Midnight Cowboy
It’s been more than three years since I lost the person I loved. As she lay on the cot beside me she turned her eyes toward me and asked, “Is it tonight we’re supposed the go out to dinner with Judith and Don?” I fought hard to reply, “No, sweetheart. Not tonight.” “Good. I’m just so tired.” And she closed her eyes to sleep. Half an hour later she slowly opened her eyes and gazed at some place beyond me. The recognition had left her eyes. She let go her last breath. Her fingers relaxed.
I do believe it true that when one loses the person they love, they lose the better part of themselves. They lose the only part worth living. For a good two years afterward so many things struck me as deeply sad. Any reference to the loss of a loved one, even the memory of such a loss, would leave me crumpled and in tears.
I’ve gotten better since then. Some things still strike me as quite sad, but I’m less inclined to shed tears. Much of my optimistic stoicism has reasserted itself, and I regard life in general as a sort of silly absurdity made more dangerous when human beings insist upon the seriousness of their own views.
So the other night I was watching Midnight Cowboy on DVD. The film appeals to me for so many different reasons. The story is an achingly poignant one, a sort of variation on the theme Of Mice and Men. Hoffman’s realization of Ricco’s character is an astonishing thing to watch. All the little verities. How he lifts his bum leg onto the chair when he climbs on it to pull the ragged window shade, a pathetic gesture in order to help his friend to sleep. The way he casually picks at the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger after pricking it with the point of a can opener. Truly masterful touches. And the remarkable scene before the window of the jewelry store, just as Buck begins to doff his hat in preparation for a naïve attempt to proposition a woman who has stopped to casually gaze at a brooch on display in the window. Buck’s gaze instinctively also turns toward the brooch in the window. The woman moves on. Buck glances up to see her go. Simultaneously an arm removes the brooch from the display. Buck glances back at a now empty window. The woman is gone, and the jewelry is gone. All in a silent moment. In that simple scene, those few seconds speak a volume about how our expectations can come to naught so quickly, before we can do anything, and leave us a little dazed and confused.
But it was the end that got to me in a particularly powerful way. I knew it was coming. I’d watched it on my own the night before, and I was a little surprised by the strength of my feelings. I’ve seen the movie before, and anyone with a heart cannot but be moved by the bitter sadness of the ending. But this time I was watching it with an acquaintance, and I didn’t care to parade my private hurt in front of this person.
I do believe it true that when one loses the person they love, they lose the better part of themselves. They lose the only part worth living. For a good two years afterward so many things struck me as deeply sad. Any reference to the loss of a loved one, even the memory of such a loss, would leave me crumpled and in tears.
I’ve gotten better since then. Some things still strike me as quite sad, but I’m less inclined to shed tears. Much of my optimistic stoicism has reasserted itself, and I regard life in general as a sort of silly absurdity made more dangerous when human beings insist upon the seriousness of their own views.
So the other night I was watching Midnight Cowboy on DVD. The film appeals to me for so many different reasons. The story is an achingly poignant one, a sort of variation on the theme Of Mice and Men. Hoffman’s realization of Ricco’s character is an astonishing thing to watch. All the little verities. How he lifts his bum leg onto the chair when he climbs on it to pull the ragged window shade, a pathetic gesture in order to help his friend to sleep. The way he casually picks at the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger after pricking it with the point of a can opener. Truly masterful touches. And the remarkable scene before the window of the jewelry store, just as Buck begins to doff his hat in preparation for a naïve attempt to proposition a woman who has stopped to casually gaze at a brooch on display in the window. Buck’s gaze instinctively also turns toward the brooch in the window. The woman moves on. Buck glances up to see her go. Simultaneously an arm removes the brooch from the display. Buck glances back at a now empty window. The woman is gone, and the jewelry is gone. All in a silent moment. In that simple scene, those few seconds speak a volume about how our expectations can come to naught so quickly, before we can do anything, and leave us a little dazed and confused.
But it was the end that got to me in a particularly powerful way. I knew it was coming. I’d watched it on my own the night before, and I was a little surprised by the strength of my feelings. I’ve seen the movie before, and anyone with a heart cannot but be moved by the bitter sadness of the ending. But this time I was watching it with an acquaintance, and I didn’t care to parade my private hurt in front of this person.
When Buck reached out and closed his friend’s eyes it immediately reminded me of the moment I’d placed my hand over my wife’s eyes and closed them for the last time. It bought my heart into my throat and my eyes began to water. There is an awful finality in that moment.
posted by Le Boulevardier | 7:33 PM
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