But the relationships between the old friends don’t only come to life on screen through the writing; the members of the ensemble cast all pull their weight and deliver stellar performances. From the first scene at the funeral, we sense the immediate spark between Karen (played by JoBeth Williams), who has turned into a suffocated housewife to her stodgy and boring husband, and Sam (Tom Berenger), the television actor who stars in a Magnum, P.I.-style series. Jeff Goldblum absolutely nails the smarmy sensibilities of People magazine writer Michael, who unabashedly flirts with Alex’s girlfriend, Chloe (Meg Tilly), the only outsider who manages to stay the weekend. (In an early montage, Michael is seen unpacking a sleeve of condoms from his bag; again, this is a small detail that speaks volumes not just of the character but also Kasdan’s skill as a director.)
While the nostalgic elements can be, at times, a bit insufferable, it’s the solid characterizations of the friends that save the film and add to its merits. Everyone is torn up over Alex’s suicide, particularly because no one saw it coming. Well, they did and they didn’t: he had the potential, of course, to achieve greatness, but he didn’t, and no one can quite figure out why. As is standard for any grieving process, there’s a lot of introspection surrounding how each character is affected by his death. This comes out especially in Nick’s character, and he’s the one of the group whose life most resembles Alex’s. A Vietnam vet and former psychiatrist, Nick is now a drug dealer, seemingly on the same path of passivity that led to Alex’s demise. But all of the characters want to blame themselves for his death; through the years, their strong friendships have softened — they have lost touch, thought less about each other as the relationships and problems in front of them have become their priorities.
That’s what is so honest about the film, and anyone who has gathered with old friends for a forced reunion like a funeral (or, less depressingly, a wedding) can relate to that realization. We assume, in those tender collegiate years, that the friends we have will be our closest for the rest of our lives. It rarely happens that way. People move on, move out, fall out of touch; it’s the great truth about life. And as comfortable as the friends are by the end of the weekend — after the awkwardness, the catharses, the emotional revelations have all passed — there’s the very subtle sense that, despite what they say as they part ways, they probably won’t ever get together like this again unless there’s a similarly unfortunate reason to do.
I remember reading a piece about The Big Chill when it turned 15; in it, the writer wrote (and I’m paraphrasing), “If you’re 15, you won’t get The Big Chill.” As a precocious 15-year-old, I took offense. At 30, I understand what the writer meant, as well as the themes of the film, a bit more. Despite the self-reflective nature of the film, its sometimes-cheap sentimentality, and the fact that the soundtrack was, essentially, the Garden State soundtrack of 1983, I can’t help but love the film. At this point, for me, it brings out a double-layered sense of nostalgia.