This article originally appeared in the April issue of the Cranbury Chronicle.
I used to cry. The tears would come fast and ugly. Recently, I was reminded of those bursting sobs while listening to a podcast on the early films of Steven Spielberg. Specifically, Lin Manuel Miranda was recalling an emotionally powerful scene in the film Hook. Peter Pan, having left Neverland years ago, has done the very thing he vowed never to do, grow up. Even worse, he’s a corporate lawyer – a pirate. But, when Captain Hook kidnaps his children, he’s whisked back to Neverland by Tinkerbell and charged with rescue.
Twelve in December of ’91, I remember seeing Hook twice in theatres. My brother and I wrote to Santa, asking for Hook-themed toys; we were all in. Though, I had forgotten much of the film when I revisited it in college. I was probably 20 now, purchased the DVD upon release, and watched it alone in my dorm one spring afternoon.
There’s this scene, the one Miranda recalls on the podcast, where the Lost Boys torment the out-of-shape Peter. He’s lost, internally. He no longer knows himself, and subsequently the Lost Boys do not believe he’s their once fearless leader. At the apex of their torment, one Lost Boy approaches Peter. John Williams’ “You Are the Pan” begins to play. First the flute, then drums and violin.
Sun breaks through the trees and the boy reaches for the slouched and defeated Peter. Williams’ flute plays curiosity as the boy touches Peter’s face, moving his hands, smooshing Peter’s cheeks this way and that until he finds the face he knows and loves. The flute sings, violins and trumpets burst with triumph. The boy speaks with joy and a knowing surprise, “Oh, there you are, Peter!” As the music swells, hordes of Lost Boys run to see the man who was the boy they once loved. And I sobbed.
Searching, that Lost Boy longed for something good, something emotionally warm and safe, something kind and familiar, and he finds it. He finds his friend. Yeah, I sobbed, and I sobbed again not long after. Still in college, but now in the living room of a house I was renting with a few friends. I was thankful no one was home.
Coincidently, it was another Robin Williams film. Also from 1991, three months prior to the release of Hook. This time, Terry Gilliam directs. The film, The Fisher King.
Williams is Parry, who is tormented by unspeakable tragedy, experiencing pain over and over again in the form of a red knight whose black horse breathes fire. Jeff Bridges is Jack Lucas, a washed-up radio personality modeled after Howard Stern, also tormented by the very same tragedy; yet Jack feels responsible for Parry’s pain. Eager to free himself of the guilt he feels, Jack tries to literally pay the debt; first, with $50, then $70. Parry is disinterested. Desperate, Jack counts the coins in his pocket. But Parry wants more from Jack. He wants Jack to accept a quest.
In the midst of their bartering on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, Parry’s open wound festers and he sees the red knight. Though, this time Parry is not paralyzed with fear; he’s not suffocating from grief. For, the red knight fears Jack. Parry becomes elated, emboldened by Jack’s presence. He is without fear and chases the red knight across Madison Avenue and into Central Park. Mid-chase, a cab hits Parry. He flies over the hood of the cab and continues to chase the red knight, infused with the power of friendship. For Parry is no longer alone on his quest. The burden is no longer just his to carry; he now has Jack, he now has a friend, and the adrenaline rush of friendship, of no longer being alone, carries Parry through the park chasing his demon, who is now, for the first time, on the run. And I cried. It was another ugly cry. At least, this time it was brief.
John Williams’ score wasn’t there to prepare me for the onslaught of tears. They just came flooding out. There was something about the freedom and joy in Parry, like a switch, going from torment to hope, from decompensation and pain without end to revitalization and a renewed charge to conquer his tormentor.
Hope, whether offered by a Lost Boy or an alcoholic narcissistic-leaning radio personality, can be so powerful it teeters on dangerous.
It seems like most brilliant films come together by accident, and Brad Bird’s first feature, 1999’s The Iron Giant, is one of them.
Traditional animation, a compelling story, Vin Diesel voicing the title character, and a figurine that came with the egg shell VHS, was more than enough to pique my interest in ’99. As with Hook and The Fisher King, I also watched this one alone. So, no one witnessed the sudden ugly cry of a 20-year-old transported to his childhood and reliving those first experiences of loss that greet us all at a young age.
Maybe it’s the loss of a pet or a grandparent, both of which often serve as a first best friend. Sometimes the loss does not come as it should, with age and time, but it’s sudden and without explanation or an easy avenue for reconciliation. Sometimes the loss is simply the absence of that which should be provided by design – the love of a parent.
Regardless of how it comes, we all suffer loss, and our first bout with it leaves a mark. Sometimes the full pain of that mark is not felt until much later. For this poor sap, it came in bouts when a young man, watching films in his college dorm, and on a second-hand sofa.
