By recreating classic movie moments that look so cathartic onscreen, Eliza Janssen hopes to improve her own life, here attempting every kid’s hope to glide via umbrella like Mary Poppins. This is…I’ve Always Wanted To Do That.
Did you know that the introductory shot of the titular character in Mary Poppins was improvised?
Yeah, Julie Andrews was late to set, and was forced to fly in over the skies of London via talking umbrella, eliciting a genuine reaction of wonder from the kids playing the neglected Jane and Michael Banks. She’s Julie Andrews: she can just do that. As her trickster god nanny reads off her magical measuring tape, she’s practically perfect in every way.
I am not practically perfect in every way. I learned this at a painfully young age, after taking in Disney’s somewhat shoddy but enduringly charming live-action musical on my grandparent’s ancient VCR. It looked so easy onscreen, but one deafening thud and two grazed knees later, the impossibility of flying (or at the very least, gliding gracefully to the carpet) with an umbrella was proven.
Two decades have passed since then. I’ve seen plenty of MythBusters episodes, barely understood a physics lesson about the four forces of flight in middle school, and can like totally jump way higher now. I’m also much heavier but let’s not dwell on that. Can the Mary Poppins Effect, of floating from a height with an umbrella as one’s dainty parachute, be achieved IRL?
I contacted an expert to ask. Australia’s second-ever female professor, in fact, in the field of physics, the very patient Professor Rachel Webster AO FAA. Her use of a smiley emoji made me feel much more relieved about my childish inquiry. Here’s what she had to say:
Basically, yes it would work, and I am a renegade boy genius in the fashion of Jimmy Neutron. I hit up Rebel Sport for a golf umbrella their site advertised, with a generous 64-inch “canopy”. The first store I tried didn’t have any in stock, and I lied to the friendly second location’s staff when they asked what I needed such a massive umbrella for. “A short film”, I said, too embarrassed to admit that I was still chasing that Julie Andrews power fantasy most have outgrown, and too dumb to just say “uh, golf”. When asked to elaborate on the film’s plot, genre, anything, I swiftly excused myself.
Additional materials included masking tape, a plastic drop sheet, and one of those multicoloured parachutes you see in children’s team-building exercises or bush doofs. We just happened to have one of ‘em around at my family home. With my dad roped in as cameraperson, we continued the feel-good throwback vibes by filming my Poppins attempts at a park we’d frequented near daily in my childhood. A decorative troll guy was there to offer support (dad is on the right).
The umbrellas came in handy as it was a rainy, windy Monday afternoon. Dick Van Dyke could’ve sprung from any corner with his gurning face and awful accent: up where the smoke is all billered and curled/‘tween pavement and stars is the chimney sweep world…
Because this whole ordeal wasn’t juvenile enough I brought a Madeline doll to use as a test pilot, expecting to get some of that sweet “much lighter person” air that Professor Webster discussed. Keeping in mind that the umbrella was seemingly much heavier than the doll, here’s how that went:
Finally it was time to make an absolute ass of myself in the name of Disney. I reasoned that if any early attempts at floating from a few metres up on a cool climbing frame thingy worked, I would eventually be able to ascend to its peak for that perfect, screen-authentic bit of footage. If you watch until the end of the video, you’ll notice that I actually achieved flight! Unbelievable!
Ha Ha Ha. No. I went down like Mary’s medicine, without the spoonful of sugar. Call me Mary Droppins because I failed to achieve the large-enough canopy of Professor Webster’s parachute suggestion, only enjoying a few microseconds of drag (the dual umbrellas and additional tarp chute felt the most promising?) before plummeting onto the tambark. This was a humbling experience, and the only salve for my ego and bruises was that it was somewhat heartwarming to act like an imbecile child again with my dad.
Curse you, Julie Andrews. And your little parrot-headed umbrella friend, too. She was even carrying a hefty carpet bag with untold contents, adding to the impossibility of accurately achieving this stunt. After two successful, cathartic entries to this column I can’t say this one doesn’t hurt—my pride, my nostalgia, and my goddamn kneecaps.
