A Theological and Sociological Survey of Garden State

In the early morning light of September 11th, 2001 I remember walking into the Admissions Office at Saint John’s University, where I worked. My colleagues quickly mentioned to me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I remembered hearing about how the towers were built to withstand severe damage. I pictured in my mind a small prop-plane losing control and clipping one of the massive towers. My supervisor urged me to take the rest of the morning off and go back to my dorm. As soon as I returned home I flipped on the television and watched something beyond my wildest imagination take place on the other side of the screen—a second plane hit the other tower. I remember feeling like I was merely watching a movie, a run of the mill action flick, and waited for someone like Bruce Willis or Arnold Schwarzenegger to jump onto the screen. I did not feel a thing. I simply sat and watched.

The opening scene of Garden State depicts Andrew Largeman (Zach Braff) sitting calmly in the middle seat of an airplane row while panic is painted on the faces of every other passenger. The plane is about to crash, babies are crying, oxygen masks have been deployed, soda cans are tumbling down the aisle, and Largeman’s sober expression calmly glances upwards as he slowly reaches to adjust the air flow. This is the only life Largeman knows—a numb existence uninterrupted by the chaos of his family’s sorrows: his mother’s paralysis, his disconnection from his dad, and the sad fact that his family sent him away to a boarding school when Largeman was barely a teenager. There is much to be sad about in Largeman’s life; however, he is unable to feel a thing. Sadly, Garden State is much more than Braff’s memoir. Decades from now it may very well prove to be the defining film of Braff’s generation, and a bleeding example of the heart of postmodernity (for whom this movie was made).

Largeman is awoken from the airplane scene (it turns out to be a dream) by a phone call. Looking seemingly unaffected by his terrifying dream he stares blankly up from his bed toward the ceiling as he calmly listens to his father’s message on his voice mail informing Largeman that his mother had just tragically drowned. As the camera pans out the viewer finds that Largman’s bedroom is completely white, and has the appearance of a sterilized room. His bedroom is a symbol of Largeman’s existence and a glaring critique on how the “Boomer Generation” has tended to deal with the emerging youth of postmodernity.

As a youth director in the affluent suburb of Lakeville, Minnesota for over three years, I met a myriad of high school students whose parents worked sixty or eighty hours a week in a fruitless attempt to buy their kid’s affection and well-being. As a consequence, many of these young men who on the outside had everything they could ask for: cars, clothes and electronics, were deeply wounded. Sadly, these guys rarely felt like they had enough, and as I got to know them better, I found that what they desired most (whether they admitted it or not) was a relationship with their dad, or someone who would teach them how to make their hearts come alive.

Largeman crawls out of bed upon hearing about his mother’s death just like every other day, walks to his bathroom with absolutely no emotion on his face, opens his medicine cabinet and stares at endless bottles of medication. Later on, we learn that Largeman has been medicated since he was very young. This is the reality of a growing number of youth today. Instead of parents and families dealing with the underlying wounds that plague so many youth today, many stemming from a lack of nurturing from mom or a strength of love from dad, parents line their kids up outside psychiatrist’s offices hoping to medicate away the deep pain afflicting the hearts of so many. In essence, parents would rather cover gaping wounds with a band-aid than face into the underlying issues attacking the hearts of their kids. In truth, this is largely due to the fact that parents are ill-equipped to handle to deep questions and pain that emerge as young adults attempt to make sense of their increasingly volatile world.

Largeman returns home for his mother’s funeral and quickly reconnects with his old friends. As proof that Largeman’s inability to feel the gravity of the tragedies surrounding him is not relegated to himself, his friends (who happen to work at the cemetery his mother is buried at) tell him about a party happening that evening, commenting, “Yeah, we’ll probably head over there right after we finish burying your mom.” Laden in the words of Largemen’s friends is a disconnection from the emotions of real life. They are unable to grieve with Largeman and their only response to the pain is to invite him to a party where there would certainly be numerous distractions thru which Largeman could temporarily escape the pain. And there is a deep frustration surrounding this reality, especially in Largeman. In a very poignant conversation with his father near the end of the film, Largman laments, “I’ve spend my entire life feeling so f*&$ing numb.”

Garden State comments very little on the reality of God. In fact, the only point in the film where God is mentioned is during an interaction between Sam (Natalie Portman) and Largman. Sam boldly affirms, “I don’t believe in God.” Still, Sam proves to be, in many ways, a protagonist in the film. She displays a heart completely untouched by the emotional apathy plaguing the men in the movie—even though she does not have a father. In many ways, her ability to feel the pain of Largeman’s life awakens his own heart to feel. This is the cry of many youth I work with. They want to feel, but don’t know how.

During his final day back home, Largeman’s best friend (Mark) takes him on a mysterious all-day journey to recover a necklace which belonged to Largeman’s mother. Mark had stolen it and sold to it an antique jewelry dealer (which he does with the jewelry of everyone he buries). The journey leads Largeman, Mark, and Sam to a geological phenomenon just outside of Newark, New Jersey. The man (Albert) who has Largemans mother’s necklace has taken it upon himself to safeguard a massive abyss that has recently been discovered. Albert’s family lives in an abandoned boat on the edge of the abyss, and at night, Albert explains, he goes exploring. As Sam, Largeman and Mark visit with the “guardian of the abyss” and his wife they seem taken aback by the warmth and love they sense in the home. In fact, this is the first time in the entire movie a nuclear family is portrayed, and the viewer finds quickly that for the three visitors (Sam, Largeman, and Mark) who have each experienced broken homes, they are warmed by the love they sense.

As the group leaves with the necklace, stepping out into the pouring rain, Largeman cries out to Albert, “Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!” Powerfully, Albert responds, “You too.” With that, Largeman climbs atop an abandoned piece of heavy machinery with his friends following close behind. After reaching the top and staring down into the gaping hole in the ground the three respond to the darkness below them and within them with a both freeing and horrifying scream. This deep hole in the ground is the tragedy of their lives and the lives of those around them, and their response is much more than the popping of a few pills; rather, it is the forceful and assertive response of their entire beings. They face the darkness head-on.

So what does Garden State tell the viewer about the postmodern mindset? With a rising number of children and teens being placed on behavioral medication to correct outbursts of anger or periods of deep depression, the actualization of the pain gripping many young hearts goes unfelt. God, being the essence of reality Himself, must be encountered amid the fears, disappointments, joys and confusions of real life. To attempt to force a kid (chemically or otherwise) from entering into authentic life is to, in essence, to steal away the context in which they might connect with the Living God. Certainly in many cases medication is necessary and helpful, but when it becomes the first option every time youth feel pain and depression, we rob them of the opportunity to authentically make sense of their worlds.

At the very end of the film, Largeman is prepared to go back to California and continue his life as an actor. Sam and Largeman have fallen in love and Sam is not able to understand why he wants to leave her behind and return to California. As Largeman boards the plane, the camera finds Sam crying in a phone booth. Suddenly, Largeman appears and grabs her. Out of breath he confesses to Sam, “Remember all the stuff I said about [me needing to go back to California], that was dumb. Because I love you Sam, I love you…” Excitement lights up both Largeman and Sam’s faces as Largeman asks, “So what do we do know?” Sam replies, “I don’t know.” Quickly the camera pans out on the two kissing and in true existential fashion, the film ends there.

Zach Braff’s character represents postmodernity’s shaping of art. Gone are the days of the superhero who neatly ties up all of the loose ends, winning the girl, destroying the antagonist, and saving the world. The conclusion of Garden State highlights the rise of the anti-hero as a response to the traditional, modernist mindset. Largeman succeeds without ever truly succeeding. He faces into the fullness of his life, and for the postmodern, that is enough.

In a post-9/11 world, Garden State makes sense. As I sat in my dorm room six and a half years ago, I watched as the Twin Towers crumbled and our lives were changed forever. One thing I’ll never forget is when a woman, an expert of some kind, was being interviewed by a CNN anchor and affirmed, “It is at a time like this when people are looking for a savior.” Postmoderns, have quickly learned that words like “complete”, “enemy”, and “victory” are unhelpful in a world where everything seems undone, the enemy is within us, and victory usually comes at the cost of people we are compelled to love. The postmodern generation might just as easily be dubbed the generation that saw the death of the nuclear family. And instead of longing to be pulled from the pain of our broken families, we deeply yearn to deeply and courageously feel that brokenness, thereby moving through it.

Postmoderns like Andrew Largeman aren’t necessarily looking for a savior in God as much as they are looking for a guide—someone or something who can give them the strength to authentically face the pain, tragedy, thereby finding the beauty in the world God created. Postmoderns are generally skeptical of perfectly happy endings in light of the horror that marked our world’s last century, and threatens to do this same in this one. God cannot be communicated as a Deity who whispers away all of the pain and ache. God cannot be touted as the cosmic Prozac, Paxil or Celexa. Postmoderns are looking for a God who can save them from their inebriated and distracted lives by awakening their hearts.

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