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Del taught me it’s okay for a man to cry at the movies |
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Written by NEIL GODBOUT
Citizen news editor
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Thursday, 10 April 2008 |
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He looked me square in the eye.
"You should write a column about that."
I couldn't look him in the eye back, momentarily blinded by his pink golf shirt, but I know his voice and when the publisher - my boss's boss - says to do something, well Mrs. Godbout didn't raise no fool for a son.
What did Mr. Laverdure want me to write about?
One moment, please - normally we call him Del in the office but I've already made fun of his clothes so for the interest of career survival, I'll stick to Mr. Laverdure for now.
With a straight face, Mr. Laverdure suggested I write a column about movies that make men cry. Secure in his masculinity, Mr. Laverdure fuelled a boisterous newsroom conversation one recent afternoon with the confession that he weeps watching certain movies.
One film, in particular, cuts him to pieces every time. Brian’s Song was a made-for-TV hit from 1971 starring James Caan and Billy Dee Williams, before they later became Sonny Corleone in The Godfather and Lando Calrissian in the Star Wars movies. Based on a true story, Brian’s Song chronicles the deep friendship between two members of the Chicago Bears -- one white, the other black. The white player, Brian Piccolo, dies of cancer in the end, after lots of male bonding.
Mr. Laverdure somehow managed to purchase Brian’s Song on DVD without bursting into tears at the checkout.
He insisted I watch it as research for this column. All I could think about while viewing it was James Caan’s Sonny character laying a vicious beating on his brother-in-law for giving his sister a black eye during an argument.
Mr. Laverdure's admission had every man in the newsroom throwing out the names of movies that had reduced him to a little boy again. Not surprisingly, sports editor Jim Swanson named Field of Dreams, For the Love of the Game, Pride of the Yankees and Friday Night Lights. Associate news editor Rodney Venis couldn't come up with anything older than the recent Cinderella Man, when everybody knows the real boxing movie to make you blub is Rocky.
Reporter Frank Peebles suggested My Left Foot, the Irish tearjerker about the boy born with cerebral palsy who goes on to write novels and paint beautiful works of art with the only limb on his body he can control.
Other voices chimed in and a pattern swiftly emerged. Movies about war, sports and dogs and/or based on a true story often force men to angrily wipe their running eyes and noses with their shirt.
For war movies, Saving Private Ryan, Schindler's List and Glory draw a lump in the throat. Sounder and Old Yeller make men howl. Hoosiers, The Champ and Forrest Gump (run, Forrest, run!) leave us with the sniffles.
The July edition of British GQ featured an article called The Crying Game: 50 Films That Make Men Blub. I bought the magazine to compare our list with the Brits', but I've been continuously distracted by the cover spread of the impossibly hot Angelina Jolie.
When Mrs. Pitt (fabulous upgrade, Brad!) released me from her seductive clutches, I discovered British men appear more worldly in the films that turn on their taps. Au Revoir Les Enfants and Cinema Paradiso made their list and you have to read those movies if you don't speak French or Italian. Spartacus, The Railway Children, Sleepless In Seattle, Casablanca and Love Actually were also named.
British men are allowed to cry in public, however, thanks to Paul Gascoigne's breakdown in the semi-final of the 1990 World Cup. Gazza was handed a red card, meaning even if England would come back to defeat Germany, he would be suspended from playing in the World Cup final, every English lad's dream. He walked across the field to the bench, his red face burned by the hot tears he couldn't wipe off with his jersey. The BBC seared the moment into the consciousness of the nation by playing Pavarotti singing Puccini's Nessun Dorma over top of the replay. A week later, the song was number one on the British pop charts and it stayed there for a month.
But I digress.
Mr. Laverdure says it's OK for grown men to cry, so I can feel safe in admitting that The Color Purple and The Killing Fields opened the flood gates, as did The Crucible, as performed on stage by the National Theatre in London. When the lights came up, there sat a 22-year-old Canadian in the fifth row, borrowing a handkerchief from the woman beside him, sobbing uncontrollably.
Mr. Laverdure was last seen wearing a golf outfit apparently borrowed from PGA fashion disaster Jesper Parnevik's closet. Earlier this summer, he took full credit for putting on the Barry Manilow Live CD at the staff barbecue.
When Mandy came on, it was all over for me.
-- Neil Godbout is the Citizen's news editor
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 10 April 2008 )
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