Some days it just hits me hard and all at once: how much is broken in the world, and how much we've lost. Some days I just struggle to find the words. And I say this knowing that my family has been, so far, among the lucky ones; many have lost their jobs, their homes, their health, and most terrible of all, their lives or the lives of those they love.
As I write this, more than 90,000 Americans are dead—possibly a great deal more, with the likelihood of undercounting. More than the dead of 9/11. More than the number of soldiers killed in the Vietnam War. And most of them black and brown and sick and poor, as if the Biblical angel of death had struck down not the oppressors' firstborn but those we've long neglected or refused to protect—a scathing indictment of our cruelty and our complicity. Of the long list of injustices we've inflicted on the most vulnerable among us, generation upon generation.
And I worry that I tend to focus on generalities because I'd rather avoid thinking about my mundane, personal particulars, some days. I feel for my wife missing her colleagues at work, for my daughter missing her friends and her life. I miss my neighbors and my film-watching buddies. I miss libraries and bookstores and restaurants. I miss the subways and their unexpected entertainments—the mariachi buskers, the acrobatic Showtime dancers. I miss the joy of crowds: concerts in Prospect Park, free Shakespeare at the Delacorte, dancing with my wife at Lincoln Center among hundreds of revelers under a summer evening sky. I miss hugs and shaking hands and seeing people's unmasked faces. I miss the simple act of walking down the street without being on constant high alert. I miss the days when I didn't have to worry that a visit to my parents might kill them. I miss not thinking about death all the goddamn time.
I know I'm not special or unique in feeling this, and I know, again, that I'm not the hardest hit. But the broken world hits hard all the same, some days. And so I miss and I hurt and I worry and I fear and I rage. And I grieve.
And I find solace in music, as all of you who've been kind enough to read these posts already know. But some days it's this particular song, from the movie Frozen 2, that speaks to me the most. Yeah, that surprised me too, but it really shouldn't have. I won't link to That Song from the first Frozen (much as I love it)—but the fact that it's become an anthem of empowerment and self-acceptance, a flag waved high by people of all ages and backgrounds, is a testament to the ability of songwriters Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez to write music that touches something deep, human, and true.
And with "The Next Right Thing" I think they've outdone themselves. It's one thing to write a feel-good "go, me!" song—even a truly excellent one—and quite another to take an all-ages audience on a journey through the dark heart of grief and come out on the other side.
If you've seen the film, then you know what's coming. If not, suffice it to say that Princess Anna—voiced by the incomparable Kristen Bell—believes her sister Elsa and her best friend Olaf have died. She's hit rock-bottom and arrived at a dark place, literally and emotionally: "Hello darkness, I'm ready to succumb" is probably the bleakest line that any Disney character has ever uttered. Anna is at the furthest point imaginable from the cheerful, bubbly optimist she's always been, who took strength and comfort from her connection to those she's always loved. Now she's alone and heartsick and in the worst pain of her life.
Then, through tears, she starts to sing. And what she sings is astonishing in its elemental expression of despair, in the absence of any easy promises of hope—hope is beside the point here—and in her quiet, mounting resolve to simply keep making the same choice, over and over again: to take the next step, and the next. To do the next right thing.
This floored me when I first heard it in the theater. It still powerfully moves me now. I can't think of any other Disney song this raw and honest; I'd be hard put to name non-Disney songs that are this clear-eyed about the step-by-step climb out of darkness. I've featured many songs here—whether they existed before this crisis or were born out of it—that focus on idealism or community or Fighting the Power, or even just dancing for joy. All necessary things, but sometimes notions like "community" or "resistance" or even "joy" can feel overwhelmingly out of reach. This song shines a light on what must be done even in the absence of all that. You get up off the floor. You breathe. You find the strength—not to get through this crisis, or even through this day, but simply to get through the minute in front of you, and the minute after that. And with the dawn, what comes then / when it's clear that everything will never be the same again? It only ever comes down to the same choice: to keep going. To do the next right thing. It's hard to think of a song that feels more necessary right now. The Frozen films have given the world an abundance of wonderful music—cute romantic duets, kid-appropriate ditties about snowmen and reindeer, wide-eyed odes to brighter days, haunting lullabies, powerhouse anthems of self-actualization. But this is the song that will speak to those who've lost a loved one, to those struggling under the weight and shadow of depression, and to all of us burdened with the shattering of illusions and the gathering dark of the world. This song gives us a small and steady light, and a way out. As a commenter online points out: this song will save lives. BONUS: Listen to the album track here. And songwriters Lopez and Anderson-Lopez talk more about "The Next Right Thing" in this video, including how co-director Chris Buck's experience of personal loss informed the lyrics. (I've set it to play at the relevant section, around 6 minutes in, but feel free to watch the video in its entirety to hear them discuss several of the film's songs.)
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