Everyone has seen Groundhog Day, right? Phil is an asshole who gets stuck in the same day until he learns not to be an asshole. We saw in the movie that he was stuck in that day long enough to learn French and jazz piano. He was in there long enough to memorize the actions of everything and everyone in town. He was in there long enough to experiment with some light hedonism and attempt suicide numerous times. He was in there long enough to make Rita legitimately fall in love with him in 24 hours, after which he was released from his time-and-spacey prison.
That’s what we saw in the movie. The writer, Harold Ramis, said that he thinks Phil was trapped in the day for 10,000 years.
But the movie was 101 minutes long. What the hell did he do that we didn’t see? Here’s a small sample:
Year 901: Phil wakes up at 8am sharp, takes the van and immediately drives to Pittsburgh at 100mph. He uses his credit card (ha!) to buy a plane ticket to Hawaii. He arrives in Hawaii and spends a few precious hours on the beach with a Filipino hooker. He wakes up back in Punxsutawney and immediately buries a pencil in his eye. He doesn’t die.
Year 1,005: Ned Ryerson approaches. “Phil? Phil CONNORS?” In broad daylight, in full view of dozens of witnesses, Phil beats him to within an inch of his goddamn blood-sucking weasel life.
Year 1,200: Phil decides to see how long his day can last. He drives to Pittsburgh again and buys a string of plane tickets that will take him around the world, ahead of the sun, over and over and over again. Every time a plane sets down, he gets on a new one. He does this until 8am, whereupon he promptly appears back in his bed. The Time Warp is not to be fucked with this way.
Year 2,507: Phil usually finances his various shenanigans by harmlessly stealing a bag of money from the oafish security officers. He has this down to a science and does it almost every day. Today, however, he wants to try something new. When the oafish officer bends over to pick up the spilled quarters, Phil slides behind him and yanks his gun from his holster. He shoots the oaf’s partner in the face and then wastes the silly bitch who wanted to buy quarters. He puts the gun to the oaf’s head. “On your knees, faggot.” Phil puts the gun in the simpering oaf’s ear and takes out his cock. “Suck it.” The oaf sucks. Phil finishes. He slides his dick out and wipes it on the oaf’s face. He pulls the trigger.
Year 3,000-3,356: Phil finds heroin. Phil does heroin. For 356 years.
Year 5,674: Phil takes Rita to that restaurant with the slutty German-looking waitresses. He speaks French to her, which she likes, and asks her if it gets her all slicked up down there, which she doesn’t like. She gets up to leave. Usually Phil just waits for the next day and tries it again, but not this time. He grabs her hand. “Sit down, you bitch,” he hisses. Rita looks into his eyes and sees the furious dementia of a man wearing 5,674 years, and the bitch sits down. They finish their meal in silence. Afterwards, Phil drags Rita into his car and brutally rapes her. “You’re fun,” he snarls after he spends inside of her, “but you’re not my kind of fun.”
Year 9,990: Steeped in unfathomable despair and madness, Phil discovers that with the right cocktail of horror, blood, rape, misery, heroin and Jeopardy marathons, he can extend the day for seemingly limitless amounts of time. It seems that just as the Powers that Be appreciate his jazz piano and good deeds, so do they appreciate Caligulaic orgies, severed limbs, shattered lives and Daily Doubles. Phil can run.
So Phil runs, leaving a trail of destruction in his path. He doesn’t eat. He pops truck stop amphetamines to stay awake. He murders and whores and decimates and he seems to be everywhere. He is the light. He is consciousness itself. He is the face of Baphomet and the dawning of the New World Order. He is John Wayne Gacy. He is Mike Tyson, Ray Rice and Martha Stewart. He is spread across eternity for eight of our petty human years, until one day he runs out of heroin and amphetamines and is stone cold sober and is Phil again and is again crushed by the weight of his Sisyphean torment. He is also on an airplane, though he has no recollection of how he got there or where he is. Bearded men holding box cutters mill around. Phil rubs his eyes. From behind him, a detached voice: “Let’s roll, Flight 93!” Phil watches as his fellow passengers rush and subdue the hijackers, who completely disappear under the mass of humanity, which is murmuring amongst itself “Well done, folks…we sure saved the flight…someone find the captain…here he is, he’s okay…we’re going home…this will be made into a movie for sure…this is a great day for the USA…”
Upon hearing the word “USA,” Phil remembers training he receives from somewhere, but he’s not sure when or where. Maybe his French teacher? Broadcasting school? Afghanistan, 1983? His instincts kick in and he grabs one of the discarded box cutters and bellows “WHOSE THROAT DO WE SLIT FIRST, GLADIATORS?” Met only by stony silence, he grabs the first man he finds and slits his throat from ear to ear. The Captain’s drowning gargles mingle with the wretched gasping of the others. Later, as the plane plummets towards the ground, Phil fills his last moments with masturbation and knock-knock jokes.
Year 9,991: Phil begins jazz piano lessons.