Groundhog Day (1993) — Christmastime and the Eternal Recurrence

The iconic Groundhog Day acts as both a meditation on existential philosophy and a tale of redemption, both of which feel undeniably Christmassy

“Can you keep a secret, Larry? I’m probably leaving PBH,” Phil (Bill Murray) declares to his cameraman. “So, this will be the last time we do the Groundhog together.” He says this with palpable relish, as though the mere thought of reporting on Groundhog Day in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania is a death sentence. Unfortunately for Phil, it’s actually a life sentence.

Phil Connors is confined in a snow globe. Doomed to repeat the same day of his life ad nauseam, he is incapable of escaping the small town of Punxsutawney. While his approach to this predicament oscillates between disbelief, enthusiasm, and total and utter dejection, the events around him remain exactly the same. His situation is reminiscent of the figures on Keats’ Grecian Urn: trapped in a beautiful, sublime scene, but trapped nonetheless. His is an existence of total stasis. Untouched by the passing of time, his life is ultimately devoid of meaning. How can one avoid falling into despair when faced with such torment?

This is ultimately what the film is about: the ways we overcome nihilism and the places in which we can find purpose. The film does not present easy answers for Phil’s quandary. Instead, it suggests that finding importance in the way you live life (and not what you get out of it) ultimately leads to satisfaction and inner peace. This makes Groundhog Day a more philosophical film than one might expect. With some of Friedrich Nietzsche’s philosophy contributing the ideological undercurrents of the story, Groundhog Day excels in a multitude of areas, turning it into a perfect film.

When we first meet Phil, he is reporting on the news. He is funny, sarcastic, and has a flamboyant personality that comes right through the screen. But once the cameras are off, he’s a different person. His sarcasm transmogrifies into cruelty and you realise his flamboyance manifests from a deeply-rooted narcissism. For all intents and purposes, Phil Connors is a jerk. His excessive jibes and inimical demeanour seem to stem from a fragile ego and emotional immaturity. In essence, he is much like a playground bully: childish, yet domineering, aided by a sharp intellect and ostensibly fuelled by absolute disdain for all around him.

However, his obnoxious behaviour presents the key to understanding Phil Connors: it’s a defence mechanism which protects his self-esteem from being bruised. His sharp wit and contempt for others serve as a sturdy barrier which reinforces his outer shell of indifference. This integument ensures that he will never be vulnerable, romantically available, nor forced to confront his inner emotions. While his brashness protects him from feeling anything (besides an overwhelming sensation of conceit), it also isolates him, even more so than his cosmic punishment.

We are never provided insight into what made Phil Connors this way and the film is all the better for it. Oftentimes, writers and directors compel their audiences to sympathise with an initially contemptible protagonist by injecting a mopey backstory in the third act of the movie. This is done so that we can absolve them of any guilt retroactively. This is not only unrealistic — the origin of our neuroses and weaknesses is rarely so transparent — but also narratively unsatisfying: in doing this, our protagonist is frequently denied the opportunity to see the error of their ways and overcome their personal pitfalls. As we can see an obvious root to their shortcomings, it is suggested that we should simply forgive them without their atonement.

This is not the case with Phil. We are never given an explanation for his horrible treatment of others. This forces him to change in order to achieve salvation. Perversely, it also makes him more likeable: he’s an unpleasant man and we are allowed to enjoy his unethical exploits vicariously. After all, when presented with the opportunity to act as a god within your own provincial universe, who can say that they wouldn’t do some things that they normally couldn’t? Suggesting our protagonists should always be virtuous not only leads to a boring, sententious story, but also an improbable one: real human behaviour is full of problematic shortcomings. Now imagine one bestowed with divine power.

As Robert Caro once said: “Power doesn’t always corrupt. Power always reveals.” Once Phil realises that he can live life without consequences, it is revealed that he is an unashamed asshole. At the beginning of his spiritual journey, he schemes, manipulates, and breaks the law. He determines that legal rules and codes of behaviour can be thrown out the window when there’s no future to enforce them. Revelling in his blissful, newfound nihilism, he smokes cigarettes and stuffs angel cake into his mouth. However, he soon realises that it is not his supernatural jail sentence that is keeping him from happiness — it is himself. If he is ever to find peace, he must embrace life and not try and cheat it.

There have been a number of interpretations of Groundhog Day over the years. I would be remiss not to mention how similar the depiction of Phil’s existential suffering is to Dante’s description of purgatory. Dante subscribed to the traditional doctrine of purgatory as a place where every sin requires a specific, fitting penalty before a soul can gain entry into paradise. In a sense, this aptly details Phil’s punishment: though we could debate what his sin is precisely, he recognises that expiation is in order. Also, as a little Easter egg, in The Divine Comedy (Canto XII of Purgatory) it is revealed that Dante believes the start of each new day occurs at 6am, not midnight. Whether or not this is evidence that Ramis and screenwriter Danny Rubin took inspiration from the text — as each new day for Phil begins at 6am, much to Rita’s surprise — remains to be seen.

However, more than anything, Phil’s quandary represents a dramatization of Friedrich Nietzsche’s theory of the eternal recurrence and his musings on nihilism as a state of spiritual immaturity. As a thought experiment, Nietzsche requests his reader to think of a supernatural fate: “This life as you now live and have lived it you will have to live once again and innumerable times again; and there will be nothing new in it, but every pain and every joy and every thought and sigh and everything unspeakably small or great in your life must return to you, all in the same succession and sequence. (…) The eternal hourglass of existence is turned upside down again and again, and you with it, speck of dust!”

As you can tell, this mirrors Phil’s experience pretty identically. What is important for Nietzsche was the question of: how would we find meaning in such a fate? Given the philosopher’s apprehension with nihilism, which he believed was a malaise that had become endemic in Europe, it was important for him to find a solution to such a hypothetical hell.

In his notes, Nietzsche writes: “My doctrine says: the task is to live in such a way that you must wish to live again — you will anyway!” Ultimately, this is what Phil realises. Resigning himself to the fact that he is trapped in this timeless, ceaseless prison, he recognises that the only fate he can wish to experience repeatedly is one dedicated to helping others. Indulging in every vice only brings him further away from contentment; the road to genuine happiness may be a harder, less expedient journey, but it is rewarded with love, affection, and authentic, meaningful connection. In the end, Phil’s deliverance becomes an afterthought: “Whatever happens tomorrow, or for the rest of my life, I’m happy now… Because I love you.” Now, we can tell he isn’t lying.

Watching Phil try to become a better person is accentuated by Rita (Andie MacDowell) acting as his foil. They are stark opposites. Because of this, she is one of the few people that is compassionate enough to see beneath the surface of Phil’s discourteous demeanour. Their love story is ameliorated by the chemistry that Murray and MacDowell share; it truly makes for cinematic gold. Phil’s frequently droll manner is undercut by Rita’s charm: she is both intelligent and secure in herself, meaning his badinage is powerless against her.

Other performances in the movie serve as the icing on the angel cake. Though they may be mostly superficial side-characters, they all provide an excellent feel for the parochial town and thereby create brilliant texture for the story. Mayor Buster Green (who is played by Bill Murray’s brother, Brian Doyle-Murray) is the amicable groundhog-lover who can’t chew steak very well. Mrs. Lancaster’s (Angela Patton) perennially mystified facial expressions are hilarious. Meanwhile, Gus and Ralph entertain as the lovable, slightly dim-witted pair, who live in their own unchanging universe without even realising it. Much like the rest of Punxsutawney, the inhabitants become more enjoyable through familiarity.

More than anything, what turns this film into an undeniable classic is Ramis’ direction and stylistic decisions behind the camera. His execution of the premise is both quietly subtle and uproariously excessive, with each extreme being used at the perfect moment. Phil breaking a pencil before bed acts as a great litmus test for his sanity, while also remaining tonally appropriate (unlike the alternative directions they considered going in for this scene). This results in a film without a dull moment despite never feeling rushed. The pacing, structure, and balance of this story is exquisite, ensuring that it squeezes the most out of its 100 minute runtime.

For me, Groundhog Day is a Christmas film. There’s so much about the story that lends itself to the Yuletide season. Of course, there is the snowy landscape. There is the feeling of celebration that surrounds the Groundhog Day festivities. People march into town gaily (dressed in hats, gloves, and scarves to fight off the frigid cold), so they can enjoy the jamboree as one. This sensation of togetherness, even more than the wintry spectacle, creates a strong mood of community that is thematically akin to Christmas. While it takes place almost two months after the holiday, it reminds us that these values (love, kindness, support, consideration, and affection) are to be practiced daily — even if it’s the same day, over and over again.

Harold Ramis’ meditative romantic comedy is a classic, an icon of nineties cinema. Released thirty years ago, its appeal has not only endured, but increased. In many ways, Groundhog Day provides edification for all who watch. That is because, despite the schadenfreude, the philosophical underpinnings, and the existential suffering on display, the film teaches us how to bear the weight of being in a mysterious, seemingly punitive universe. The story shows how happiness is derived in giving love, not in receiving it. Is there anything more Christmassy than that? For this reason, it’s a film I find myself enjoying again and again.

And again… And again… And again.