One thing (of many) I appreciate about a Jim Jamursch movie is that it always moves with an unexpected rhythm and in an unexpected direction. Some of this is due to marketing. The Dead Don’t Die looked like some kind of delightful horror-comedy in the realm of Shaun of the Dead when it’s actually something far weirder and deliberate.
What I didn’t expect with Paterson is to be held up to a mirror.
Ever since my wife and I found out we’d be welcoming a daughter into this crazy world, a soft, gentle ticking began in the back of my head. I wasn’t worried about the loss of freedom or time or money. In fact, I look forward to sinking into those moments where night and day blur, and your only concern is to keep a child as restful and safe as possible. But the ticking came from a creative place. What was once a mild pull to figure out a system I could fall to (instead of a goal to rise to) became more urgent. I recognized that I had to shake out all my story and writing ideas from all their various trees and somehow organize them into a room I could walk into whenever the opportunity presented itself. In other words, I needed to get my shit together.
So the first thing I notice about Paterson, of course, is that he leads a life of simplicity I almost envy. He carries with him one single notebook, in which he writes poetry in the spare moments before his job begins and in the time he has for lunch. He uses his walks to and from work each day to let his mind wander and stumble into words and phrases. And he truly seems to have no pressing interest in sharing his work with the world.
Yet the most telling moment in the entire movie comes near the very end. His wife comes home so delighted with the success of her cupcake bake sale that she wants to treat them to a dinner and movie. Nothing about this is particularly exceptional except what Paterson leaves behind: his secret poetry journal, resting atop the couch. That Jamursch gives us a shot of Marvin, the adorable, ever-huffing bulldog is all the numbers we need to do painful math with: that journal is a goner.
Sure enough, as Paterson and his wife arrive home, they walk into a floor covered with bits and pieces of his work torn apart. It’s confetti made from his very soul. But what’s most telling about this scene is how Paterson responds. His wife is angrier with Marvin than he appears to be. He doesn’t even respond at first, taking it in for a few moments before heading downstairs. He’s not even particularly interested in punishing the dog, managing a somewhat playful “I’m not very happy with you, Marvin” the next day as they sit across from each other in the living room. The kicker to all of this is that for the entire week we’ve been following Paterson, his wife has been asking him to make copies of his poems. She knows that the joy of keeping everything in one place has a mirror devil in how easy it is to lose everything all at once. Each day of the week, she insists. And each day he relents, saying it will happen.
But it doesn’t happen. And it doesn’t happen for a very clear, painfully relatable reason: Paterson doesn’t think his poems are good enough.
Remember when I said Jarmusch’s films always seem to zig when you expect it to zag? Life for Paterson in Paterson (yes, it’s the name of the character and the town) seems like any small town, with its sweet personalities and own personal dramas. But there’s one key exception: twins. Everywhere Paterson walks or drives, he daily seems to run across a set of twins. And they come in all shapes and sizes, no one particular race or gender or type. It’s almost as if there’s a town lottery in which someone is chosen each year to be duplicated. And if you’re hoping that at some point Jarmusch will give you a hint of just what the hell is up with all these twins, I can assure you he most definitely does not. No hand is tipped. No clues are given.
But it’s pretty clear to me what these twins represent: imposter syndrome. Jarmusch only gives us Paterson’s perspective throughout the film, so we have no way of knowing if the rest of the town sees double as he does. But we do see how Paterson always notices the twins. He looks at them often enough that the balance tips from “Oh look, another set” to something far deeper. Imposter syndrome – in which one doubts their own accomplishments and is convinced they will one day be seen as a fraud – is a very, very real thing for creatives and especially writers. I imagine so much of this is due to the internal nature of our work. I can tell my wife nearly every day that I did some writing and it’s an accurate statement. But unless she searches through my computer – or my brain when I’m on a walk – there’s very little direct proof. It’s a leap of faith only rewarded by the occasional finished piece. I also think about how often I stumble across a piece I wrote – sometimes only weeks before, sometimes years – and marvel at how it’s much better than I remember. For the longest time, I accepted it with a private admonishment. I would tell myself that I could still write that well if I just kept at it, that I was just rusty and needed some extra practice. What I realize now, thanks to Paterson, is a private admonishment as such is just Imposter Syndrome with its hooks deep in me. I looked at my skill and craft through a rearview mirror without realizing it was just a plain old mirror showing my reflection.
But to Paterson, these Imposter Syndrome twins only make sense when you compare him with his wife. As he works his way through the week – walking to and from work, writing poetry on his breaks – we see glimpses of all the projects his wife is working on. There’s the guitar she wants to buy so she can become a singer-songwriter. There are the many, many home and fashion projects that involve black and white in various arrangements. I kept waiting for Jarmusch to show something – anything – with her that clued us into why he spent so much time on her. At first, she seems to be what brings out Paterson’s kind, supportive core. But it was only long after watching the movie that it hit me: she shows her work. Sure, her work, by its very nature, is more visual. It is meant to be seen. But every day she is doing something that is wearable, edible, or liveable. It is meant to be shared with others.
For each set of twins in Paterson, there’s a set of conflicting questions: will you show your work or will you keep it to yourself? Will you create or will you remain passive? And then the most important of all: will you consider yourself good enough or are you convinced you’re a fraud? Twins have shown us, time and time again throughout history, the many ways they can look the same and yet turn out so wildly different. It’s not the genes that usually decides this. It’s the choices. And Paterson shows us how the choices we make say an awful lot about how we view ourselves.
Even at the very end, Paterson sits near the same waterfall he does every lunch break. He doesn’t have his journal, which currently sits at home in confetti form. But he also isn’t sure if he’s going to start another book. At least not yet. When a Japanese man comes over to talk poetry with him, Paterson refers to himself as a bus driver first. He’s imagined him and his twin and chosen the bill-paying profession over the creative identity. It doesn’t matter that Paterson knows all the poets the man is talking about or that he can even give him some extra bit of hometown trivia. It doesn’t matter how obviously in love with poetry Paterson is. He still does not believe he’s good enough.
I didn’t fully appreciate Jarmusch’s last film, The Dead Don’t Die, until long after seeing it. Only in the back of my mind did I realize how much it had to say about climate change and our apathy towards life-threatening issues. Maybe it’s the shot of a bespectacled Adam Driver crammed into a little smart car that fools you into thinking it’s just gonna be a fluffy comedy. And you could be swayed by an adorable bulldog like Marvin and the many affable characters in Paterson. But it’s going to catch up to you. One day you’re gonna look in the mirror and you’re gonna have to decide which twin you’re gonna be.
