Hands

During my playground days I was more concerned about being picked first for kickball than determining who had a crush on me. I would spend recess aloof trying to conduct the wind rather than find a boyfriend.  

I remember movies attempted to convince me that relationships were exciting, or something to be desired. These attempts were largely unsuccessful. Until I saw the movie Peter Pan (2003). I’d like to single this film out as being a probable candidate for the worst Peter Pan adaptation. Robin Williams makes no cameo in this picture. Disney’s animated (and somewhat racist adaptation) is probably still more beloved than the one I’m mentioning. 

But still. It left an impression. 

My mom and I went to the theater to watch this movie. I recall being more excited at the prospect of food rather than the entertainment possibilities. Movie theaters, to me, had always been an excuse to test the limits of how quickly I could shovel popcorn into my mouth.

The film began with little fanfare. There was a St. Bernard, which I remember liking because dogs are great. There was a moment where children bounced on clouds like cotton candy. Charming. There was a swordfight, during which my mom shifted in her chair uncomfortably. Her discomfort, if anything, only sharpened my focus, as I felt as if I were getting away with something. I was paying careful attention.

Peter and Wendy traipsed into the woods of Neverland.  I watched as Wendy and Peter watched. The clearing was still but Peter pointed Wendy’s attention towards a hollow log. They sat, together in a forest, as fairies danced in a stately ballroom fashion. After a moment, the two children decided to emulate them. It’s playful and coy. Peter gives a mocking bow and Wendy returns a self-serious curtsy.

Then, in close-up, Peter holds out his hand and Wendy gently slides hers to meet his. It’s a throwaway shot that lasts less than three seconds. It’s not even the climax of this scene, as they eventually go on to dance and even kiss. But it is a moment that has stayed with me to this day.

Rewatching the scene now, I can see the strings of the film. I can read the corniness and the overall saccharine nature of the scene’s whole conceit. But something still stirs inside me each time I see them reach for each other's hands. 

I think my fascination in this moment lies in the ambivalent nature of the act itself. There is such tremendous tension in ambiguity. In this moment, they can sense they stand on the precipice of something more. In this moment, they stand on the threshold of adulthood.  This simple moment inspired a bit of an obsession with me.

To this day, I’m fascinated with any moment in film that focuses on two characters touching hands. I remember trying to convey this sentiment to my boyfriend. He shrugs this idea off and argues that holding hands is largely platonic. Something you can do with your parents. Something that doesn’t have to mean anything.Perhaps he forgets that our relationship began because I was brave to reach out for his hand.

I remember another film in another theater. My best friend and I were among many in a crowded throng. I was going into this film almost stone cold, one of my favorite ways to consume movies. 

All I knew was the name Parasite. Given its title, I had come to the conclusion that I should prepare myself for some sort of body horror film. It’s certainly not that. And it’s certainly a better film than Peter Pan. 

There’s a scene of a man urinating in an alley, shot entirely in slow motion. There’s a bizarre abundance of Native American staggered throughout the film. There’s a moment where I cackled with delight, simply because of a single hot sauce packet. Then there’s a scene where a tutor sits at a cramped desk, instructing his female pupil. The girl’s mother watches them both silently, with eagle eyes. At one point, the tutor reaches out and measures her pulse, an act he excuses away with some comment about test taking preparedness. And I almost scream. If you’ve seen this movie, you know there are more appropriate moments to scream.

It was partly due the fact that their relationship is grossly inappropriate. Student / teacher relationships have never been a particularly enticing taboo for me to fixate on. Indeed, I tend to condemn movies that try to normalize such relationships. But Parasite struck at me with kryptonite. It is a perfectly executed moment that simultaneously conveys desire and deniability. A touch that’s subtle enough to perform in front of a mother, yet overt enough that both parties understand exactly what is taking place.  

A relationship eventually develops between these two characters, but no chemistry matches the moment where they first touch. And nothing matches the tragedy of when these characters last meet.

I remember another film, this time not one I saw in theaters. I’m home alone, watching this film during month five of quarantine. It is the longest period of my life that I’ve gone without seeing a movie in theaters.

In City Lights,Charlie Chaplin is trying his best to woo a young blind woman. He successfully comes up with enough money to pay for a surgery that will grant her back her vision, before leaving her. When the two meet again in the film’s conclusion, she sees Chaplin but doesn’t remember him. It’s only when Chaplin reaches out to her hand, that recognition dawns on her face.

There’s something captivating in that instance. Touch as recognition is a striking concept and there’s little doubt that this is the film’s most brilliant scene. Implicit in this action is the idea that seeing someone isn’t the same as knowing someone. That somehow, when hands touch, there is knowledge that is exchanged between each person. 

It’s an idea that I find irresistible, but in today’s world, where does that leave us? With human contact slowly becoming more and more taboo, perhaps the inspiration behind these words is willful reminiscence. 

Maybe I get some voyeuristic pleasure in watching others perform things on screen that now seems forbidden. Whatever the reason, I find possibility in human touch. A kiss is a confession, while touching hands invites interpretation.

And especially now, I long for any act that can invoke such feelings of optimism. 

Sarah Alford is a musician, artist and amateur comedian from Richmond, California. She has previously written about film for The Daily Californian. She is the author of countless dream diary entries, which she hopes to eventually leverage into a film adaptation. She’s been watching movies and holding hands for as long as she can remember.