Finding Salvation in Our Heroes
Nora Ephron’s 2009 film Julie & Julia, her final one before her death three years later, is perhaps best remembered for its exquisite depiction of the pre-TV life of Julia Child. Meryl Streep imbues Julia with grit and warmth, making it only too clear how she became America’s favorite gourmand and chef.
The film follows twin narratives, one of Child’s beginning as a cook in Paris, the other an account of writer Julie Powell blogging her way through Julia’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking over the course of one year. Amy Adams portrays Powell, whose life has seemingly stalled; once a promising writer, now she works a depressing bureaucratic job answering phone calls about the fallout and cleanup of 9/11. It’s almost difficult to praise Streep at this point when her ability to inhabit a role, real or fictional, seems both inherent and superhuman, so I’ll instead take a moment to praise Adams’ under-sung work.
Julie, as portrayed here—and, as I understand it, as she portrayed herself in her blog—is a bit of a whiny sad sack. It’s not that she’s a complainer, but rather, she’s embarking on an extracurricular project that anyone would find daunting, all while wondering if anyone beyond her husband cares. Is anyone reading her blog? Will it lead to anything? And, of course, what would her hero, Julia, think?
Adams makes us sympathize both with Julie and her occasionally suffering husband. Does Julie take the project too seriously? Sure. But then again, what’s the point of a project if not to complete it? Adams manages to keep frivolous worries grounded in a real person’s anxious attempt to reclaim their life.
The irony of my finding sympathy with Julie isn’t lost on me, though it’s not her writing-for-writing’s-sake anxiety that I identify with; it’s her intense, obsessive love for the work and life of someone she’ll never know. Julie’s problems are a bit trivial, especially when contrasted with Julia’s years-long journey toward the publishing of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, but the film’s final act clarifies why Ephron made these two stories into one film.
For anyone who hasn’t seen this film, spoiler alert, but Julie does gain notoriety for her project (it becomes a book, which became half of this film). When one journalist tells Julie that he showed her blog to Julia, she excitedly asks what the master thought of this tribute. Julie’s face falls, and though the voice on the other end of the phone is inaudible, it’s not good news.
After a spell of thinking Julia Child hates her, Julie’s husband reminds her that it doesn’t matter. The only Julia that’s important to Julie is the one in her head, the one who’s been her intangible mentor. At the film’s conclusion, Julie leaves a block of butter at the Smithsonian exhibit of Julia’s kitchen in tribute, and says, “I love you, Julia.”
I don’t know if Ephron viewed Julia Child, or anyone in her own field, with that kind of near-maternal reverence, but it’s clear that she understands how deeply felt any one person’s legacy can be. It’s true that Julie & Julia is essentially one excellent movie spliced with one that’s just fine, but it’s not without meaning. Our heroes don’t start at their peak, and no matter how they would judge us, their work still means the world.
Nora Ephron was known for her acidic wit as much as for her heart-melting romantic comedies, and with her final film she tells a love story of a legend and the woman she inspired. It’s quite fitting for Ephron to leave us with a movie that gives us permission to love her and follow in her footsteps without judgement. If she were to read any of my work or see my films, I doubt she’d be mean, but she would be excruciatingly honest.
Julie & Julia tells us that our heroes are human, and so are we; all we have to do is make ourselves proud, and the rest is gravy.