![]() ![]() It was a movie to be watched while sick, or pretending to be, on long days on your sofa. “The Parent Trap” was a film that played on a loop on ABC Family in the early to mid-2000s. Annie teaches Hallie her secret handshake with her butler Martin on a dock over a sparkling lake, and when the camera pulls back from their hip bumps and twirls, they are shadows against the water. ![]() ![]() They will cut Annie’s hair to match Hallie’s, pierce Hallie’s ears to match Annie’s and fly to their respective undiscovered parent’s home. When they are finally pushed together and led to mirror their matching birthdays, examine their joint affinity for Oreos with peanut butter and, crucially, piece together a torn picture of their parents’ wedding, Annie tearfully, Britishly, exclaims, “We’re sisters!” A plan is devised. They have the same face, but somehow that is not enough to illuminate the truth: they are sisters, twins, separated across continents at birth. They have ended up at the same summer camp by chance, or, if you will, and the movie says that you will, fate. The two girls, ingeniously both played by Lindsay Lohan, are distinguished through accent and hair length. These movies are panoramically embedded in my consciousness, stamped into the fabric of my memory.Īt first, Annie and Hallie are sworn enemies. But there is one I can go back to, one that I do, again and again: Nancy Meyers’ 1998 “The Parent Trap.” I can’t rewatch most of them it feels incorrect in the way most memory feels better and more true when its contours are given room to sag. They created me, intertwined my history with parallel details. These movies are panoramically embedded in my consciousness, stamped into the fabric of my memory. I was stepping into Benny’s all-black PF Flyers and leaning into a sprint. I was thumbing through scribbled composition books in “Harriet the Spy,” folded into her structured coats. I pushed my face up toward movie screens and was indistinct from August, with his chapped red cheeks and keen ear. I was haunted by an early-2000s Keri Russell film.īut childhood movies weren’t art objects to be judged in numeric values. Was it a morphed memory? A daydream with roots? No, I realized eventually, it was “August Rush,” a movie about an accidentally abandoned young music prodigy that got 36% on Rotten Tomatoes. For years I had vivid flashbacks of wind in trees, a boy in a too-big coat waving his hands wildly, an orphan conductor of street noise. ![]()
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