Matilda (1996)

directed by Danny DeVito

Claire Winkler

I’ve been angry for as long as I can remember. There are plenty of people in my life who would be surprised to hear me say that. They would argue that there are other better, more accurate words to describe me. Sensitive? Yes. Anxious? Certainly. Angry? No. I wouldn’t have described myself as angry until recently. Emotional was my favorite word to use. I’m very emotional, I would tell adults as a precocious child. I wasn’t technically wrong. I’ve never, ever been someone who’s able to hide what she’s feeling. I was born screaming, my eyes wide open, as if ten seconds into being alive I had already absorbed everything around me and become overwhelmed by it. I’m a door slammer and a nail biter; I’m a seething, neurotic, stomachache of a human being. I have a short fuse and I always feel a little closer to tears than I should be. I’m loud and I’m argumentative and I’m stubborn and, no matter where I am or who I’m with, I can’t help but be exactly this. My mother, my closest friends, my fiancée—they would all likely give a similar assessment (though perhaps in softer words).

But angry? No. Angry was the boys in my elementary school who hit each other, who broke pencils, who shouted and shoved when they weren’t given their way. Angry was my father’s voice coming up through the vent in my bedroom when he and my mother fought. Angry was my year-round swim coach, who barked orders and bullied us when we weren’t practicing hard enough. Angry was scary. Angry was ugly. Angry was for boys. Angry was not mine, and I didn’t want it to be. No one told me that anger could look different ways for different people, that I was allowed to be angry, and most crucially no one told me that Little Girl Anger is a very powerful force indeed.

It’s entirely likely that I’ve watched Matilda more times than any other movie. The count has to be approaching 50 viewings at this point. I can—and will, much to the chagrin of my fellow viewers—recite most of the dialogue verbatim. As a child, my favorite books were ones like The Secret Garden, Harriet the Spy, and A Series of Unfortunate Events—books that were honest and straightforward about how miserable and lonely childhood could be. These books made it clear that there are plenty of bad adults in the world, and the good ones often don’t listen or understand, or can’t or won’t provide the help you so desperately need. I wasn’t interested in being humored, but genuinely listened to and told the whole truth of things, and Matilda was unsentimental in a way that appealed to me.

Ask any eight year old who's watched Matilda, and they’ll tell you that, despite the movie’s fantasy elements, it isn’t all that far removed from their reality. After all, what kid hasn’t met an adult who wields their authority like a deadly weapon? What kid hasn’t sat at their desk, silent and furious, punished for a misunderstanding or for something they didn’t do? What kid hasn’t sat in a time out corner while the rest of the class enjoyed a read-aloud, dreaming of the different ways they might get their revenge on all the bullies and tyrants who make their lives a living hell?

You could posit that there are two primary villains in Matilda: Matilda’s neglectful father, Harry Wormwood (Danny DeVito), and Matilda’s school principal, Agatha “The Trunchbull” Trunchbull (Pam Ferris). Though both performances are funny and often press up against the border of campy—this is, after all, a movie for children—neither becomes a parody of itself. There is genuine malice to the way Harry leans in too close and demands of Matilda, “Are you in this family?” when she refuses to close her book and watch television during dinner; genuine malice to the way he then rips the book from her hands and tears out its pages, chunk by precious chunk. When The Trunchbull marches around the schoolyard, commanding children to stand up straight, to get in line, to stop looking so much like children, it feels the way school felt to me: an endless parade of demands that, no matter how hard I tried, could never be met.

I don’t think naming them as the story’s villains is wrong, exactly; they are certainly villainous characters, and the movie’s triumphant climax does hinge on their banishment. I’m also not sure if it’s quite that simple. Sometimes I wonder if the true villains of this movie, just like the villains of our own childhoods, are not people but the simple fact of existing in the world as a child. Watching Matilda as an adult, I find I’m less disturbed by Harry Wormwood ripping up Matilda’s library book, and more disturbed by Matilda’s helplessness in the face of it. After all, she’s a child. What can a child possibly do?

What Matilda does is get angry. And—like Carrie White before her and Eleven after her—she develops psychokinetic powers that are directly linked to her anger. The first time her uncanny abilities appear is right after her father rips up her book; she glares at the television, furious, until it explodes. This is a very literal (and, for better or worse, very feminine) representation of what happens to anger left unacknowledged. It builds, and it builds, and it builds, until it reaches a crisis point. And when it does, well. You’d better watch out.

What makes Matilda particularly fascinating to me is that—unlike Carrie White, and Eleven, and so many others—Matilda’s powers don’t harm her and they don’t harm innocent bystanders. Her powers are focused, direct, singular. This doesn’t come naturally; at first, her abilities burst forth at random, frightening her as much as those around her. She doesn’t understand them. They make her feel guilty. About halfway through the movie, she confesses to her teacher, Miss Honey, that she accidentally used them on The Trunchbull. Miss Honey’s response? It must be wonderful to feel so powerful. Words that comfort as well as affirm. My favorite scene in the entire movie is a sweet montage of Matilda figuring out how to control her powers. Set to the song “Little Bitty Pretty One,” Matilda dances around her living room and makes household objects fly above her head. It’s a joyful moment, one meant to communicate that, despite everything, Matilda is going to be okay.

By the movie’s end, Matilda has gotten revenge on all of her bullies. She’s been adopted by her beloved Miss Honey and the two of them are living happily ever after. It’s a comforting ending, if a bit saccharine, but the final moments before the credits roll have always struck me as interesting. Matilda and Miss Honey are in bed, ready to read a story. Matilda beckons to the bookshelf, and a book flies off and floats over to them. I don’t think this was meant to be anything more than a funny detail, a wink to the audience as we say goodbye, but I can’t stop thinking about the implications of it. Her powers, for better or for worse, will always be part of her. Her anger, for better or worse, always will be, too.

I teach elementary school, and I’ve interacted with my share of angry little girls. Mostly, I try to help them put a name to what it is they’re feeling. I don’t want them to carry that strange and particular grief that comes from experiencing emotions we don’t have the language to describe. You’re angry, I tell them, and there’s nothing wrong with it. Anger, I tell them, can be used to change their circumstances, to stand up for others, to make the world around them a better, safer place to be. It must be wonderful, I tell them, to feel so powerful.

Claire Winkler lives, writes, & teaches 4th grade in Richmond, VA, where she spends too much money on books and too much time watching movies. She is engaged to marry, coincidentally, another Claire. Her work has previously appeared in Pinball magazine, and she has served on the editorial staff of The Rappahannock Review.