I Rewatched the Holiday
Nancy Meyers's uses location so well, I reminisce on a location that shaped my character: my dad's home
I recently rewatched the seminal Nancy Meyers flick The Holiday — in mid-March, nonetheless. First, it is prudent to note that they just do not make rom-coms of that caliber anymore. Young Jude Law as a single dad in the English countryside with glasses. Jack Black as a romantic lead is funny and adorable. Cameron Diaz — one of my favorite actresses of all time — has such light and fun energy. And then you add Kate Winslet? You could never cast a rom-com so fabulous again.
Then, like any Meyers film, there are the locations. The basic premise of the flick is that two gals, who are totally sick of heartbreak, swap homes for Christmas — and romantic magic ensues. But if you haven't seen it, I promise it is less Hallmark and more made-for-theaters.
One home, Amanda’s — as played by Diaz — is a large, classic California Spanish-style masterpiece. Kate Winslet’s character has the most idyllic cottage in the English countryside. And then there is the aging screenwriter and friend, Arthur’s, Brentwood home. All are perfect for what each character needs, and the design of each is thoughtful and reflective.
Iris wakes up in Amanda’s home to an alarm that plays some funky upbeat music and meets a sweet film score writer — Jack Black’s Miles. Amanda learns how to use Iris’s old-school bathtub and falls in love with Iris’s brother. The whole thing is riddled with escapism, which is why Los Angeles and the English countryside work so well.
Victoria Beckham, in her family's documentary, said that “L.A. is like rehab for famous people,” but I think it can be that for anyone. I find life here to be much more straightforward, and the lack of seasonal depression, prying neighbors, and increased exposure to nature could do anyone some good. I chose to move here for a period of peace, and I have found it at every turn — accompanied by really lovely people.
The green hills of England feel similarly hopeful to me. A few years ago, I hiked the Seven Sisters park trail with a few of my friends. Seven Sisters is an easy hike — although I struggled — through green hills populated by cows and small horses, that lets out on a grassy cliff that faces the ocean. The energy coming off the water there is second to none. I have also spent some time in Chippenham, Bath, and some surrounding towns. And I would posit that there is a sense of peace there, too. It’s the flip side of a coin to Los Angeles’ environment, but I can’t tell you how many times something bad has happened and I’ve thought of running to the country.
Nancy Meyers’s locations make sense, and they matter to the plot. They inform the characters’ journeys and play a role. Rewatching The Holiday made me think about the places I have spent extended amounts of time in my life. I am so lucky for the locations that have informed my character journey. There’s a whole other piece of writing to be done on each. But the one that is probably the most Nancy Meyers-coded of them all was my parents’ — which became my dad’s — house in Connecticut.
The house was called “the island” by most, because it was indeed an island. It was coastal, decorated in shades of blue and white, and highlighted my dad’s sailing memorabilia as well as my parents' antique collection. The kitchen floor was made of large terracotta tiles, and wraparound windows exposed you to the Long Island Sound. A dark Kelly green wrapped the entire library that was filled with my dad’s collection of vintage and antique books, as well as highlights of his long career and our family. The home used to be something special.
I spent a lot of time there in my wellies — clamming or gardening, or swimming and sailing. There was a point where I could swim to the shore of the closest park from where my dad’s house sat in the Long Island Sound. I certainly could never handle that these days.
I have a mixed assortment of memories in that house. I barely remember it being populated by both my parents, as they split when I was six — around the time memory kicks in. This rightfully saddens my mom, who wishes I remembered those days like she does, as they were lovely, I’m told. I always feel guilty telling her I don’t have a natural memory of those days — just photos. I have some great memories after the transition, with Anna and Rhandi, who took care of me when I was at my dad’s house until I went to boarding school. Both are responsible for me learning some solid manners and honesty, with a lot of love.
And then there are memories with my late father. I had a blue and white armchair in my room he would sit in. He would pop in while I was seated on my bed reading — often — and ask me about school, mostly. I did hide in that room quite a lot. When my stepmother moved in, I had a hard time feeling like it was still the childhood home I grew up in, or that I could move freely around without running into trouble I didn’t want to buy myself. The house became hers, not my family’s or mine. I spent a lot of time on the rock beach by the ocean when I wasn’t in my room. From 2008 onward, the island was not a comfortable place for me — despite the positive memories it holds. And then there is the added mobility restriction of living on an island with no car or driver’s license.
I learned a lot in that house, some of which I had to unlearn as an adult. But looking at pictures always makes me think it could have been a set for a Nancy Meyers movie — and that always makes me smile. Even though it looks like it could be a set, I don’t think the plot would be Meyers-style.
So without further ado, here are a bunch of photos of the house — a time capsule to a chapter of my life I feel I’ve recently closed.
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There is something so freeing about closing a chapter of your childhood 💟 this was a great read
You should actually write your own story. You have a flair for good story telling.