Being There 2017

Chance is a middle-aged, simple-minded man who lives in a wealthy Washington, D.C. townhouse, spending his days tending a lush garden and his evenings glued to a television screen. He has never truly stepped outside his protected world; the outside is only a series of glimpses through glass and broadcasts that sketch a life he never imagined for himself. His existence is quiet, orderly, and shaped by the rhythms of the estate, the kindly African-American maid Louise, and the man who employs them, a powerful figure who becomes increasingly fragile as the story unfolds.

When the old man dies, the quiet order is abruptly disrupted. Chance finds himself escorted off the premises by estate lawyers who are trying to sort out the man’s affairs, and he is suddenly adrift in a world he has only observed from afar. The outside world, with its noise and danger, feels almost dreamlike to him, a place he approaches without a plan or destination. A tense moment in the street—an African-American youth menaces him with a knife—shows how fragile Chance’s sheltered existence remains when faced with real peril. In his instinctive, almost childlike incomprehension, he instinctively turns to the only tool he knows: a television remote, attempting to “click out” the threat in the same way he’s learned to navigate his televised landscape.

A crucial moment arrives when Chance passes by a storefront window and sees himself captured by a video camera, a spectacle that fascinates him and seems to confirm a sense of self he has never fully understood. In a fateful encounter, a limousine slows at the curb and Eve Rand, the glamorous wife of elderly magnate Ben Rand, brushes past him. When she asks his name, she mishears “Chance, the gardener” as “Chauncey Gardiner,” and the new name sticks. Eve brings this enigmatic figure into a world of privilege, introducing him to her ailing husband and to a trusted physician, Dr. Allenby, who is caring for the ailing Ben Rand. Dr. Allenby invites Chance to stay on in the house, partly out of professional curiosity, partly because the man’s presence gives Ben a sense of companionship in his final days.

Chance’s manner is old-fashioned and courteous, and his clothes—elegant but outmoded from a previous era—add to the aura of someone who speaks in parables rather than proofs. Ben Rand mistakes him for a cultured, well-educated man who has simply fallen on hard times, and he quickly takes a liking to the gardener’s unassuming directness. The moment is pivotal: Ben sees in Chauncey something he trusts, something that reminds him of a bygone era of straightforward wisdom.

In short order, Chauncey Gardiner is introduced to circles of power. Ben becomes a confidant to the President, and Chauncey’s musings about “stimulating growth” are woven into conversations about the economy. The metaphor of the garden—its seasons, its cycles, its growth—resonates with policymakers, and the President begins to quote Chauncey in public remarks, misreading the simplicity as strategic insight. What follows is a rapid ascent: Chauncey attends major events, forms a surprising rapport with the Soviet ambassador, and even appears on a talk show. On screen, his gardener’s wisdom is interpreted as profound political acumen, and the public begins to project their own hopes and anxieties onto him.

Behind the scenes, Louise is blunt about the cruelties and limits of such a rise. She tells others that what has happened to Chauncey is less about intellect and more about social signals—especially the power of whiteness in America—being enough to win access and influence. The President’s relationship with the country and with his wife becomes tangled in the spectacle of Chauncey’s omnipresence, and the film quietly notes the impotence and fragility that can accompany such power.

Dr. Allenby grows increasingly suspicious that Chauncey’s background is murky, and he considers the possibility of revealing the mundane truth behind the myth. Yet he stays silent, choosing happiness for the dying Ben over exposing a deception that would upend the fragile comfort Chauncey brings.

The drama reaches its emotional center as Ben Rand dies, and Eve is drawn to Chauncey, who expresses a genuine feeling for her but is emotionally undeveloped in any traditional sense. He imitates a scene from a film—the Thomas Crown Affair—yet his response to Eve’s romantic advance is not physical desire but a cryptic declaration: “I like to watch.” The moment underscores the character’s blankness about intimacy, while also hinting at a voyeuristic undertone that the television era idolizes.

In the aftermath, Chauncey’s claims of affection for Eve feel real to him, even as he maintains that he is “just a gardener.” Allenby, reflecting on the truth behind the legend, mutters, “I understand,” acknowledging the hollow core of Chauncey’s mystique. At Ben’s funeral, a whispered debate among pallbearers considers a successor to the Presidency, and the consensus subtly elevates Chauncey as a potential figure of national leadership. Oblivious to the subtext, Chauncey wanders the wintry estate, pausing to straighten a fallen pine sapling and then stepping out onto a frozen lake. He dips his umbrella into the water and continues on, as if guided by the same quiet certainty that defined his garden years. The closing line—spoken by the President in the backdrop of this ceremony—echoes a haunting philosophy: Life is a state of mind.

I like to watch.

The image of Chauncey calmly traversing the icy landscape while the political world contorts around him leaves viewers with a satirical, unsettling meditation on how appearances, media, and charm can redirect power in unexpected, often disquieting ways.