Something Wild: The Heart Behind the Chaos.1313
During the filming of Something Wild in 1986, the chaos, laughter, and outrageous stunts that defined the set seemed to fade, leaving behind something startlingly fragile — something deeply human. For a brief, suspended moment, the characters became more than their exaggerated traits; they became people, vulnerable, exposed, and real in ways that even the camera could barely contain.
It happened during a scene that, on paper, appeared simple. Melanie Griffith, playing the wild, unpredictable Lulu, was sitting in the passenger seat of a car. Her character, usually an untamed force of energy and mischief, let her mask slip for just a heartbeat. Griffith’s eyes, wide and searching, stared out the windshield as if trying to see through more than just the road ahead. There was defiance there, yes, the fierce spark that makes Lulu unforgettable. But there was also fear, fragility, and a quiet ache — the aching need to be seen, to be understood, to matter.
Ray Liotta, playing her intense and unpredictable ex-husband, was part of the scene as well. He leaned against the car, silent, his presence carrying menace by the requirements of the script. But Liotta, as he so often did, infused the role with subtle humanity. His eyes flickered with awareness, his body language restrained but alert. The tension in the scene didn’t just come from conflict; it came from recognition — a reminder that danger and vulnerability are not opposites, but often live side by side.
Jonathan Demme, the director, knelt by the car as the crew prepared. His voice was soft, barely above the hum of the engines outside, yet it carried the weight of insight. “Lulu isn’t just chaos,” he said. “She’s afraid of being invisible. Let them see that.”
Griffith nodded, absorbing the direction, and then whispered almost to herself, “She’s so loud because nobody’s listening… but I want them to hear her now.” There was a tremor in her voice, not of fear, but of anticipation. A scene that had always been about energy and exuberance transformed into a moment about recognition, empathy, and human frailty.
They rolled the camera. And in that take, something extraordinary happened. Griffith’s laughter, once wild and unrestrained, became tremulous. Her gestures, usually exaggerated, were now deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of a girl who wants freedom but fears its cost. Liotta’s gaze, sharp and controlled, added another layer of truth, a quiet pulse of reality. Jeff Daniels, playing Charlie, the unsuspecting companion, froze in the scene. He caught the shift — not the wild energy he expected, but a raw and tender human truth. For one heartbeat, the script’s comedy gave way to something poignant, unspoken, and deeply resonant.
When the camera stopped, the silence lingered. Crew members, actors, and even those behind the monitors seemed to hold their breath. Demme finally nodded, almost imperceptibly. “That’s Lulu. All of her, in one heartbeat,” he said. Griffith leaned back, exhaling slowly, a quiet smile touching her lips. “Sometimes being wild is just surviving,” she murmured.
Liotta, still embodying the quiet menace of his character, added softly, “And sometimes surviving is the wildest thing of all.” There was laughter afterward, yes, but it was gentle, reflective, a collective acknowledgment of the human fragility that had just passed through them all.
That day, Something Wild ceased to be merely a comedy, a road movie, or a tale of misadventure. It became something more — a story about the messy, reckless, and beautiful ways people hide and reveal themselves. It was about moments when life forces you to be vulnerable, when your defenses crumble and your raw self stands exposed. And for just one heartbeat, the world notices.
The significance of that scene did not reside in dialogue or plot. It resided in the shared humanity of the actors — in Griffith’s willingness to reveal the quiet desperation beneath Lulu’s bravado, in Liotta’s restraint and subtlety that reminded viewers of the fine line between danger and protection, and in Demme’s guiding hand that allowed art to become life. In that fleeting instant, vulnerability was not weakness. It was a declaration of existence, a proof that beneath every wild gesture, every laugh, every act of rebellion, there is a person longing to be acknowledged.
Filming continued, of course, and the set soon returned to its usual rhythm of stunts, humor, and chaos. But that one scene remained imprinted on everyone who was there. It was a reminder that stories are powerful not just when they entertain, but when they reflect the truth of being human — the fragile, fleeting, chaotic, and beautiful truth of it.
And decades later, audiences who watch Something Wild still feel it. Beyond the laughter, beyond the reckless antics, there is a pulse of authenticity. There is Lulu, wild and untamed, yet achingly human. There is Charlie, bewildered yet empathetic. And there is the audience, reminded that survival, vulnerability, and courage often wear the same face.
In the end, the movie is not only about the adventures of a road trip or the chaos of two worlds colliding. It is about the quiet moments in between — the brief, unguarded seconds when someone lets the world see who they truly are. That is the heart of
Nellie Bly — The Woman Who Raced the World.507
At about this time in 1890, a crowd gathered at a New Jersey train station, hearts pounding and flags waving, as a small, determined woman stepped off a train — her face flushed with triumph and exhaustion. Her name was
It was more than a race against the clock.
It was a race against every expectation the world had placed upon women.
Born Elizabeth Jane Cochran in 1864 in Cochran’s Mills, Pennsylvania, Nellie grew up in a time when women were expected to stay silent, stay pretty, and stay home. But Elizabeth never fit that mold. After her father died, she began working to support her family, and when a newspaper column insulted the idea of “working women,” she wrote an angry rebuttal — anonymously.
Her letter was so fiery and eloquent that the editor of the Pittsburgh Dispatch offered her a job. It was there that Elizabeth adopted her pen name: Nellie Bly, inspired by a Stephen Foster song.
At first, she was assigned to write about domestic life — fashion, cooking, and social etiquette — “women’s topics” of the era. But Nellie wanted more. “I never wrote a word that didn’t come from my own heart,” she once said, “and I never shall.”
She began sneaking into factories and slums, reporting on the struggles of working-class women. Her pieces drew attention for their honesty and empathy, but also for their courage. By 1887, she had joined Joseph Pulitzer’s New York World, one of the most powerful newspapers in America — and it was there that her most daring adventure began.
Before she circled the globe, Nellie Bly made headlines with another feat — one that would expose the darkest corners of the human spirit.
To investigate abuse at the infamous Blackwell’s Island Insane Asylum, she pretended to be insane, allowing herself to be committed for ten days. What she saw inside — the cold baths, rotten food, beatings, and neglect — would have broken most people. But Nellie endured, documenting every cruel detail in her groundbreaking exposé, Ten Days in a Mad-House.
The series shocked America. The city of New York immediately increased funding for mental health facilities and established new oversight protocols. Nellie Bly had not just written a story — she had sparked real reform.
But she wasn’t finished yet.
Inspired by Jules Verne’s novel, Around the World in Eighty Days, Nellie proposed a bold idea to her editors: What if I did it for real?
At first, her male editors laughed. “A woman can’t travel alone around the world,” they said. “You’d need a chaperone — and at least a dozen trunks for your clothes.”
Nellie’s response became legend:
“Very well. Start the man. I’ll start the same day for another paper — and I’ll beat him.”
The threat worked. The New York World relented, and on November 14, 1889, with only a few days’ notice, Nellie set sail from Hoboken, New Jersey, aboard the Augusta Victoria. She carried just one small bag — no fancy dresses, no maid, no fear.
Her plan was simple — travel east, by ship and train, through Europe, Asia, and back across the Pacific. But as the World newspaper announced her departure, another publication — Cosmopolitan — decided to challenge her. They sent their own reporter, Elizabeth Bisland, traveling westward.
Nellie didn’t even know she had a rival until she was halfway around the world. “I was not racing anyone,” she wrote later. “I was racing time itself.”
From England to Egypt, Singapore to Hong Kong, Nellie became a global sensation. Telegraphs flashed updates across continents. Children cheered her name. And in France, she made a special stop — to meet Jules Verne himself, the author who had inspired it all.
“If you do it in seventy-nine days,” Verne told her with a smile, “I shall applaud with both hands.”
The journey was far from easy. She battled monsoon rains in the Indian Ocean, survived violent seasickness, and endured lonely nights on crowded ships where few took her seriously. But she pressed on — observant, witty, unflinching.
In Hong Kong, she bought a pet monkey, whom she nicknamed “McGinty,” delighting readers back home when the telegrams mentioned her “traveling companion.”
At one point, a wealthy admirer proposed marriage to her mid-journey — but Nellie politely declined. “I have business more important than marriage,” she replied.
Everywhere she went, she carried herself with quiet confidence. No entourage. No bodyguards. Just her notebook and her determination.
When Nellie reached San Francisco, the nation was waiting. The New York World arranged for a special train to speed her across the continent. Crowds gathered at every stop — waving flags, singing songs, handing her flowers and telegrams of congratulations.
She described that final leg with joy and disbelief:
“A maze of happy greetings, wild hurrahs, and rapid hand-shaking. A ride worthy of a queen!”
On January 25, 1890, Nellie Bly arrived home — 72 days, 6 hours, 11 minutes, and 14 seconds after she had left. She had beaten Jules Verne’s fictional record — and her real-life competitor, Elizabeth Bisland, by four days.
Nellie Bly became a national hero overnight. Newspapers hailed her as “The Queen of the Press.” She had proven that courage and intellect were not limited by gender.
She went on to cover major social issues — labor strikes, corruption, women’s suffrage — and even ran her own manufacturing company later in life, where she treated workers with fairness and dignity.
But it was her around-the-world journey that forever changed how the world saw women. In a single trip, Nellie had shattered the myth that women were too timid or too fragile for adventure. She had shown that intelligence, courage, and ambition belonged to no gender.
“Energy rightly applied and directed,” she once said, “will accomplish anything.”
Nellie Bly passed away in 1922, but her legacy burns bright. Every woman who reports from a war zone, every journalist who risks everything for the truth, every traveler who dares to go farther — they all walk in her footsteps.
When she stepped off that train in 1890, the world saw not just a journalist, but a revolution in motion — one woman’s defiance lighting the way for millions to follow.
Nellie Bly (1864–1922)
Pioneering Journalist. Fearless Traveler. Voice for the Voiceless.
She didn’t just go around the world —
She changed it
