If Christmas is a time for quiet reflection of what we do for others in our lives and what that means about who we are, then what happens to both Christmas and ourselves in an age where reflection is rare? We’re likelier to be off doing anything else other than mulling. “Focusing” on another d istraction, another show to binge, another social media post, another website after clicking out of the last. It’s as if we’re retrenching who our personage by a process of bombardment, which also makes us oblivious to potentially receiving what we want more than anything else, even were it placed beneath our trees by a zaftig fellow with a white beard and carmine suit. The idea of being single at Christmas has fed a sprawling subgenre of film that’s inescapable. You’d think, based on how the single life is presented in these works, that there’s nothing worse in the world than being un-partnered, with your isolation becoming near-on unbearable while seemingly everyone else is cozying up with their loved ones in matching PJs covered in Grinch faces. But before the likes of Hallmark started dumping their baleful warnings against the single life at you like so much precipitation falling from the sky, there was Billy Wilder’s “The Apartment” from 1960, a Christmas cautionary film that speaks to where so many people find themselves today. There is no Christmas movie as depressing as “The Apartment,” but it’s useful nonetheless. Fred MacMurray — who said he’d never take on a similar part again, because he didn’t wish to set a bad example for his kids — plays married cad Jeff Sheldrake who strings along Shirley MacLaine’s Fran, who is loved by Bud (Jack Lemmon), renter of the titular NYC apartment that the higher-ups at the insurance company where these people work use for their shady dalliances. “The Apartment” is hard to watch, but largely because of the truth therein. You think that Fran and Bud are perfect for each other, and yet there she is, attempting suicide in his home at Christmas after the latest round of terrible treatment from Sheldrake. I’ve not spoken to anyone in many Christmases. I’m alone as can be. But let’s play a quick game, “Apartment”-style. If I encountered a woman online who said words to the effect of, “I wish there was a guy out there who was kind and fit, liked the Beatles, ballet, the ocean, sports, museums” — very specific things that are among the foundational aspects of my life and work — and I sent a note touching on these matters and suggesting getting to know each other, the most I’d receive back would be an emoji. I get what a person wants to say. “It isn’t that they don’t want to be with someone, it’s that they don’t want to be with you! You’re the problem!” Ah, we’re an unkind world. But it’s often not that. It’s that we’re so busy thinking about ourselves, collecting our likes, crowdsourcing attention, that we’ll miss out on the things and the people we say we want the most and that would be best for us. The person who’d been reached out to wouldn’t break stride in complaining about how what they want isn’t out there. That’s what “The Apartment” is about. The inability to see what presents itself to us because we’re busy being our own worst enemies. The architects of our isolation. Hardly anyone is going to say, “I should stop being so fixated on myself and open my eyes and look around and make some effort and be present and open.” You can’t post about that. Not honestly, anyway. And if you can’t post about something, what’s it good for? A lot, as it turns out. Mental health, friendship, romance. Connection. We ought to be more connected than ever, but how many people will be made to feel the brunt of their isolation this Christmas? And that includes people physically proximate to other people. Watching the characters in “The Apartment,” you want to tell them to knock it off. Get out of their own way. But maybe we’d be best off saying that to ourselves. “The Apartment” won’t lift your heart at a time of year where, despite the talk of joy and gratitude, we often feel a sort of emotional and spiritual penury. A lack for that which matters most. But it can serve like a lit candle in a darkened corridor or a bright star for the longest nights. Heed its truths, and next Christmas may be much different. Fleming is a writer. ...read more read less