When the pandemic hit my sophomore year of college, the Twilight films were made available on American Netflix for the first time. Though the saga was a huge part of my formative years, by that point, I had not seen the movies since early high school. Since isolation meant that I had nothing better to do, I decided to rewatch the series for the first time in over half a decade.
With a couple of snacks at my disposal, my coziest PJs on, and a plan-free weekend ahead of me, I opened up my laptop, and pressed play on Twilight (2008). I was excited to revisit this part of my childhood that I had abandoned when I became a teenager. Even though it’d been a few years since I’d seen the films, they still lived in a corner of my mind. I was ready to exclaim, “this is the skin of a killer, Bella” alongside Edward; laugh at Jacob’s iconic “Bella, where the hell have you been, loca?;” and of course scream “you nicknamed my daughter after the Loch Ness Monster?” with Bella.
What I was not ready for was the realizations that came to me as I made my way through the saga that weekend.
With a frontal lobe more developed than it was when I was first introduced to the series and a degree in ethnic and gender studies on the way, I found myself noticing faults in these films that I never had before. By this point in my life, I’d read enough feminist theory to fill up a book as long as the entire Twilight saga itself and written several essays dissecting the racial politics of my favorite pieces of media and popular culture. It was literally impossible for me not to see these issues anymore.
And for the first time ever, I asked myself: “is Twilight problematic?”
To answer this massive query, I did what any other Gen-Zer would in times of need: I turned to social media.
Turns out, I was not the only person using pandemic-induced boredom to revisit Twilight. And as I scrolled through #twilight on TikTok, any tweet mentioning the movies, and, of course, the “r/twilight” subreddit, I learned that other people had new realizations about the saga.
Falling down the rabbithole, I discovered other rewatchers discussing how Twilight aged like milk. Some talked about how, in hindsight, the 100+ year age gap between Bella and Edward created an incredible power imbalance between the two. Others pointed to the Cullens’ casual racism towards the Quilettes. A few referenced findings on how author Stephenie Meyer did not want to cast actors of color in main roles.
Like me, many of these Twilight questioners were once major fans of the books and movies.
In middle school, I was a certified “Twi-hard.” I loved the Twilight Saga more than any other piece of art. I read then reread then re-reread the entire series. Every time I opened their pages, the books offered me the escapism I, a chubby goody two-shoes who was called “nerd” every time I spoke in class, needed from the perils of junior high.
When I read those novels, I was transported from my unexciting life on Long Island to the mystical world of Forks, Washington. There, vampires sparkled in the sun, werewolves could communicate with one another telepathically, and, for whatever reason, both were in love with an unexciting human girl. She was whose perspective I experienced the story from; thus, it felt like both were in love with me.
My obsession with The Twilight Saga went beyond rereading the books so many times I’ve lost count. I bought every magazine featuring the films’ cast. I followed every dedicated Twilight fanpage on Instagram and Tumblr. And, much to my chagrin today, I made my first social media handles @teamedward101.
When I was in the throes of my Twilight obsession, I was too young and unaware to recognize the faults of the saga. I didn’t register how, first of all, the books were actually not well-written at all. I was too busy googling the definitions of words like “melancholic” and “irrevocably” to see that these buzzwords were there to mask corny dialogue and a hole-filled plot. And I certainly didn’t register that Meyer’s weaponization of a thesaurus gave her more words to create a story that mistreats its characters of color and female characters.
Watching the films as a kid, I was distracted by the sparkly skin brought to life by VFX, Alice’s high kick in the baseball scene, and Paramore’s “Decode.” I didn’t see how the main Indigenous character was played by a white man, the only actors of color played side characters and villains, and just how weird it was for an adult Taylor Lautner to fawn over a baby.
Of course, as people tend to do with their pre-teen obsessions, I eventually grew out of my Twilight phase. When I hit high school, I took the Edward posters off of my bedroom walls, recycled my tabloids on Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson’s tumultuous relationship, reshelved my copies of all of the books for what would be the last time, and, thankfully, changed my usernames to my first and last name.
Rewatching the films years later—as a 20-year-old who dedicated her academic career to understanding social theory and systemic oppression—I saw Twilight for what it was for the first time. And I came to two realizations:
Twilight is problematic. But I still love it.
Even as my eyes were opened to how messed up every relationship and dynamic in the saga truly was, I felt an extreme sense of nostalgia watching the films.
I had memories of buying an Edward blanket from Hot Topic using my Hot Cash, arguing with friends for hours why Jacob was not a good option for Bella, and begging my parents to take me to see Breaking Dawn Part 2 on opening night, even though it was a school night.
I was reminded of who I was as a kid, a chubby goody-two shoes who was called “nerd” every time I spoke in class and who needed an escape from the perils of junior high.
I also realized how far I’ve come since.
When I first began reckoning that this piece of media that was so formative to me is problematic, I thought about shunning it forever, and with it, shunning a part of myself. But then I realized in doing so, I would be depriving myself from relishing in my growth as a person.
It’s been five years since my fateful return to the Twilight saga in 2020. And every year since, I’ve rewatched the films. All of them.
When the pandemic brought upon my first rewatch session, I was studying my dream subjects at my dream college. The next year when I queued up the saga on my TV, I was in the process of interviewing for what would end up becoming my first post-grad job. The following year, I was living in New York City in my dream apartment with my best friends. The year after that, I was fresh back from a work trip to Milan where I wined and dined at locales I definitely could not afford on my own. The succeeding year, last year, I was applying to grad schools, something that I’ve been considering but too scared to do for the previous three years.
This year, Twilight, the book that started it all, turns 20 years old. While I won’t be rereading the books or traveling to Forks for the Twilight Festival, I will be rewatching the films again. And this time, as I watch the movies for a sixth year in a row, I will be doing so as a graduate student studying to enter the industry I’ve dreamed of since around the same time I read Twilight for the first time. I’ll be watching it as someone a young @teamedward101 would be proud to have become.