A character like Finn “tapped into a particular male fantasy: of being saved from depression and ennui by a fantasy woman who sweeps in like a glittery breeze to save you from yourself, then disappears once her work is done.” The iconic MPDGs are innately quirky, acting childlike with specific interests and endless amounts of free time to gain their co-stars’ affection. Zooey Deschanel bats her eyelashes while playing the ukulele in “New Girl.” Kirsten Dunst abandons her job to help a stranger out of a deep depression in “Elizabethtown.” Natalie Portman makes burying a dead hamster a romantic moment in “Garden State.” And Kate Hudson stages a coup to take a teenager’s virginity in “Almost Famous.” When Rabin wrote his critique, he neglected to mention the fact that the MPDG would entice pre- teens in ruralWisconsin toplayhairdresserwithpizza scissors. MPDGs seemed like the perfect example of a grown-up woman to an impressionable eighth-grader. They seemed beautifully unique, tackled obscure talents with ease, and in the meantime, gained all present male affection. To an insecure 13-year-old sitting in a lime-green room, with contrasting zebra-print curtains, the MPDG represented a fantasy of post-puberty bliss. All I wanted was to have someone so completely mesmerized by me that I could look in the mirror and feel mesmerized too. As I aged, my lime-green walls faded to a shade not quite as revolutionary — and I realized that paint would never look as bright as it did to the girl who watched “500 Days of Summer’’ 13 days in a row.
My MPDG fixation persisted into high school, continuing even after my makeshift hipster bangs morphed into a curtain of hair now described by my hairdresser as “honey brown.” But, the moment I officially outgrew my attachment to the MPDG occurred in an unassuming fashion classroom at Marist College. On a whiteboard dusty with the remnants of the last class’s lecture, the professor projected Chanel’s F/W18 show. As I watched models wearing feather-shouldered coats pose before a faux forest of Karl Lagerfeld’s own composition, I felt a “500 Days of Summer” - type of fascination wash over me. “I was, and am, a character with nuance — someone who exists beyond the idealized realm of the Manic Pixies.” ” Sitting at that misshapen wooden desk, I realized I was in the grip of a fantasy —the same kind that had bewitched me when I was 13. It occurred to me that even if I had looked up from that hair-covered sink to find ZooeyDeschanel lookingback, I wouldn’t have been fulfilled. I was, and am, a character with nuance–someone who exists beyond the idealized realm of the Manic Pixies. My muse wasn’t a singular character found within a 103-minute-film, trimmed with crisp trailers and ending with a curlicue “Fin”! My muse didn’t dwell in an idealized dystopia, an incarceration of forced quirky curiosity. My muse was the feeling of creation and connection. I found my muse within my first friend at Marist, who explained New Jersey mall culture for hours while we sat in the dining hall over plates of breadsticks. My muse wore face gems in a humid fraternity basement with me, while Grimes blasted through the speakers. My muse showed me how to make a pants pattern as she sketched in her cramped basement, between a dress form and an oversized couch. My muse marched with me through the rain at a Black Lives Matter rally. I abandoned my MPDG in the reflection of my childhood bathroom mirror when I found my muse at Marist. Now when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but be captivated by what I see.
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