I’ve been searching for paradise my entire life, with sadly predictable results. As a Boomer, hardwired to believe that an ideal place exists just beyond the next horizon, I habitually struggle towards goals with a Calvinist determination. Every time I arrive at my destination, the goalposts drift further away. Continuance requires a relentless measure of good cheer. As a young girl in the Midwest, I learned to respond to queries like “How ya doing?’ with “Great!”, even when I felt miserable. At the same time, I practiced the art of keeping my head down, refusing to get too excited about anything.
I’ve always been drawn to Jim Jarmusch’s 1984 film saga, “Stranger Than Paradise.” Three hapless protagonists (Willie, Eddie, and Eva) search for bliss: first in New York, then in Cleveland, and finally at the Florida coast. The Budapest-born Willie lives in a squalid New York apartment. Ashamed of his southern European roots, he loudly insists that he’s American. “Just as American as you are!” he proclaims to his not-too-bright friend Eddie, who then asks, “Does Cleveland look a little like Budapest?”
“Shut up, Eddie.” Willie’s voice oozes contempt.
On the other hand, Eddie might be on to something. Ohio does seem to exude an apocalyptic, post-war vibe. Jarmusch's vision of Cleveland is lovingly rendered in dirty shades of black and white. Rusted cars, boarded-up stores, and potholed streets fill the frames. Willie’s New York neighborhood isn’t much better. According to Eddie, everything looks much the same, no matter where you go.
As a former resident of the Rust Belt, I know exactly what he meant. During the eighties, my Midwestern landscape became increasingly blighted. The decline of manufacturing jobs made many jobs obsolete. Mom-and-Pop businesses, dependent on local income, struggled to keep their doors open. Everything was strictly no-frills, and sometimes downright decrepit. We made the best of limited options, often becoming excited by the opening of a new convenience store or hot dog stand.
Jarmusch’s characters radiate a subdued yet relentless optimism. Their current situation sucks, but a trip to Cleveland or Florida might improve their fortunes. It beats staying in one spot.
At the beginning of the movie, Eva surprises her cousin Willie with a ten-day visit. He expresses his displeasure in unequivocal terms but lets her stay anyway. After she steals some items at a nearby grocery store, his attitude becomes much warmer. Who can maintain hostility when presented with purloined cigarettes and a pile of TV dinners?
Willie is genuinely bereft when Eva splits for Cleveland. She doesn’t leave in a huff, her visit simply comes to its appointed end. She seems a bit sad, though she struggles not to show it. Willie gives her a hideous dress, which she throws in a trashcan on her way out of town. Eddie stands at a distance, watching as she shimmies out of the dress in the most un-erotic way imaginable. Still, he can’t stop looking.
Finally, she glances up, and they lock eyeballs. “That dress bugs me,” Eva explains.
Trying to seem casual, the pair says goodbye. Eva strolls on her way, searching for a better break in Ohio. She’s only returning to her aunt’s place, but at least she's no longer stuck on Willie’s couch.
A year later, Eddie and Willie find themselves pining for Eva, so they drive to Cleveland to surprise her. Eva still lives with her elderly aunt. She works full-time at a hot dog stand, and seems genuinely glad to take a break from routine. The characters wander around Cleveland’s snow-covered streets, searching for something they can’t name. They stare at ice-covered Lake Erie and muse about the flatness of the landscape. The bleak surroundings mirror their ennui. The trio wouldn’t recognize Paradise if it jumped from the water and bit them.
Where can Paradise be found? Probably not in Cleveland. Not for lack of trying by its citizens, however. I visited Cleveland twice during the last two decades. The city impressed me with its resiliency, its dedication to preserving the arts, even if doing so might drain its coffers. Cleveland had suffered from extensive urban decay but was trying its hardest to resuscitate itself. It radiated a scrappy charm.
Mid-film, Willie devises a solution—Florida. The three of them will lie on sand and splash in waves. The hapless characters hightail it to the Sunshine State. Once there, they encounter chilly weather, a depressing motel, and dwindling funds. After losing most of their money at a local dog racetrack, Willie and Eddie strike it rich later at the horse races. Eva stays in the room and pouts.
Yet the trio never gives up. Their optimism has a unique American flavor—no matter how bad their luck becomes, they’re convinced it will only get better. It’s the same optimism that causes people to rebuild houses after a fire or flood, often choosing the same hapless spot as before. And damned if the three protagonists aren’t right. Eva finally makes out like a bandit on an accidental drug deal combined with a case of mistaken identity, and we realize we’ve been rooting for her the entire time.
I’ve watched this movie on many occasions since its 1984 release, and the meaning always changes. As a devil-may-care youth caught up in hitchhiking and aimless road trips, I thought the film reeked of languor. It seemed like a sort of anthem to late Boomers, forced to search for hope in a post-Vietnam remnant pile. During that era, I did whatever I could to escape from the feeling of crushing ennui, often putting myself in danger to avoid boredom. I hitchhiked repeatedly across the Midwest, trying my hardest to find scraps of meaning in the monotony. But everything looked exactly the same.
During my last viewing of “Stranger Than Paradise”, I found a more positive message. The characters are never so jaded that they give up their search, even if they don’t know what they want. Consequently, they’re often bedeviled by less-than-stellar results. Still, they press on. In the end, they have more than they did at the beginning. Isn’t that what really matters?
Leah Mueller's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions and was nominated for the 2024 edition. Her two newest books are "The Failure of Photography" (Garden Party Press, 2023) and "Widow's Fire" (Alien Buddha Press, 2023).