For all of the crime inflicted on metropolitan Chicago, the city’s northern suburbs are a quaint remnant of America’s glory. The cobblestone style streets are shielded by canopies of centuries old trees. The neighborhoods are filled with homes that symbolize classic American culture, including several iconic houses from John Hughes’ films such as Home Alone and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. In Kenilworth, just blocks from Lake Michigan, sits another one of Hughes’ iconic filming locations: the house from Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.
The house has rows of wide windows, a huge front lawn, and a grand front door; all of which seem to show that this is an inviting place. In Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, Steve Martin’s character Neal Page spends 90 minutes on a quest to return to that home, and it’s easy to understand why. He forges on through a stream of exhausting tribulations. Blizzards, broken trains, and car crashes are just among a few of the obstacles lunged at him throughout his three day trek from New York to Chicago. Page is the modern Odysseus, and his Ithaca is a two story, brick home on a quiet suburban street.
Page’s quest to return home for Thanksgiving is a picture of the hero’s journey. In the thousands of years that lie between Odysseus and Neal, the archetype of a man fighting against the odds to return to home hasn’t changed much. In The Odyssey, Odysseus fights against the gods, whose emotions carry him forwards and backwards at whim. In Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, Page is carried forwards and backwards but is flanked by Del Griffith.
Griffith, portrayed by the exuberantly endearing John Candy, is both a pest and a cherished companion. He is loud, garish, and nauseating. He’s also kind, funny, and humble. I hate to spoil a movie that came out nearly 40 years ago, but Griffith has no family. He’s endeavoring on the same journey as Page, but he has no Ithaca to return to.
Despite this, his journey is not all for nought. Griffith’s journey is about being on the journey. It’s about his friendship with Page. It’s about brotherhood. They have all their cash stolen, share beds in a motel, and can’t help but laugh when their car is set on fire. He finds friendship in a cold world of plane departure schedules and automated credit card services.
When the two men’s journeys are combined, what emerges is a shared journey towards gratitude. It’s not about returning home. It’s not about building a friendship. It’s about both of these men learning to be grateful.
Page has to learn to be grateful not just for his family but for the pains he must endure to return to them. He has to set aside his idealistic memories of picture perfect previous Thanksgivings and appreciate the uncalled for, imperfect moments they’re flanked by. Griffith has to learn to be grateful for the things that are painful. He has to take the loss of his wife and use the love he felt for her to create a life that moves on from grief. In the end, the two arrive at Page’s home as they carry one of Griffith’s ridiculously oversized trunks. Their journey didn’t end when they walked in the door, but moments before in a train station, when they realized they were thankful for their lousy expedition.
Over the past 250 years, America has seen many idyllic moments that we rightfully romanticize. We’ve won wars, conquered lands, and built a culture of artistry and ingenuity. We’ve also had pitfalls, moments where our nation has fallen short despite its best efforts. Occasionally, people decide to focus exclusively on the good or the bad. They either trash America for its mistakes or pretend that we are not a nation built by flawed humans. The truth, of course, is in between.
As Americans reflect on their nation this Thanksgiving, they should lean into gratitude. For 250 years, we’ve been on a long journey. There have been moments of great joy coupled with moments of deep sorrow. We cannot be held hostage by either. We have to celebrate how far this country has come.
It expanded the length of the continent and walked on the moon. It won the Revolutionary War for freedom and justice, and it won World War II for the good of mankind. It ended slavery, it built railroads and steam engines, it invented the lightbulb. It gave us television, corn dogs, and Bing Crosby.
It’s a treasure to be a part of the American journey. Even if it’s just for a portion of the nation’s history, it is a special, sacred thing. It’s not perfect, something that crime waves, political infighting, and inflation can often remind us of, but it’s a gift.
In a turbulent moment in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, an exhausted, worried Neal Page lashes out at his uncouth companion. Del Griffith, after being berated, does a courageous thing. Without wavering, he says “I like me.”
Page is hardly unable to comprehend this. Griffith doesn’t respond to anger with mounting rage. Instead, he responds with gratitude for who he is, the people he loves, and the way he has positively impacted the lives of those around them.
It’s time that America says the same thing: “I like me.” Because I truly do like America. I love it. And I’m blessed to be a part of its journey.
