The James Dean/Firefly Syndrome

The James Dean/Marilyn Monroe/Firefly Syndrome



“You have to watch this show!” My husband burbled one day after visiting some coolgeek cousins, “It’s great, it’s essentially a space series, but with cowboy aspects to it, and the captain’s really funny, but he has a sad history, and, there’s this funny girl who fixes the engine, and a guy named Jayne, but he’s really tough, and Fox cancelled it after only a few episodes! But its great, the first episode has this fight, on a train, and, and-“
He doesn’t have the greatest way of making things sound appealing. The last show that I ‘just had to see’ turned out to be somewhat of a disappointment, so I didn’t listen too closely to his praises.
Persistent as ever, Michael brought the series home, and I still didn’t pay much attention, wrapped up as I was in my writing, moving to a new home, trying to homeschool our three children…
Somehow, eventually, he cajoled me into watching one episode. And I fell in love. Firefly is witty, earthy, spacey without feeling like Star Trek (not that there’s anything wrong with Star Trek!), warm, and very, very human. It has depth and dimension, and the possibility for a good long run of storyline.
I inhaled all fourteen episodes over the next few days, in the proper, non-Fox-issue order. I was entertained- I laughed, I sniffled, I hid my face in my husband’s shoulder when anything to do with Reavers came on, and I found, somehow, another little slice of weirdness to identify with.

And then the episodes ran out. And I learned that this show had been cancelled nearly five years ago, never to be produced again. (where I was when this all happened, I have no idea)
“What?!?” I was furious, livid actually, “How could some stupid network execs cancel something as quality as this, and show something as stupid as Trading Spouses? What the hell is the matter with them?!?”
Suddenly, somehow, it became just a little bit more than a television show. The odd little speech quirks of Captain Mal became almost iconic, I smiled at people wearing the tee shirts, my curiosity was piqued by anything to do with Joss Whedon. I even signed some online petition to bring the show back, as if that would ever do anything.
I learned that the show has a sort of cult following, much like the similarly fated, but longer-running Futurama (thanks again, Fox).
Something about my reaction to this seemed a bit familiar, and it was only the other day that I was able to put my finger on it.

I was fifteen, working at our family jewelry store in the Foothills Mall in Tucson. I had lived a pretty sheltered life up until that point, not paying much attention to cultural icons or idols much. An antique show came to the mall one weekend. You’ve seen these before, a mass of booths laden with postcards, posters, comic books, costume jewelry, and pop art, all of questionable vintage. It was at one of these booths that I spied a poster that made my pulse quicken a bit. The man in the shot wore a white tee shirt, dark jeans, and a scowl that can only be described as belligerently sexy. I moved the print aside and found a whole stack of pictures beneath, all of this man. I couldn’t tell exactly what era they were from, but in every one he was more and more handsome. Scowling, smirking, smoking cigarettes, he looked to my sheltered fifteen year old eyes like a ragged god, an indifferent and possibly troubled divinity. In love, I hurriedly bought the (cheaper) postcard version, carrying it close to my heart all the way back to work.
There, I showed it to my mother.
“James Dean.” She said, in her matter-of-fact way, barely glancing at my treasure, “Haven’t you ever seen him? Rebel Without a Cause?”
I shook my head.
“50s movie star.” She shrugged, “Died in a motorcycle crash when he was still young. Only did a couple of movies. Maybe we’ll rent one so you can see him. Not much of an actor.”
I gaped at my picture. How tragic. A life cut short. How romantic. A Romeo, an Icarus. It made the imagination whirl- what would movies have been like if he were still here?
I didn’t become obsessed, per se, but I was very fascinated. I studied his short life and learned that it was a car accident, not motorcycle, that he had been a tiny bit mentally unhinged, and that sultry squint that he showed in his photographs was from poor eyesight more than any profound sexuality. Even today, when I am browsing movies, my pulse quickens a little bit at the sight of him on a cover.
He didn’t have the chance to get old and flaccid and embarrassing, like so many other film stars. Now, we hold onto this romantic memory, exaggerating it in some way, possibly, just like we do for other things that we have lost in our lives.

Do things suddenly become more valuable once they are not available? I propose that they do, at least to some of the more romantic of us humans. Do we often take things for granted when they are right in front of us, simple and common things like our families, our comforts, our very culture?

I don’t have any life-altering thoughts to end this article with. I just felt like challenging you, me- all of us- to enjoy and cherish what we have, while we have it. Before it’s gone, and we’re forced to cling to a memory of what once was.
Thanks, and good night.

Labels: absentia, cherish, family, Firefly, importance, James Dean, loss, obsession