Having been raised by Pokémon, Harry Potter, and every possible manifestation of television, I am supremely proud of my ability to suspend disbelief. Miniature dueling monsters? Sure! A secret Wizarding world? Why not? An urban neighborhood occupied by aggressively colorful puppets? Only one question: What letter is bringing me this pleasure today? I gleefully accept creative license whenever it’s offered, whether bumbling along in the warp-speed banter of Stars Hollow or blossoming in the grand romance of a sea-faring Jack and Rose.

But despite my generosity toward full-blown fiction, I am easily peeved by the small disservices that the entertainment industry does to daily life, pawning off the tiniest lies as reality. For example, I don’t believe I have ever seen two TV characters legitimately make plans. Instead, the man at the bar asks, “Are you free Friday night?”, Will nods, and plans are magically established. Are you sure, Will? Where are you meeting this man? What time should you arrive? Are you intending to survey the city by helicopter all evening, or did you manage to snag a lock of your date’s hair to give a bloodhound his scent?

Other subtle falsities include Olive fleeing the Lobster Shack before even tasting her seafood dinner or Annie taking one peck at the sprawling breakfast Chessy prepared before flitting out the door. Real people don’t do this! I don’t care if my friend’s about to give birth in the restaurant bathroom, I’m at least boxing up my gnocchi before we drive to the hospital! Furthermore, screen-people never seem to yawn or sneeze unless it’s comically convenient, and I’ve never seen a normal tooth-brushing on film! I know these are small details, but they’re the ones that tether me to characters in even the furthest-flung galaxies. They’re the details that make us human.

However, the most inhumane cinematic development to date is the montage. I see the necessity of condensing long tracts of time and effort into a potpourri of shots, but life does not work in montages. Just once, I’d like to view an entire feature-length film of Rocky running up staircases—one unedited work-out—to grasp the blunt, hulking mundanity of the work he did. I want to sit and watch Alan Turing execute calculations until my mind goes numb simply to comprehend what adds up to such achievement. And I want to see Julia Child chop the entire mountain of onions just to witness the fullness of her tearful determination. (Ok. And also because Meryl Streep is flawless, dammit!). I love film and recognize its limits, but I sometimes think it cheats us out of a genuine quivering in the face of excellence, allowing all necessary fatigue and fastidiousness to pool in the shady valleys between more camera-worthy triumphs.

I’m being particularly critical here because I’m currently navigating a lengthy montage in my own life. My days are bulging with the same sequence of teaching, manicuring PowerPoints, logging long miles, and rectifying an endless series of noun-adjective agreement errors. All I want is a few overlapping frames of me tossing crumpled papers into a trash can to the tune of some 80s soft rock and then to move on to a part of my life where I do something more exciting.

I think others feel this, too. It’s why we post the most interesting parts of our days on Facebook or feel lousy while clicking through someone else’s profile pictures: holding up the Tower of Pisa, sporting an NCAA medal, adorably feeding baby birds. (Who is this person, and how is every instant of his life a Kodak moment?) We present our life’s excitements like a blockbuster narrative and then feel humdrum when we watch others’ blip by in identically idyllic fashion.

When we do this, though, we miss the montages—the moments when washing dishes feels like ascending the final feet of Everest or your entire life seems spent at the free throw line or you’ve been reading Mansfield Park for so long that you’ve actually begun to think in Victorian English. These are not post-worthy moments or moments when the music swells. They are, however, the moments in which excellence is sown.

The fact is that most of life is spent in montage. For every game-winning goal, there are hours of footwork drills. So rather than lament them, let’s lean into our montage moments; let’s learn to appreciate routine and apply ourselves faithfully to our daily goings out and comings in. Sure, we can anticipate the climactic monthly triumphs, but we shouldn’t forget to stand in awe of the cumulative accomplishment in the daily. It’s a part of life that can’t be captured in even the most high-def IMAX experience and one that makes us all thoroughly, believably human.

Gabe Gunnink

Gabe Gunnink (’14) lives in Seattle, where he works for a European travel company and gawks at the landscapes and skylines surrounding him. In his free time, he enjoys practicing Portuguese under his breath on city buses, running far enough to justify eating an entire pan of cinnamon rolls, and faithfully implementing Oxford commas.