forever as long as there are people around to keep our memory alive. At its core, this is not so different than the pep talk I mentioned above that I've received from people in the past. However, Dia de los Muertos asks people to take this viewpoint one step further. Rather than just trusting that our loved ones will internalize our spirit and carry it forward for future generations, this tradition revolves around combining a spiritual approach with something physical and real: Build an altar at your home and fill it with photos of your deceased family members. Honor them each year by sharing firsthand memories and passing down their stories. Celebrate their greatest successes, but learn from their worst failures too. Respect your family history and how it informs where you came from, who you are, and who you could be someday. Death sure seems a hell of a lot less terrifying when the people you left behind are doing their best to make sure your life was not lived in vain.
Of course, the flipside to the Dia de los Muertos belief system is that when we don't have any loved ones who are willing and able to do this for us, we essentially cease to exist once everyone who knew us in life has passed away themselves. In "Coco," there is a harrowing scene in which Miguel goes with Hector to the slum-like town where Hector lives on the outskirts of the Land of the Dead. It is basically a desolate, poverty-stricken community filled with the spirits of all those who no longer have any loved ones to put their photo on the family ofrenda. (In keeping with this theme, Hector has the appearance of an old-timey hobo throughout the movie.) It's clear that this makeshift crew of outcasts are people who have no one left but each other, and once the last person on Earth who remembers them dies, they will vanish into dust, gone forever. This is exactly what happens during the crushingly sad part when Miguel goes with Hector to visit Hector's friend, an old man who is sick on his death bed. It's a heartbreaking moment, and you can tell by the look of forlorn resignation in Hector's eyes that he has already seen this happen to many of his other friends. He also knows it's only a matter of time before it happens to him too. That's an incredibly dark sentiment to portray in a so-called children's movie, but "Coco" is not afraid to go there. You could argue that this scene also (unintentionally?) depicts what is probably the greatest flaw of the Dia de los Muertos belief system: that anyone who has not been blessed with a loving family is doomed to be forgotten once they reach the afterlife. But it also suggests that it is up to us to establish meaningful connections during our life in order to ensure that our soul will carry on. It essentially puts the onus on each individual to build their own community of loved ones, which I suppose is not really fair when so many others have been surrounded by loving family members since the day they were born and have never had to really "work" to have their photo placed on someone's ofrenda. It's certainly a question worth pondering, but to the movie's credit, it seems to posit that the gift of eternal life is never just given to us (except for those undeserving few, like Ernesto de la Cruz, who found a way to cheat the system). It must always be earned in some capacity, and -- much like the concept of heaven -- only those who are truly worthy, those who made a positive impact on others during life, will have their memory forever enshrined.
There is music everywhere in "Coco," even if it's not really a movie about music, per se. While never taking its eye off its primary theme of family, the film manages to show how much music (and the arts in general) can enrich our lives in so many beautiful ways. Miguel's story exemplifies how music can bring us joy and lift us up, providing a necessary release from the stresses of daily life, as well as how it can give us a greater sense of purpose if it's something we choose to create ourselves. And for anyone seeking deeper fulfillment, music offers a greater healing power akin to spiritual enlightenment. It can also communicate feelings and ideas that transcend human limitations for personal expression, saying things that we never could in words or in writing. Sure, proclaiming the universal power of music is not exactly an original idea, but "Coco" goes out of its way to dig deeper. While Miguel certainly loves his family at the start of the movie, he also believes that their lives are missing a crucial ingredient: passion. His relatives are not bad people by any means, but for Miguel, they are somewhat cold, short-sighted and hollow because of their rule banning all music. Not only does Miguel feel misunderstood, but he feels as if his entire worldview is under siege. He must keep his passion a secret from the people he loves, and once he sees that they will not budge from their long-held beliefs, it's an injustice so great that it causes him to run away from home. In a sense, by taking such a rigid anti-music stance because of the man who (they think) abandoned them decades earlier, they have caused one of their youngest members to abandon them as well. Granted, the film purposely pushes the Rivera family's views to an impractical extreme in order to prove a point. Not too many viewers, after all, are going to agree that the family's "all music is evil" perspective is a reasonable one.
However, Miguel's decision to pursue his dream no matter what anyone else says is ultimately commendable. He's only a kid, so the moment when his grandmother smashes his precious handmade guitar in the street must feel like his entire world is ending (hell, it would probably feel like that for me as an adult, LOL). It's no surprise, then, to see the level of audacity that he shows in the immediate aftermath, which is the type of rebellious, impetuous streak that seems to only exist during our youth. And if you still have anything resembling an idealistic dreamer lurking deep inside you, you can't help but root for him at that moment. I know I wrote at length earlier about Miguel being selfish and failing to appreciate his family, but it can easily be argued that his family is even more callous and stubborn by forbidding him from taking part in something he loves. Neither side is willing to compromise at the start of the movie, but by the end they've both learned that there's a middle ground they had not considered before. And for Miguel's elders, in particular, there is the realization that their previous outlook on music was seriously, horribly flawed.
"Coco" also offers a lot of great insight into the truths and myths that surround the idea of being a professional musician, or any kind of artist in general. I suppose I still do buy into some of this mythology, simply because it's so deeply ingrained in me and has shaped the way I've looked at "serious" musicians for as long as I can remember. What I'm talking about is the belief that in order to attain the level of true greatness, you basically have to sacrifice everything at the altar of music (or whatever your artistic medium of choice may be). You have to dive into your passion totally and completely, to immerse yourself in it more deeply than anything else in your life. You have to practice incessantly and commit yourself fully to your craft -- not out of any feeling of obligation, but because this is your calling and you love it unconditionally. And you must devote yourself to the musician's way of life: I'm not talking about the tired old stereotype of "sex and drugs" here, but about the idea that you live this itinerant lifestyle where you're always on the road, traveling to city after city and playing gig after gig. When you're home, most of your time is spent either holed up in the recording studio or the practice room, writing and rehearsing and creating new songs, new works of art to share with the world. Such high standards seem a bit extreme and unrealistic to me now, but they made perfect sense at the time, as so many of my favorite musicians appeared to possess superhuman skills.
Adopting this point of view was something that happened quite naturally for me. Growing up, as I became more and more obsessed with music, this always just felt like the way things were meant to be -- the natural order of things. I would read all these stories about musicians that I admired, and inevitably they inspired me to try to raise my game. The overall message that I received was this: Artists are relentlessly driven and motivated to bring their creative vision to life, and they are unwavering in their commitment to do so. Don't get me wrong, though. I always felt like artists should be normal people too, at least to a certain extent. They need to go out and experience the world around them and interact with lots of people and be empathetic to the lives of others. (Otherwise, how the hell would they ever have anything to write music about?) But at the same time, so many of the musicians I loved always seemed single-minded in their level of focus and determination. They had their own goals and expectations of what they wanted to achieve, and they didn't care what the rest of the world thought about that... I suppose this is putting a positive spin on the archetype of the mega-ambitious artist: that they are willing to sacrifice many of the things that other people enjoy in order to pursue their dream of artistic greatness, which ultimately is about unlocking deeper feelings and greater truths about the human condition. However, as much as I was (and still am, for the most part) willing to glorify these artists, I can see now that this is an inherently selfish lifestyle. Even though musicians are constantly collaborating with others and connecting with them through the process of making music, and even though the music they create can enrich listeners' lives in so many ways, ultimately they are seeking personal satisfaction, first and foremost. So the flipside to this charitable, admirable view of professional musicians is that they're all a bunch of narcissistic assholes, haha. Whereas some people (like me) look at this type of person and see passion, motivation and a strong work ethic, others see only stubborn selfishness wrapped in artsy-fartsy pretension -- egocentrism masquerading as ambition. As with most things, though, the real answer probably lies somewhere in the middle.
Anyway, the way this dichotomy manifests itself in "Coco" is through a classic dilemma that musicians everywhere face: How do you pursue your dream while also remaining committed to your family? At first, the movie depicts this question as a strictly either/or scenario. Those musicians who choose to put their career first must sacrifice any desire they might have to start a family of their own. They either abandon that notion entirely (like de la Cruz) or they push it back to a much later date after they've dropped the hectic musician's lifestyle and settled down in one place. And if they do try to achieve both goals at once (like Hector), they find themselves torn between competing dreams and unable to devote enough time to either one. The music that they make suffers because their mind is constantly drifting back to the family that's waiting for them at home, and their relationships with their spouse and children become strained because they're never around to spend time with them. By half-assing both areas of their life, they end up feeling lonely and unfulfilled... But one of the greatest things about "Coco" is how it convincingly makes the case that these two things do not have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, each passion can enhance the other. When the Rivera family finally acknowledges that music is not the enemy and gives Miguel their blessing to pursue his dream of becoming a musician, the wall that once separated them from Miguel comes crumbling down. And by eliminating the tension and secrecy that had once plagued their relationship with Miguel, they realize what they had been missing out on. They open their eyes to the beauty and artistry that music can bring to their lives -- which is its own infinitely renewable reward, not just a means of strengthening their bond with an estranged family member. Miguel, meanwhile, comes to love and appreciate his family more deeply than he ever has before. Not only is he able to come out of hiding and share his passion and talent for music with his relatives, but he gains a better grasp of the type of innate familial affection that made them feel the need to "protect" him in the first place. And this greater connection only enhances the quality of his own music: In the final scene of the movie, which depicts Miguel playing songs for (and with) his family in the backyard during a Dia de los Muertos celebration, there is the sense that forging an unbreakable bond with his ancestors has allowed him to realize the full potential of his gift, and now the music is bursting out of him with pure, uninhibited joy. The shared love and camaraderie between them allows Miguel's music to reach a higher artistic plane.
But beyond all of these rich themes and wise insights about music, the element of "Coco" that resonates the most with me is a bit more subtle. The film suggests, as it gradually reveals the true origin story behind Ernesto de la Cruz's most beloved song, "Remember Me," that making music that truly moves people cannot be achieved fraudulently. Instead, the movie posits that heartfelt, deeply personal songs are the ones that really connect with others, not songs made to appeal to the masses. This belief is something that really meshes with my own DIY/indie approach to making music: the idea that commercial considerations should never be part of the process of creating art. And frankly, these are not the types of values I would expect to see promoted in a massive, multimillion-dollar Disney/Pixar film... Near the end of "Coco," when we discover that de la Cruz murdered Hector and then stole all of his songs so that he could pass them off as his own, it's a heartbreaking moment. But we also learn that the reason why de la Cruz was able to use Hector's songs to achieve fame, fortune and universal adoration was not just because those songs were great, but because those songs came from a very real place within Hector's soul. He was able to channel his love for his family into music and allowed those feelings to shine through. Even a brutal, cynical hack like de la Cruz could not snuff out the tender beauty at the core of Hector's songs when he performed them. In de la Cruz's hands, "Remember Me" is still moving, but it also seems like a selfish plea for love from the world at large, as if he has already proclaimed his own greatness and is using this song to seal his fate as a legend who will never be forgotten. But once we learn the true meaning behind the song, our perspective as viewers abruptly shifts. The focal point of "Remember Me" is not the singer of the song -- it's the person listening to it. Hector wrote the song as an open-hearted promise to his young daughter, a declaration of love that helped his child keep her father close to her even when he was traveling far away. It embodies warmth and generosity and the eternal bond of family. In other words, it's the antithesis of de la Cruz himself.
And after a ridiculous number of words to explain all of this stuff in painstaking detail, we have finally arrived at the conclusion I've been trying to reach... THIS is why the ending of "Coco" made me cry like a fucking baby. After Miguel returns to the land of the living and rushes to his great-grandmother's side to jog her memory of Hector before he vanishes for good, there's not much doubt that he is going to do so by playing "Remember Me" for Coco. I absolutely knew this was going to happen a few minutes before it actually did, and it still knocked me on my ass. The moment is just that powerful. Miguel gently starts playing the song, and instantly Coco brightens up and begins to sing along with him. She still remembers every word, and bringing this music (and, by extension, her memories of her father) back into her life awakens a part of her that was almost lost. She looks like a joyful child as she innocently, sweetly chirps this world-famous tune that, decades earlier, was written especially for her. Everything comes full circle as a lifetime of suppressed and forgotten feelings come rushing out of Coco and Miguel, the oldest and youngest generations of the Rivera family uniting under one banner for the first time. It's such a simple yet profound revelation, and this song is the key that unlocks it: Music is love. Music is family. Music is universal connection. Music is eternal life. And all of these things put together are perhaps the only way to make the grim finality of death seem less scary, perhaps even bearable. After our loved ones depart from this world, we continue to share their stories and honor their memories. They are never gone as long as we work hard to keep them alive. So that's exactly what we do: We sing a song with all the heartfelt grace we can muster, and they are right there singing it with us, forever by our side.
The first time I saw "Coco" was emotionally overwhelming in a way that was beyond anything I've ever experienced before with other movies. Sure, I've cried during movies many times in my life, but the ending of "Coco" absolutely decimated me, gutted me, obliterated me to a degree that I never would have anticipated. I remember watching it at home with Natalie, and I was literally just sobbing uncontrollably during those final scenes, trying in vain to stifle my blubbering so that she could still hear the movie (and so I wouldn't embarrass myself too badly). So why did "Coco" have such a profound impact on me? I'm going to get into all of that in painstaking detail in a minute here -- but first, a brief digression...
It was really interesting watching the movie again last week, because while I still loved it and was still tremendously moved by it, it wasn't quite the emotional outpouring that hit me during that initial viewing. This got me thinking about how during the last few years, in an effort to make myself feel, well, anything, I've often found myself returning to works of art that in the past have given me "all the feels," as the kids say. But the thing is, it's really hard for something to hit you that hard over and over again, especially when you already know everything that's going to happen. I usually chalk up this phenomenon to the idea of expectations, and how they can play a huge factor in how something affects you. The first time I watched "Coco," I was expecting to enjoy it, maybe even to love it, but I was certainly not expecting to be knocked on my ass and left lying in a puddle of my own tears. The second time around, however, I was fully expecting that to be the case -- but here's the problem: How can any work of art live up to such lofty expectations? Should we really expect something that blew us away in the past to keep doing so every single time after that, for the rest of our lives? It doesn't really seem fair, now does it?
The funny thing about this phenomenon is that while I've experienced it quite a few times with movies and TV, it happens to me much less frequently with music. Perhaps that's because songs are typically only a few minutes long and so, by their very bite-sized nature, they're meant to be experienced over and over again. On the other hand, TV and film are long-form mediums that often rely on plot twists and the element of surprise as a major part of their appeal. Sure, anyone can get sick of songs or albums if they hear them too much or if they find that they've grown out of them as they've gotten older, but I find that the vast majority of the time, music inherently rewards repeat listening. You can listen to a song once and maybe not care for it that much, but then you hear it a few more times and it gradually (or suddenly) worms its way into your heart, whether it's the next day, or a few months later, or a decade later. In other words, music is an art form that can actually grow emotionally richer with greater exposure, whereas movies and TV, as amazing as they can be, almost always have the greatest impact upon first viewing -- and maybe they're not even really designed to be viewed multiple times. I realize that I'm making a vague generalization here that has plenty of exceptions (there are a number of movies and TV shows that I've loved just as much or more on later viewings as I did the first time I saw them), but overall it feels like a true statement. Or maybe I feel this way because I love music more than any other art form, and I'm just identifying one of the many reasons why. Who knows? But it's something that I've been thinking about quite a lot lately. Anyway, now back to our regularly scheduled programming...
I don't want to spend too much time summarizing the plot of "Coco" here, because A.) This journal is mainly just for me, and obviously I don't need to be informed about the plot of a movie I've already seen multiple times, 2.) Anyone out there who would care to read this many words about a movie would surely have already seen it before, and D.) Even if someone wanted to read this without having seen the film, they could just look up the plot summary online anyway. But just for the sake of setting the scene, here's a basic recap of the events of "Coco": Miguel Rivera is a Mexican boy who loves music but whose family has banned it from their home for decades. This is because a few generations earlier, Miguel's great-great-grandfather -- a professional musician -- abandoned his wife and child (whose name is Coco) to pursue a career in music. Miguel soon learns that his great-great-grandfather was none other than Ernesto de la Cruz, who is widely considered to be the greatest Mexican musician of all time and who Miguel worships. Miguel desperately wants to play in a talent competition that is happening on Dia de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), but unfortunately, his grandmother smashes his homemade guitar before he gets the chance. Heartbroken, Miguel breaks into de la Cruz's burial site that night to borrow his guitar and use it in the competition. Instead, he finds that he has crossed over into a new realm, one where the living can no longer see or hear him and he can suddenly see and hear all the dead people who are returning home to be with their loved ones for Dia de los Muertos. Miguel travels to the Land of the Dead to find a way to bring himself back among the living. He learns that he needs the blessing of one of his deceased relatives, but none of them will give it to him once they find out that Miguel wants to be a famous musician, just like his great-great-grandfather. Miguel sets off to find de la Cruz and receive his blessing so that he can go home. Along the way, he meets Hector, a quirky vagabond, and the two vow to help each other out. Hector will help Miguel sneak into de la Cruz's annual Dia de los Muertos concert, and Miguel promises to return a photo of Hector to Hector's daughter to place it on her family's ofrenda (altar) so that she can remember him before he disappears forever. During their journey, Miguel and Hector grow closer, and Miguel learns that Hector is a very talented musician in his own right. Miguel eventually makes it to de la Cruz's mansion and finds a way in before the concert. There, he meets de la Cruz, impresses him by playing some songs for him, and informs him that he is de la Cruz's great-great-grandson.
However, after speaking with de la Cruz, Miguel learns that Hector and de la Cruz were musical partners when they were young before de la Cruz betrayed him. Hector had a wife and daughter and wanted to give up the hard life of a touring musician and return home to be with his family. This infuriated de la Cruz, who then poisoned Hector, killing him, and stole his book of songs and his distinctive guitar. De la Cruz then used Hector's songs to achieve immense fame and fortune, while Hector died as an unknown, with his wife and child (Coco) thinking that he abandoned them. At this point, Miguel realizes that Hector is his true great-great-grandfather, and he is horrified to discover that de la Cruz murdered Hector. Willing to do whatever it takes to protect his legacy, de la Cruz sends Miguel and Hector off to a dungeon for what appears to be certain doom. However, they are soon rescued by Miguel's dead ancestors. The group hatches a plan to sneak into de la Cruz's concert to take back Hector's photo and return it to Coco before it's too late. During the concert, they wind up exposing to the enormous crowd that de la Cruz is a fraud and a murderer. Sadly, Hector's photo is lost in the scuffle with de la Cruz. Miguel receives the blessing he has been seeking from his family members, who now support his dream to become a musician. Miguel rushes home as fast as he can to make sure his great-grandmother Coco does not forget Hector, which would cause him to vanish into nothingness. He plays de la Cruz's most famous song, "Remember Me" -- which was actually written by Hector for Coco when she was very young -- and Coco sings along with him as she suddenly remembers all the words, and her memories of her father come flooding back to her. The entire Rivera family then learns the true story of Hector and what happened to him all those years ago, and that he did not abandon his wife and child as they had believed for so long. The movie ends with a flash-forward to a year later, with Miguel joyfully playing songs for all his relatives in their backyard on Dia de los Muertos, as well as several shots of all the de la Cruz memorials around town being torn down and replaced with statues of Hector, the rightful heir to that rich musical legacy... Wow, that plot summary took me A LOT longer than I thought it would, haha. Oh well, at least it helped refresh my memory about everything.
There are so, so many things to love about "Coco" that allow it to transcend the tag of "kids' movie" and make the leap into the realm of truly great, profound art. I could devote a whole bunch of words here to the many surface pleasures the film has to offer -- namely, all the amazing music and the beautiful animation, especially the drop-dead-gorgeous depiction of the Land of the Dead, with a stunning bridge of marigolds leading to an endless, glimmering cityscape, which is populated by people's deceased loved ones, all of whom are illustrated as a diverse tapestry of calacas (skeletons) that are still recognizable as their living selves. Then I could talk about the incredibly rich and detailed story or the deep, complex, flawed characters and all the creativity and imagination required to seamlessly bring these different elements to life. Then I could discuss how the film so fully embraces ambivalence and moral uncertainty in a genre that usually favors the simplistic and one-dimensional. But none of that would really capture why this movie impacted me so strongly. No, when it comes down to it, the thing that makes "Coco" an all-timer for me is that in so many ways, it is pretty much the quintessential Jeremy movie, haha. It's a film that seems tailor-made for my personal tastes, but it also challenges and expands upon some of my most long-held convictions in brilliant and unexpected ways, rather than just reinforcing these previously held beliefs. How so? Well, I will get to that in more detail soon enough... But for starters, "Coco" touches on a lot of big ideas about music, death and family -- which are probably the major themes that I return to the most, in my own music and writing, as well as just in my thoughts in general. These themes are portrayed so poignantly on an individual level, and they each hold enough meaning and substance to carry an entire film, but it's the way they are all expertly intertwined that gives "Coco" its one-of-a-kind magic. The movie also packages all of this stuff in what is essentially a warm and loving embrace of Latino culture. Even though I'm Cuban and not Mexican, so many of the people, places, songs and traditions in "Coco" feel like home to me, and that serves as the icing on the cake that cements my love for this film.
Anyway, let's start with the family theme: It's not exactly a unique idea for a work of art in any medium to tout the importance of family, but "Coco" does it better than 99.9% of them. It certainly helps that Miguel and his relatives feel like a real family, certainly more so than you would expect out of any children's flick. And it's not just the typical warm and fuzzy feelings of family bonds that the movie aims to elicit. There is plenty of that, to be sure, but there are also deep-seated resentments that need to be resolved, as well as intense yearning to break through the barriers that a well-intentioned but restrictive family unit can place around you. The Rivera family has forbidden music from its home ever since Miguel's great-great-grandfather abandoned his wife and daughter (or so they think), which puts Miguel at odds with the people he loves the most, creating an unseen rift as he is forced to hide his desire to become a famous musician and cultivate his passion in secret. The family's rash decision also robs them of a lot of joy and beauty, as they seem content to continue the longtime family business of making shoes and unwilling to consider artistic pursuits as anything other than a waste of time. Still, despite their short-sightedness, there is a lot of love between them. They are a tight-knit group, with four generations all living together under one roof, sharing their lives with one another in ways that we simply do not see in modern American culture. There is also tremendous respect shown for family history and the loved ones who have been lost over the years. This is most clearly seen through Miguel's grandmother's reverence for Dia de los Muertos and in fastidiously maintaining the family's ofrenda, which pays homage to deceased relatives and serves to keep their memory alive.
One of Miguel's greatest shortcomings at the start of the film is that he does not appreciate this family history, nor does he recognize the sacrifices that the people on his family's ofrenda have made to give him the life he enjoys today. It's difficult to fault a young kid too badly for failing to show proper respect to the past, but this conflict sets much of the film's drama in motion, as Miguel strives to achieve his personal dream of musical greatness while running away from the closed-minded forebears that he believes will never understand him. But during the journey that follows, Miguel gradually comes to realize all the things that he has taken for granted in his life, not to mention how his relentless pursuit of musical glory has perhaps veered too far toward selfishness at the expense of his family. Meeting the spirits of his true great-great-grandfather Hector, his great-great-grandmother Imelda, and a number of his aunts and uncles in the Land of the Dead gives Miguel a whole new perspective. Especially after the deep bond he develops with Hector, Miguel is able to see how failing to appreciate your family's history and pass on their stories to future generations has dire consequences: It causes them to vanish forever as they become fully untethered from the living world. Miguel realizes that he is part of something bigger than himself, that family bonds are stronger and deeper than any other form of human connection.
Someone like de la Cruz, who only thinks of himself and his musical career and legacy, believes that he can circumvent the traditional concept of family by instead building a world of millions of fans who adore him. He literally has a song (which Miguel sings in the movie) that goes, "Music is my language, and the world is my family." In some ways, this is a beautiful sentiment that expresses the universal power of music to connect us and create bonds between people who lack a conventional family unit. Lord knows that it's something I've long believed and preached about, but there is also a darker side to this perspective that I understand all too well. In my more insular, self-centered moments, I can usually convince myself that music is all I really need. When you're a loner and a homebody, it can become all too easy to believe that by diving headfirst into your personal music world, you are actually connecting with the beating heart of humanity -- because the music makes you feel fully alive, unlike most other things in life -- when all you're really doing is satisfying yourself. For someone like me, that means retreating to my little music bunker at home and playing/writing/recording/listening to music without ever really sharing it with other people. For someone like de la Cruz, it means bypassing the idea of close family and friends in favor of only establishing superficial connections. Everyone around him is either a diehard fan who worships him, a loyal servant or employee, a yes man who agrees with him no matter what, or some combination of the three. Even though he is universally beloved and his music has touched millions of lives, his life is essentially empty because there is no one who truly knows or loves him. Luckily for Miguel, by the end of "Coco," he realizes all the flaws that come along with cultivating fame and fortune at the expense of authentic human connections. He understands that only by creating a real family, one filled with people who love each other selflessly and unconditionally, can any of us have a truly meaningful life. Only then can we find others who care enough about us to carry on our spirit after we're gone.
OK, so now let's talk about death: It's a topic that I've long been fixated on, as so many of my previous entries in this journal can attest. For as long as I can remember, death is a concept that I've struggled to understand and to make peace with. Maybe it's the permanence of the whole thing or the grand mystery that surrounds it, but it's something that has always troubled me. Even as a pretty laid-back, mellow person, thinking about death can fill me with crippling fear and anxiety if it crosses my mind at the wrong moment. I suppose it's mainly the idea of someone suddenly being gone forever, destined to become nothing but a gradually decaying memory -- and then eventually, everyone who ever knew that person will be gone too. And at that point, it's basically like the person never existed in the first place. Once my mind starts going down that path, it inevitably leads me to nihilistic questions like, "Well, if that's the case, if we all just end up gone and forgotten one day, then what's the point of living at all?" From there, it's all too easy to fall into a depressing spiral that can be hard to pull myself out of. When I've mentioned these dark thoughts to people, many will attempt to reassure me by falling back on the traditional Christian notion of heaven (which I still sort of believe in), saying that those of us who are good people will enjoy an eternal afterlife. Others will try to cheer me up by saying that we all live on through our family and friends and all the lives that we've touched. Our spirit endures, they say, through the love that we've shared with others and the wisdom that we've passed down to them. And while that is a touching idea that I mostly agree with, it still somehow feels insufficient. Call me greedy or narcissistic, but that's just not enough for me. I need something more in order to feel like death is not simply the end of the line. (This is one of the reasons why I often focus so much of my time and energy on making music. It's comforting to think that there is something tangible you created that will outlive you, something that provides some insight into your soul as a human being.)
This is where "Coco" comes to the rescue... I was already quite familiar with Dia de los Muertos before seeing the movie, and I feel like I understood the main concepts and beliefs behind it, but for some reason the film brought these ideas to life for me in a such a profound, gut-wrenchingly personal way. Finally, here was a perspective on death that felt satisfying to me. "Coco," and by extension the holiday of Dia de los Muertos, presents a much healthier, more positive way of looking at death. Beyond the festive holiday atmosphere that recognizes our departed loved ones by celebrating their lives with exuberance and joy, there is this sobering and uplifting truth at its core: We can live forever as long as there are people around to keep our memory alive. At its core, this is not so different than the pep talk I mentioned above that I've received from people in the past. However, Dia de los Muertos asks people to take this viewpoint one step further. Rather than just trusting that our loved ones will internalize our spirit and carry it forward for future generations, this tradition revolves around combining a spiritual approach with something physical and real: Build an altar at your home and fill it with photos of your deceased family members. Honor them each year by sharing firsthand memories and passing down their stories. Celebrate their greatest successes, but learn from their worst failures too. Respect your family history and how it informs where you came from, who you are, and who you could be someday. Death sure seems a hell of a lot less terrifying when the people you left behind are doing their best to make sure your life was not lived in vain.
Of course, the flipside to the Dia de los Muertos belief system is that when we don't have any loved ones who are willing and able to do this for us, we essentially cease to exist once everyone who knew us in life has passed away themselves. In "Coco," there is a harrowing scene in which Miguel goes with Hector to the slum-like town where Hector lives on the outskirts of the Land of the Dead. It is basically a desolate, poverty-stricken community filled with the spirits of all those who no longer have any loved ones to put their photo on the family ofrenda. (In keeping with this theme, Hector has the appearance of an old-timey hobo throughout the movie.) It's clear that this makeshift crew of outcasts are people who have no one left but each other, and once the last person on Earth who remembers them dies, they will vanish into dust, gone forever. This is exactly what happens during the crushingly sad part when Miguel goes with Hector to visit Hector's friend, an old man who is sick on his death bed. It's a heartbreaking moment, and you can tell by the look of forlorn resignation in Hector's eyes that he has already seen this happen to many of his other friends. He also knows it's only a matter of time before it happens to him too. That's an incredibly dark sentiment to portray in a so-called children's movie, but "Coco" is not afraid to go there. You could argue that this scene also (unintentionally?) depicts what is probably the greatest flaw of the Dia de los Muertos belief system: that anyone who has not been blessed with a loving family is doomed to be forgotten once they reach the afterlife. But it also suggests that it is up to us to establish meaningful connections during our life in order to ensure that our soul will carry on. It essentially puts the onus on each individual to build their own community of loved ones, which I suppose is not really fair when so many others have been surrounded by loving family members since the day they were born and have never had to really "work" to have their photo placed on someone's ofrenda. It's certainly a question worth pondering, but to the movie's credit, it seems to posit that the gift of eternal life is never just given to us (except for those undeserving few, like Ernesto de la Cruz, who found a way to cheat the system). It must always be earned in some capacity, and -- much like the concept of heaven -- only those who are truly worthy, those who made a positive impact on others during life, will have their memory forever enshrined.
There is music everywhere in "Coco," even if it's not really a movie about music, per se. While never taking its eye off its primary theme of family, the film manages to show how much music (and the arts in general) can enrich our lives in so many beautiful ways. Miguel's story exemplifies how music can bring us joy and lift us up, providing a necessary release from the stresses of daily life, as well as how it can give us a greater sense of purpose if it's something we choose to create ourselves. And for anyone seeking deeper fulfillment, music offers a greater healing power akin to spiritual enlightenment. It can also communicate feelings and ideas that transcend human limitations for personal expression, saying things that we never could in words or in writing. Sure, proclaiming the universal power of music is not exactly an original idea, but "Coco" goes out of its way to dig deeper. While Miguel certainly loves his family at the start of the movie, he also believes that their lives are missing a crucial ingredient: passion. His relatives are not bad people by any means, but for Miguel, they are somewhat cold, short-sighted and hollow because of their rule banning all music. Not only does Miguel feel misunderstood, but he feels as if his entire worldview is under siege. He must keep his passion a secret from the people he loves, and once he sees that they will not budge from their long-held beliefs, it's an injustice so great that it causes him to run away from home. In a sense, by taking such a rigid anti-music stance because of the man who (they think) abandoned them decades earlier, they have caused one of their youngest members to abandon them as well. Granted, the film purposely pushes the Rivera family's views to an impractical extreme in order to prove a point. Not too many viewers, after all, are going to agree that the family's "all music is evil" perspective is a reasonable one.
However, Miguel's decision to pursue his dream no matter what anyone else says is ultimately commendable. He's only a kid, so the moment when his grandmother smashes his precious handmade guitar in the street must feel like his entire world is ending (hell, it would probably feel like that for me as an adult, LOL). It's no surprise, then, to see the level of audacity that he shows in the immediate aftermath, which is the type of rebellious, impetuous streak that seems to only exist during our youth. And if you still have anything resembling an idealistic dreamer lurking deep inside you, you can't help but root for him at that moment. I know I wrote at length earlier about Miguel being selfish and failing to appreciate his family, but it can easily be argued that his family is even more callous and stubborn by forbidding him from taking part in something he loves. Neither side is willing to compromise at the start of the movie, but by the end they've both learned that there's a middle ground they had not considered before. And for Miguel's elders, in particular, there is the realization that their previous outlook on music was seriously, horribly flawed.
"Coco" also offers a lot of great insight into the truths and myths that surround the idea of being a professional musician, or any kind of artist in general. I suppose I still do buy into some of this mythology, simply because it's so deeply ingrained in me and has shaped the way I've looked at "serious" musicians for as long as I can remember. What I'm talking about is the belief that in order to attain the level of true greatness, you basically have to sacrifice everything at the altar of music (or whatever your artistic medium of choice may be). You have to dive into your passion totally and completely, to immerse yourself in it more deeply than anything else in your life. You have to practice incessantly and commit yourself fully to your craft -- not out of any feeling of obligation, but because this is your calling and you love it unconditionally. And you must devote yourself to the musician's way of life: I'm not talking about the tired old stereotype of "sex and drugs" here, but about the idea that you live this itinerant lifestyle where you're always on the road, traveling to city after city and playing gig after gig. When you're home, most of your time is spent either holed up in the recording studio or the practice room, writing and rehearsing and creating new songs, new works of art to share with the world. Such high standards seem a bit extreme and unrealistic to me now, but they made perfect sense at the time, as so many of my favorite musicians appeared to possess superhuman skills.
Adopting this point of view was something that happened quite naturally for me. Growing up, as I became more and more obsessed with music, this always just felt like the way things were meant to be -- the natural order of things. I would read all these stories about musicians that I admired, and inevitably they inspired me to try to raise my game. The overall message that I received was this: Artists are relentlessly driven and motivated to bring their creative vision to life, and they are unwavering in their commitment to do so. Don't get me wrong, though. I always felt like artists should be normal people too, at least to a certain extent. They need to go out and experience the world around them and interact with lots of people and be empathetic to the lives of others. (Otherwise, how the hell would they ever have anything to write music about?) But at the same time, so many of the musicians I loved always seemed single-minded in their level of focus and determination. They had their own goals and expectations of what they wanted to achieve, and they didn't care what the rest of the world thought about that... I suppose this is putting a positive spin on the archetype of the mega-ambitious artist: that they are willing to sacrifice many of the things that other people enjoy in order to pursue their dream of artistic greatness, which ultimately is about unlocking deeper feelings and greater truths about the human condition. However, as much as I was (and still am, for the most part) willing to glorify these artists, I can see now that this is an inherently selfish lifestyle. Even though musicians are constantly collaborating with others and connecting with them through the process of making music, and even though the music they create can enrich listeners' lives in so many ways, ultimately they are seeking personal satisfaction, first and foremost. So the flipside to this charitable, admirable view of professional musicians is that they're all a bunch of narcissistic assholes, haha. Whereas some people (like me) look at this type of person and see passion, motivation and a strong work ethic, others see only stubborn selfishness wrapped in artsy-fartsy pretension -- egocentrism masquerading as ambition. As with most things, though, the real answer probably lies somewhere in the middle.
Anyway, the way this dichotomy manifests itself in "Coco" is through a classic dilemma that musicians everywhere face: How do you pursue your dream while also remaining committed to your family? At first, the movie depicts this question as a strictly either/or scenario. Those musicians who choose to put their career first must sacrifice any desire they might have to start a family of their own. They either abandon that notion entirely (like de la Cruz) or they push it back to a much later date after they've dropped the hectic musician's lifestyle and settled down in one place. And if they do try to achieve both goals at once (like Hector), they find themselves torn between competing dreams and unable to devote enough time to either one. The music that they make suffers because their mind is constantly drifting back to the family that's waiting for them at home, and their relationships with their spouse and children become strained because they're never around to spend time with them. By half-assing both areas of their life, they end up feeling lonely and unfulfilled... But one of the greatest things about "Coco" is how it convincingly makes the case that these two things do not have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, each passion can enhance the other. When the Rivera family finally acknowledges that music is not the enemy and gives Miguel their blessing to pursue his dream of becoming a musician, the wall that once separated them from Miguel comes crumbling down. And by eliminating the tension and secrecy that had once plagued their relationship with Miguel, they realize what they had been missing out on. They open their eyes to the beauty and artistry that music can bring to their lives -- which is its own infinitely renewable reward, not just a means of strengthening their bond with an estranged family member. Miguel, meanwhile, comes to love and appreciate his family more deeply than he ever has before. Not only is he able to come out of hiding and share his passion and talent for music with his relatives, but he gains a better grasp of the type of innate familial affection that made them feel the need to "protect" him in the first place. And this greater connection only enhances the quality of his own music: In the final scene of the movie, which depicts Miguel playing songs for (and with) his family in the backyard during a Dia de los Muertos celebration, there is the sense that forging an unbreakable bond with his ancestors has allowed him to realize the full potential of his gift, and now the music is bursting out of him with pure, uninhibited joy. The shared love and camaraderie between them allows Miguel's music to reach a higher artistic plane.
But beyond all of these rich themes and wise insights about music, the element of "Coco" that resonates the most with me is a bit more subtle. The film suggests, as it gradually reveals the true origin story behind Ernesto de la Cruz's most beloved song, "Remember Me," that making music that truly moves people cannot be achieved fraudulently. Instead, the movie posits that heartfelt, deeply personal songs are the ones that really connect with others, not songs made to appeal to the masses. This belief is something that really meshes with my own DIY/indie approach to making music: the idea that commercial considerations should never be part of the process of creating art. And frankly, these are not the types of values I would expect to see promoted in a massive, multimillion-dollar Disney/Pixar film... Near the end of "Coco," when we discover that de la Cruz murdered Hector and then stole all of his songs so that he could pass them off as his own, it's a heartbreaking moment. But we also learn that the reason why de la Cruz was able to use Hector's songs to achieve fame, fortune and universal adoration was not just because those songs were great, but because those songs came from a very real place within Hector's soul. He was able to channel his love for his family into music and allowed those feelings to shine through. Even a brutal, cynical hack like de la Cruz could not snuff out the tender beauty at the core of Hector's songs when he performed them. In de la Cruz's hands, "Remember Me" is still moving, but it also seems like a selfish plea for love from the world at large, as if he has already proclaimed his own greatness and is using this song to seal his fate as a legend who will never be forgotten. But once we learn the true meaning behind the song, our perspective as viewers abruptly shifts. The focal point of "Remember Me" is not the singer of the song -- it's the person listening to it. Hector wrote the song as an open-hearted promise to his young daughter, a declaration of love that helped his child keep her father close to her even when he was traveling far away. It embodies warmth and generosity and the eternal bond of family. In other words, it's the antithesis of de la Cruz himself.
And after a ridiculous number of words to explain all of this stuff in painstaking detail, we have finally arrived at the conclusion I've been trying to reach... THIS is why the ending of "Coco" made me cry like a fucking baby. After Miguel returns to the land of the living and rushes to his great-grandmother's side to jog her memory of Hector before he vanishes for good, there's not much doubt that he is going to do so by playing "Remember Me" for Coco. I absolutely knew this was going to happen a few minutes before it actually did, and it still knocked me on my ass. The moment is just that powerful. Miguel gently starts playing the song, and instantly Coco brightens up and begins to sing along with him. She still remembers every word, and bringing this music (and, by extension, her memories of her father) back into her life awakens a part of her that was almost lost. She looks like a joyful child as she innocently, sweetly chirps this world-famous tune that, decades earlier, was written especially for her. Everything comes full circle as a lifetime of suppressed and forgotten feelings come rushing out of Coco and Miguel, the oldest and youngest generations of the Rivera family uniting under one banner for the first time. It's such a simple yet profound revelation, and this song is the key that unlocks it: Music is love. Music is family. Music is universal connection. Music is eternal life. And all of these things put together are perhaps the only way to make the grim finality of death seem less scary, perhaps even bearable. After our loved ones depart from this world, we continue to share their stories and honor their memories. They are never gone as long as we work hard to keep them alive. So that's exactly what we do: We sing a song with all the heartfelt grace we can muster, and they are right there singing it with us, forever by our side.