Change is hard. So why did everything have to change all at once?
For 11-year-old Margaret, moving away from New York City and into the New Jersey suburbs in 1970 is change enough, thanks. Gone were all the apartment buildings, sidewalk shops and fire escapes, replaced by houses and shrubs and sprinkler systems. Margaret must make new friends at a new school. And worst of all, she’ll be far away from her precious Grandma Sylvia.
And it’s not enough to have to memorize a whole new ZIP code. Margaret’s told that she’s on the verge of changing, too! Her future looms with rumors of bras and sanitary napkins and who knows what else. And while those physical elements have yet to (ahem) develop, she’s noticed a few changes already. The boy next door, at least, seems way more attractive than any guy she knew back in the city.
But there’s another guy in Margaret’s life these days, it seems. She’s started talking with God.
“God?” her first conversation begins. “Are you there, God? It’s me, Margaret Simon. I’ve heard a lot of good things about you.”
Truth is, though, she’s not heard very much about Him. Margaret’s father, Herb, is Jewish. Her mother, Barbara, is Christian; and when the two got married, Margaret’s grandparents disowned Barbara. They haven’t seen their daughter for 14 years. They’ve never set eyes on Margaret at all.
With that family history, Herb and Barbara have resolutely avoided any sort of religious connection at all. No Jewish services at the temple. No trips to the local church. They ignore Christmas altogether. And while they’re certainly not against faith or religion, they’ve told Margaret that she can choose her own—when she’s 18.
But one of Margaret’s teachers is encouraging her to start exploring religion in earnest—to see what, if anything, it might mean to her.
It’s 1970. It’ll be a year before David Bowie will release his song “Changes.” But while Bowie’s no stranger to change himself, he could still learn a thing or two from Margaret Simon.
Margaret doesn’t know it, but early adolescence isn’t just filled with big, out-of-the-blue changes. It’s about defining and refining who we are—and who we want to be.
Margaret clearly wants to be more than simply happy or popular. She wants to be good. When she hears some rather tawdry rumors about one of her classmates, those rumors diminish that classmate in Margaret’s eyes. But when she finds out that those whispers aren’t true—well, Margaret knows that she, not the classmate, is the villain in this situation. Margaret tries to make amends as best she can.
Margaret’s parents, Barbara and Herb, love each other, and they love their daughter dearly. Early adolescence isn’t just difficult for the kid going through it, but for parents trying to guide their children, too. Barbara, especially, tries to be a conscientious, caring and loving voice in Margaret’s life. Herb’s less involved (especially with his daughter’s physical changes), but he’s still very much a part of both her and Barbara’s lives.
I think the two are at their best when they learn that Barbara’s parents—who cut off all contact with the family 14 years before—ask if they can come and visit. Herb and Barbara were understandably gutted when Barbara’s parents shut them out. Herb, in trying to protect Barbara, reminds her how much that hurt. But Barbara wants to open the door again—to allow her parents to see their beautiful granddaughter, to try to salvage their relationship. And while the visit doesn’t go as anyone would’ve hoped or planned, the grace Barbara shows—and the support that Herb offers therein—is sweet to see.
They aren’t perfect people either, of course. Lots of folks make mistakes here, and sometimes those mistakes can sting. But it’s nice to see how most of our characters do their best to move on from the mistakes they made and forgive others when they’ve been wronged.
Margaret’s conversations with God begin early in the film and continue throughout. Most of her prayers (sometimes complete with her hands clasped and kneeling by her bed) are pretty superficial—but not silly. She asks that New Jersey not be “too horrible.” She asks for help and guidance. She asks to be “normal and regular just like everybody else,” with a litany of pleases tacked on.
Margaret is honest with God about her struggles—more honest, in some ways, than with anyone else. Some of her prayers sound quite poignant. When she realizes that she hurt someone very badly, she confesses that she feels like “I’m the worst person in the world.”
This coincides with her literal spiritual quest: to find what religion she should be. She attends temple with her grandmother (who’s thrilled), a boisterous service at a mostly Black church with one of her friends (“I don’t know if I got the feeling,” she says later, but “I’m sure in a good mood!”), and a more traditional Protestant service for Christmas eve (complete with a Nativity play). She enters a Catholic church and, looking for a friend, ducks into a confessional—offering a partial confession before running out. And after all these religious experiences, she still feels a little empty. “I’ve been looking for you, God,” she says. “Why do I only feel you when I’m alone?”
But she’s being raised in a house where religion has left some deep scars. Herb reminds Barbara that her own parents believe that Barbara’s “going to hell because you married a Jew.” And even though Margaret classifies her mom as Christian, it’s obvious that the house is a religious vacuum. When Barbara learns of Margaret’s spiritual questionings, she and Margaret argue—with Mom thinking that Margaret’s still too young. It’s an argument that’s informed by Barbara’s own pain—and one she regrets later.
[Spoiler Warning] All of this culminates in a sudden visit from Barbara’s parents. Everyone wants to make peace, but things are complicated when Sylvia, Margaret’s Jewish grandmother, catches wind of the family dinner and crashes it herself. Margaret finds herself in the middle of a religious showdown: One set of grandparents asks if she’s baptized and going to Sunday School, while Sylvia defiantly proclaims that Margaret’s already Jewish (because of that one trip to the temple). Margaret is furious and announces that she doesn’t even believe in God. And, as she puts her thoughts down more introspectively, she still seems to be in that place. “Maybe there’s nobody up there,” she writes for her school project. “There’s only me.”
But Margaret doesn’t seem to stay in that space. As the school year comes to an end and she celebrates the changes she’s faced, she prays again. “Are you still there, God?” she says. “It’s me, Margaret. Thanks. Thanks an awful lot.”
Margaret, as mentioned, is going through a whole bunch of anatomical changes—as every boy and girl does en route to becoming an adult man or woman. Those changes are a big deal for Margaret and her friends. And we’re including our discussion of this topic here, not because those changes are inherently bad, but because they do relate to our biology and reproductive system. We recognize that some families may prefer to discuss the topics noted below on their own before seeing a film that deals with puberty in some fairly specific ways.
Margaret is swiftly swept up into a “secret” club among her female peers that comes with a list of rules. One, members have to wear bras; two, members have to keep “boy books” and talk about the boys mentioned there; and, three, they have to report exactly when they started menstruating and how it felt. We hear some of those reports, and Margaret becomes increasingly worried that she’s getting her period way too late for comfort. She and other girls sit in a sex ed class and learn exactly what’s going inside them during menstruation (much the discomfort of many).
Margaret announces that her father subscribes to Playboy, and she takes one so that she and her friends can see what they might expect to look like. They ogle the centerfold (which is turned away from the camera) and marvel at the size and shape of the women’s breasts.
Girls talk about the size of their respective bras. When Margaret goes to buy one for herself, there’s much made of whether she needs one or not. (Later, a boy pinches Margaret on her birthday, telling her that it’s to help her “grow an inch” in that particular region.) We see girls doing exercises that they hope will increase the size of their chests. The famous, “We must, we must, we must increase our bust!” chant is heard during these exercises). We see girls in underwear and bathing suits; one wears a towel as she shaves her legs. Nothing critical is seen, obviously.
Tweens play a game that involves a boy and a girl going into a bathroom alone together and staying there for a minute. (Margaret gets her first kiss during her own time there.) A classmate of Margaret’s is far more developed than her peers, and some say that she allows boys to “feel her up.” (The rumor is repeated several times.) Girls talk a lot about boys, and Margaret has a crush on a guy a year or two older than she is.
Barbara and Herb flirt—joking that since Herb has to mow the grass now, he’s ever-so-much-more manly due to his experience working with “heavy machinery.” Ironically …
… Herb doesn’t quite know how to handle that “heavy machinery,” and the lawnmower’s blade inflicts a bad, bloody cut on his hand.
One or two uses of “h—,” and about 15 questionable uses of God’s name, including one followed immediately by “d–n.” We also hear “sucked” used rather colloquially.
Adult characters drink wine with dinner.
Margaret’s secret club is seen, by some, as a group of mean girls who laugh and belittle others. (Margaret is horrified when she realizes it’s true.)
Someone tells a significant lie.
Judy Blume’s original book, Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. is one of the most beloved—and most frequently banned—books in the United States. Generations of kids have grown up reading it. For many of those readers, Blume captured something critical about early adolescence: its anxieties, its joys, its drama, its pathos. But because it deals with puberty’s changes so honestly and so openly, it’s been a no-go or a not-yet sort of book for loads of parents. As such, it has been known to be kicked out of elementary school libraries, largely because of the book’s focus on menstruation.
Times have changed quite a bit since Blume published this book in 1970. As a culture, we’re less squeamish about some of the physical changes Blume wrote about. But paradoxically, perhaps we’re more sensitive to the book’s religious elements. Our more secular society is wary of spiritual content: In explaining why the Christian movie Facing the Giants earned a PG rating way back in 2006 (despite a complete absence of typically objectionable content), representatives from the MPA said that “Parents are very sensitive about having their kids exposed to religious material.” And the book—and its accompanying film—is as steeped in burgeoning spirituality as it is in sexuality.
The film Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. stays very true to the original, both in letter and spirit. It’s funny, sad, silly and, at times, deeply moving. Moreover, it feels honest. Awkwardly so at times, yes. And sometimes its honesty might not—for some parents—be age-appropriate.
Because some families do “The Talk” when their kids turn 12 and are happy it’s over, while others engage in lots of talks from the time their children are old enough to ask questions, Are You There God? should be approached with circumspection. It’s definitely got all the same issues that caused parents of 50 years ago to raise eyebrows and write letters. It deals with faith and religion without the firm hand of well-grounded theology, but through doses of curiosity and doubt.
But Margaret does give us a winsome protagonist who, I think, we’ve all felt a little like when we were 11 or 12. She makes mistakes. She’s prone to peer pressure. But she’s part of a loving family, and she’s doing the best she can. And for those of us who can say the same, we might find ourselves echoing Margaret’s prayer: Thanks. Thanks an awful lot.
Paul Asay has been part of the Plugged In staff since 2007, watching and reviewing roughly 15 quintillion movies and television shows. He’s written for a number of other publications, too, including Time, The Washington Post and Christianity Today. The author of several books, Paul loves to find spirituality in unexpected places, including popular entertainment, and he loves all things superhero. His vices include James Bond films, Mountain Dew and terrible B-grade movies. He’s married, has two children and a neurotic dog, runs marathons on occasion and hopes to someday own his own tuxedo. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @AsayPaul.
