The few times I've watched movies this semester, I've chosen legal films.
I like John Grisham movies especially because they all have essentially the same plot. A recently-married first-year associate is driven to the edge of madness and despair by the stress of running his first massive case. He alone can save falsely-accused Samuel L. Jackson or terminally-ill John Cusack from the sinister wiles of Gene Hackman—and of course the Memphis mobsters he represents.
There comes a time in every film where this stress, paired with angst over an impending affair with Ashley Judd, overwhelms him. The night before trial, he spends all night at the office, sweating bullets, swilling Wild Turkey and chain smoking cigarettes: a shattered husk of a man. If McConaughey is the lead, he'll strip down to his wife beater and do a lot of agitated hair-fixing. If it's Tom Cruise, he'll explode into an unhinged tirade at Danny DeVito or Gary Busey, his undeserving loyal sidekicks.
This is, of course, the climax of the film: the long dark night of the soul that galvanizes him into a lawyer of polished steel. Having survived, he will stride into court the next morning fresh as a daisy, with a few arcane precedents and rules of procedure up his sleeve to drop like bombs on the unsuspecting prosecution.
Obviously I like to see myself in these leading men. I nod sagely though most of the movies, relating powerfully to all the grace under pressure, tactical brilliance, and fancy legal footwork on display. In my mind I can do it all: I can get the coveted job at the homicidal big firm; I can embarrass Jon Voight with my devastating cross examinations; I can stay faithful to Meg Ryan no matter how long they lock me in the hotel room with an amorous Sandra Bullock; I can even escape the long-haired Nashville hit men that Kevin Spacey sends after me, but there is one element I cannot relate to. I cannot pull a pre-trial all-nighter.
I know this because I recently tried it. After a semester of studying my absolute ass off, spending dozens of consecutive 12-hour days at the school, finals arrived like the rapture at the end of the world: nobody was ready. All those hours of studying boiled down to a 4-hour exam that would determine 100% of my grade, for good or ill. Nobody cares how much you study if you wiff on the final; law school is all about product, not process.
To call finals stressful is a colossal understatement. Each one is a fight for your life.
Accordingly, I had big plans. I decided to ramp up my study schedule in the week preceding the tests. After so many 12-hour days, I could do a few 14-hour ones, right?
Wrong.
Two nights before my Torts final, I kicked into overdrive. I was going to do a final comprehensive review, a victory lap to cap off all my hard work, and if it took all night, so be it.
I won't lie: I was hoping to do some agitated hair-fixing, maybe even lose my temper with my roommate. I skipped the Wild Turkey and cigarettes, but I bought a few energy drinks and determined to knock them back in the same harried way.
Things started off fine. I was flying through my material, feeling very Hollywood with my top button undone and my sleeves rolled up, sweating cinematic sweat. Around 11pm, however, I became aware of a gentle tickle at the back of my throat. About midnight, I was troubled by a massive sneeze that left me with an itchy nose and an uncomfortable feeling behind my eyes.
By 1am, my head felt like the inside of a fire extinguisher; the immense pressure inside my sinuses forced out tears and snot in steady streams. I had toilet paper stuffed up both nostrils. My eyes were crossed and blurry, lips chapped.
I did not feel very Hollywood.
I went to bed then, to lie awake and cough until the energy drinks wore off, feeling like a disappointment to everyone on earth. Somewhere, in my feverish imagination, I could see Gene Hackman laughing maniacally.
I rolled into my final some 48 hours later, full of DayQuil and regret. I was not fresh as a daisy; I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. So that was the way the semester ended. Not with a bang, but a whimper.
In unrelated news, I think next semester I will be watching period British dramas, or maybe superhero movies, if indeed I watch anything at all.
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