A choir of elderly folks are in a prison yard singing Bob Dylan’s “Forever Young” to a group of hardened convicts. The scene is from the film “Young@Heart,” a 2007 documentary that follows members of the chorus for seven weeks as they practice, perform, laugh, rush into emergency rooms, cry, get silly, and, above all, sing.
I’ve seen lots of great scenes in movies, but rarely one that has held me like that scene at the prison yard.
If communication is strongest with contrast, consider this contrast: A group of singers at the end of their lives singing to a group of convicts who must feel they have wasted their lives.
And the song? “Forever Young.”
It’s not just the obvious tears and goosebumps that the scene suggests. It’s more than that.
The scene seems to encapsulate life itself—the dreams, the regrets, the loves, the failures, the memories.
Perhaps the best way to feel it is to imagine hearing these lyrics as if you were one of the convicts:
May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young
May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young
May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
May your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young
Everyone in that prison yard, every viewer watching the film, every elderly person singing, knows all too well that the word “forever” doesn’t really exist.
To stay “forever young” is not a literal prophecy as much as a suggestion for how to lead a life that must always end.
On one side of that prison yard was a group of elderly singers, most of them in their 80s, some approaching hospice care, trying to squeeze every ounce of life they had left.
On the other side were convicts probably wondering what kind of life they had left to squeeze.
That contrast moved me to no end.
When I watch something that moves me like this, I usually talk about it, analyze it, and then move on. But I’m finding it hard to move on from that prison scene.
Maybe it’s gratitude.
In these upside-down times, when it’s hard to tell what’s artificial and what’s human, I’m grateful there are still things that are so moving, so human, they make me want to stay still and write about them.
