Oblivion is Inevitable: A Reflection on David Lowery’s “A Ghost Story”

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Director: David Lowery

There's a quiet ritual that I've woven into the fabric of my life, as familiar and comforting as an old sweater: on my birthday, I retreat into the world of cinema, revisiting those stories that have etched themselves into my being. This isn't just a casual pastime—it's a pilgrimage of sorts, a way to reconnect with the parts of myself that flicker and fade in the day-to-day.

This year, my cinematic compass pointed me back to a film that feels like a whispered secret in a world that's always shouting—'A Ghost Story'. Directed by David Lowery in 2017, it's a film that doesn't just tell a tale but rather sits beside you, silently gesturing towards the vast expanse of existence.

I recall the first time I watched it, the way it spoke to me of life's intricate dance of time, a concept that is both grand and cagey. But this time, as the credits rolled, it was the specter of oblivion that lingered with me, a presence I’d spent a lifetime trying to ignore and feared the most. There it was, laid bare on the screen, the fear that no matter the depth of the marks we leave, they too shall one day vanish like the thin air.

Our protagonist, a ghost draped in a simple sheet—the kind you might see in a child's Halloween costume—is anchored by something invisible, hollow, and heavy, to a place that once felt like the center of his universe. Ghost-C is a reflection of everyone's fear: that nagging whisper telling us that the world might forget our names, our stories, and our loves. Watching this spectral and childish figure, I was struck by the thought of how much we burden ourselves with the weight of permanence and making an impact. We build and strive as if to anchor ourselves to this earth, yet the film holds up a mirror to the futility of such efforts. It nudges us to consider the liberation in surrendering to the tides, to embrace the ephemeral nature of... sadly, everything.

There's a scene that never fails to pull me into its gravity—the infamous 8-minute-long pie-eating scene. It's just a person, a pie, and the raw, unfiltered act of consuming grief in the most literal sense. No music to guide your emotions, no quick cuts to relieve the tension—just life, unfolding in real-time, demanding that you sit with it, feel it, as the character does. It's an audacious choice, one that stretches beyond the confines of typical filmmaking, refraining from comfort for the sake of authentic experience.

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In the silence of my living room, I found myself reflecting on the times I've felt like Ghost-C, caught in the purgatory of waiting. Waiting for something undefined, for a future that's perpetually out of reach, or for a past that refuses to release its grip on me. Time, the film proposes, is not just a linear path but a vast ocean where moments float, collide, and drift away. As the film reaches its conclusion, the realization dawns—movement is not always progress.

Ghost-C traverses not just space but centuries, yet to him, it's as if he's standing still while the world evolves around him. I’ll quote one of Taylor Swift’s best-written songs, Right Where You Left Me, “Strangers get born and strangers get buried. Trends change, and rumors fly through new skies. But I'm right where you left me.” The things he held sacred—the home he built, the intimate moments shared within its walls, the laughter and tears that filled the air—they all move forward without him. There's a haunting beauty in acknowledging that our legacies are not ours to control.

The final act of Ghost-C's journey is a poignant commentary on the human condition: our quest for meaning, connection, and sense that we've left an unforgettable mark on the world. Yet, the film suggests that maybe, just maybe, the quest itself is misguided and misconstrued. Perhaps what we should seek is the peace that comes with accepting our smallness in the grand scheme, the tranquility of understanding that our worth isn't measured by remembrance. In the quiet aftermath of the film, as I sat collecting my thoughts, I felt a kinship with that lonely figure under the sheet. The line that punctuates his existence—"Who are you waiting for?" "I don't remember. I don't think they're coming"—echoes in the hollows of my mind, a haunting refrain for all who have grappled with the notion of their own significance.

'A Ghost Story' isn't just a film; it's an experience, a meditation on existence that asks you to leave behind the clamor of the world and listen to the whispers of your soul. It's a journey through the shadows that exist within each of us, those corners we turn away from, the fears we lock away, and the moments we have taken for granted.

This is precisely why, year after year, I return to it. It's a reminder that cinema has the power to touch something deep within us, to stir awake the questions we spend our lives trying to answer. In the end, whether we find those answers or not, the beauty lies in the search, in the shared human endeavor to make sense of the time we're given. So, on my birthday, as I merge my thoughts, I am grateful for this film, for its courage to confront the silence, and for the chance to see a part of myself in the reflection of Ghost-C's journey. It's a story that will linger with me, long after the screen goes dark.