For the life of me, no style of film will ever be as comforting as indie comedy. To most, it is probably just another oversaturated market full of the same story. It’s a bunch of friends improvising dialogue over an indie rock soundtrack by artists you’ve never heard of. They’re low stakes, low ambition works, and there’s a good chance that the protagonist is just not terribly motivated. True, on some level, this is all that these films are but in the hands of artists like Andrew Bujalski, there’s something more compelling, like hiring a simulation to play out the every day on your TV as you fold laundry and eat dinner.
It could be that these films gained prominence in my early 20s when I was discovering cinema and was ultimately drawn to these archetypes. They were rarely bold or inherently clever, but I saw something so human in them. As I grew older, looking back created a time capsule that is unmatched. The stories were messy, sometimes downright bad, but at their heart, they spoke to something essential about being young and aimless. It was the hope to keep going and find something greater. For whatever faults Mr. Roosevelt (2017) may have in creating likable characters it more than makes up for in transporting me to that feeling.
Sometime in early January 2018, I turned on Netflix to discover this film directed by Noel Wells. Having recently become enamored with her on Master of None, I was curious to see what else she could do. As the minutes started racking up, I found small things that immediately placed it in a time, connecting me to other stories. Next to Wells was Britt Lower, who was great on Man Seeking Woman opposite Jay Baruchel. Nick Thune’s guitar-driven stand-up is vastly underrated. There’s of course Sergio Cilli in a VERY rare film appearance in his Post-Infomania career. These small things remind me of stuff I liked, wanting to hold onto the memories and remember these stars. What’s strange is how few have had as prominent of a career since, especially Wells who more than delivers an endearing, heartfelt movie that I’ve continually returned to.
Though the reason that I do is not exactly the most direct. Sure, a lot of it is simply that it’s a really good movie that fits my vibe. However, there’s a moment where you discover what the title ultimately stands for, and it shifts the whole experience into something more special to me. In the narrative, Mr. Roosevelt is the name of Emily’s (Wells) orange tabby. He has recently died and Emily has returned home to Austin, TX in hopes of giving a proper send-off. The only catch is that it puts her in direct contact with her past, full of awkward set-ups and conversations where she reveals how little she feels like she’s achieved with her life.
I first saw the film at 28, and it’s strange to remember how different my response was then. At the time, my own orange tabby Tiger was 18. I feared the thought of losing him for 3-5 years, so I paid him too much affection. I had never lost a cat as significant as him before, and it made our bond stronger. What other pet can I claim lived through middle school, high school, and early adulthood? What cat can be said to have been there through my formative years, always yelling in the kitchen for dinner impatiently? I loved him, and the thought of losing him was initially what made Mr. Roosevelt so emotionally piercing. However, by December 2018 his life would be over and I would begin the grieving process.
It would be one thing if he was the only cat I had lost. While his death was easily the saddest, the three years since featured the loss of SEVEN total cats. To summarize: another died of old age, one ran away, and at least three are suspected to have caught the feline version of Coronavirus. To make matters more fraught, five of them happened since 2020 with three this year alone. The experience of slow deaths is painful in a variety of ways, watching the spirit and energy escape them as they rest. You want the young cat back, the one so filled with obnoxious arrogance who believed that they’d live forever. Not all of them were 18 years old. Two were under 5. In every case, the rapidity by which it happened tore away something else, leaving me to try and protect those I had left.
Watching Mr. Roosevelt in 2021 with this context, the film feels greater. I have not evolved enough as a person to remove myself from Emily. There is still the sense in me that I’m not as far along as I want to be. Am I just a hack who is putting myself out there with no chance of being recognized? Is my desperation to please ultimately holding me back? So many questions arise when looking at the film, including just what I’d do if I met my friends from years ago who wanted to know what I was up to. In case they’re wondering… yep, I’m still a writer and no I haven’t been on Oprah’s Book Club yet.
But what makes the titular plot so crucial to the story is that in some ways Mr. Roosevelt is what connected Emily to this world in the first place. She lives in Hollywood, CA taking gigs by day and doing improv comedy by night. She tries so hard to be liked, and it’s not enough. That may be why the death of her cat is what draws her, impulsively, to fly to Texas and deal with people she hasn’t seen in years. The bond of a human and cat is often indescribable, where the small intimate moments create visceral, vivid emotions. Their lives are so full of purpose, forming a special communication.
Which is a nice contrast to her boyfriend (Thune), who is dating a woman (Lower) who seems perfect. Everyone she comes across seems to have their life together, attending socials and imagining life after they’ve lived out their wild dreams of rock bands and comedy. Everyone is settling down, having had their moment in the sun, and here Emily is unable to show much. Even the stories of Mr. Roosevelt aren’t enough to make her feel comforted because foolishly she believes she is the only one who understood that cat. Nobody treated him the way that Emily did, and she refuses to let go of certain spite.
If Emily’s picture was on a corkboard, Mr. Roosevelt would be the metaphorical string that connects her to every other character. Without him, there would be no reason to return to this town, digging up memories and trying to make sense of her past. What was it about Mr. Roosevelt that threw her into such hysterics, so much need to control everything from purchasing the urn to throwing a party that was suitable?
To some extent, I understood better than before just why Emily’s actions may have been offensive and irrational but way too familiar. I think back to Tiger and realize one of the reasons I couldn’t stand losing him was that he was symbolic of greater memories. He was always there, for 18 years, to greet me and brighten my day. He was a tangible connection to my middle school years or days after high school just sitting in bed and petting him. No other cat really could claim that.
But with his death came an absence, of which took months to overcome. It was the physical touch, where even the weight and proportion of his body as I carried him was a very unique sense memory. I always knew that I needed it, but what became clear was how I needed it more after the fact, as time went on and I found myself unable to achieve that with any other cat. They were always too finicky, not trusting me. The years of build-up that I had with Tiger could not be matched, and realizing that is difficult.
Maybe Emily’s story is different. Maybe there is more regret that she wasn’t always present in Mr. Roosevelt’s life. There’s some guilt built into that experience, of living without something that felt essential at one point. Still, she was willing to sacrifice awkwardly crashing on her ex’s couch just to come to terms with the cat. There needed to be some form of closure, an apology, or acceptance to make up for everything good and bad in their relationship.
Letting go of the past is difficult, and Emily doesn’t exactly handle it well. Her cell phone screen cracks. She ruins a perfectly good wake for Mr. Roosevelt. She becomes a loose cannon in some ways because the small connections to her past are fading, unable to suggest that she’s been productive all these years. She has to start over with nothing, looking at every old Texan friend and wonder how many hours they took to perfect their image. She needed that cat, that comfort, that connection.
There aren’t a whole lot of great movies about losing a cat, or at least not without romanticizing the grieving process. Sure, tales of noble animals living grand adventures make for good cinema, but Mr. Roosevelt posits something more familiar. It’s the tale of a Millennial trying her best to feel like she has a history, a stability that proves she’s not a mess. Even as she fails to properly pack for a trip and spends more than one occasion covered in unfortunate run-ins with entrees, she tries to find a balance. She needs to, and in this way, it comes to embody everything that a cat ultimately means to a person. Even in their absence, they have small ways of reminding you of why they have such endearing legacies.
Yes, it is difficult to grow older and lose connection to who you were. The need to have something that reassures you in times of panic is important, and animals tend to be great reminders of that. Losing them is difficult if their lives aren’t well-documented, if just because their mannerisms fade. Their lovable traits become abstract ideas. Nothing replaces the sensation of them being there, predictably as it were. For me, I still have photographs but I wanted oh so much more not only for Tiger but for the others who stood chances of living to 18 even a year ago. Wouldn’t that have been special?
I love what Wells does with Mr. Roosevelt because of how it grounds the grieving process in something real. Sure, she is clumsy and awkward in ways that can be construed as twee, but the insecurity she faces as she tries to size herself up in this new community only reflects how scared we all can be without key parts of ourselves. Even the best of intentions can seem threatening, making us try to force a smile until an ultimate sign of safety emerges from a drunken conversation at a party, remembering the good things that used to happen in your clique.
Even if it never becomes a cornerstone of modern cinema, Mr. Roosevelt will remain special to me so long as I love cats. The feeling of isolation and miscommunication is something I relate to in those moments, and Wells captures it perfectly. I also love indie comedies that themselves feel like home videos to me now, so latched onto a moment that I’m sure nobody from Generation Z onwards will really appreciate. Even then, the feeling of trying to make it in this world when so much is playing against you is a concept that never grows old. So is the fear of losing your beloved cat. There are not a whole lot of films that portray the feeling of loss this perfectly on film, and it’s why I return to it, hoping to remind myself of how important it is to simply remember what made that time together worthwhile in the first place.
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