"Bright Lights" gets so much done that it's hard to believe it's only 95 minutes long. The documentary includes mini career retrospectives of both Reynolds and Fisher, with movie clips and commentary from both. There are interviews with both women, and they talk about their lives and careers but most of all, of course, they talk about each other. Fisher expresses worry about her mother's health, saying: "Everything in me demands that my mother be as she always was. She just can't change. And she's fucking with me." These words now have a haunting echo. The devotion to preserving Reynolds' collection of Hollywood memorabilia (Dorothy's ruby slippers, Marilyn Monroe's "subway-grate" dress from "The Seven Year Itch," to name a few) was a family activity, and all of them well up with tears of outrage and pain when they speak of the fact that nobody in the industry was interested in preserving the history Reynolds had collected, at least not interested enough to put up the money for a museum. Auctioning off those items was like cutting off a limb. At the last minute, Reynolds decides that she cannot part with the "Rat Pack suits," saying, "I love my ghosts. I love having memories. It's like having a friend forever." To those unaware of Reynolds' passion for collecting and preserving, "Bright Lights" serves as a beautiful reminder.
There are echoes of "Postcards from the Edge," (the book and screenplay written by Fisher) throughout, although with a softer, more forgiving edge. Fisher admits that she wrote the book at a very angry time in her life. Watching the elderly Debbie Reynolds, in her heavy-beaded gown, surrounded by helpers, walk up and down the stairs to the stage, was an image of show business professionalism that is a total inspiration. She was a woman who came up in a brutal studio system, who loved entertaining people, and was still out there doing it, even though the crowds now were smaller and older. Despite her worries, Fisher understands why Reynolds needed to keep performing: "Performing gives her life. It feeds her in a way family cannot." One of the most powerful impressions I got from Reynolds in "Bright Lights" was that her cheerfulness was not naivete, ignorance or shallowness. Her cheerfulness was a choice. Her cheerfulness shows how tough she was. Her cheerfulness helped her survive, in the same way that Fisher's humor helped her survive.
Any time a celebrity dies and fans mourn publicly, the usual suspects show up to scold and mock ("You didn't even know this person." "In such a serious world, THIS is what you care about?" etc.). Or, in a particularly egregious example, harass Steve Martin—a man who knew and loved Carrie Fisher in real life—for not expressing his Tweet-grief in a way that they thought appropriate. It was not anyone's finest hour. What these scolders don't understand is that celebrities—or icons—really matter to their fans in ways intense and personal. In many cases, it is a personal loss. There's a moment in this film at a comics convention when a fan, getting Fisher's autograph, dissolves into tears right at the table. There's another moment when Reynolds comes out of the stage door after her show in Vegas, and a middle-aged male fan standing right there waiting for her, blurts out, "I love you!" Of course he does. Millions did. Love like that often represents the best part of us, because it's pure, and it comes from a place of gratitude, gratitude that these generous women have shared themselves with us, have given us so much.
"Bright Lights" would have been entertaining even if both women had still been with us. But now, so sadly, it takes on whole other layers of meaning and impact. Tribute and mourning are often one and the same thing. They are within "Bright Lights."
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