4 - Friday, January 9, 1987 - North Shore News

Bob Hunter

@ strictly personal @

WE WERE watching Clan
of The Cave Bear on video.

Maybe you know the story,
based on the famous novel by
Jeanne M. Auei, about a woman
living in the time when Cro-
Magnon and Neanderthal Man
were the dominanyhuman types.

If you think’ it’s bad now,
sisters ... Whew!

The heroine loses her mother
during an earthquake, is alo:
eaten by a mountain lion, and fi-
nally adopted — reluctantly —
by the Cave Bear Clan, even
though they know she‘is one of
the “‘Others.”’

It is a fabulouffdramatic tale.
Raised by a medi¢ine woman, the
girl becomes the first of her sex

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to dare to pick up a weapon and
learn to use it. In this case, a sl-
ing.

She is, of course, punished.
Even to touch a man’s sacred
weapon is to risk death. But she
survives and goes on to defy the
authority of an ultra-chauvinistic
new clan leader.

The movie ends with her
heading off to seek her own
destiny, and us shouting: ‘‘Go
for it! Right on! Smash the
state!"’

Compressed like this, it sounds
schmaltzy. Yet it was well-acted
and directed and, most important
of all, convincing.

At the end, my wife and I had
tears flowing down our cheeks.

That’s when our kid flicked on

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tersection of Mountain
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available are a selection of
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framed and unframed.
Prints can be ordered by
selection from catalogues
as well.

Qwner and operator, Jim
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of the frame best suited to
your picture. Picture This is
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evening to 9 p.m.

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the lights and yelled: ‘*Ha! Got-
cha! You’re crying! You're both
crying! Ha, ha on Mom and
Dad, you're crying, you're cry-
ing!

After he'd got over his delight
at catching us doing such a silly
thing, he asked: *“‘Why do you
watch a movie if it’s gonna make
you sad?”

A damn good question, kid.
Glad you asked.

The truth is, I’m one of those
guys who can hardly get through
the first three pages of the morn-
ing tab without sniffling at least
once about the sadness of life.

You know the kind of stories:
Quadraplegic Aunt Seeks Blind
Nephew in Wake of Mexican
Earthquake. Tot’s Puppy Mauled
on Christmas Eve by Drunken
Tax Collector. Midget High-
Jumper Dies from Hernia.

Of course, I might just be snif-
fling about the sadness of soap
opera journalism.

But if I avoided everything
that’s liable to make me feel sad,
I'd have to stay in bed with the
pillow over my head. And after a
while, even that would get my
sensitive little psyche all wrought
up about the unutterable poi-
gnancy of such a situation.

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I have basically always been a
cry-baby.

This is not to say, by the way,
that I'm not as tough as Sylvester
Stallone, at least — you know,
the real Sly, the one who was
afraid to go to Cannes for fear of
terrorists.

I remember once having a
shouting argument with a former
football player. This guy towered
over me. He was built like The
Hulk.

He was ticked off about my
lack of eagerness to acknowledge
his physical superiority, when it
was so obvious.

“I could eat you alive!’’ he
screamed, ripping open his shirt
to reveal his massively-pectorall-
ed chest.

“Oh yeh?’’ I shouted back,
ripping open my own shirt —
revealing the rib-cage of a starv-
ing man with a cute little beer
belly wobbling below.

In triumph, I shouted:
‘*There’s nothing to eat!"’

I had him. He backed off im-
mediately. So, you see, my mid-
dle name is macho,

Yet I get slobbery-eyed at the
drop of a cornball ending.
Heck, I snurfled at the end of
Pinocchio!

Movies like 2010 and The Mis-
sion and Salvador and Karate
Kid I, believe it or not, can
catch my little heartstrings and
get me all lumpy-throazed, vir-
tually on cue.

It's embarrassing, for sure. Ill
be sitting in a hotel restaurant,
having breakfast, and Ill read
about an Eskimo kid who is sav-
ed because a housewife in Ed-
monton donated her kidney, and
there it goes! Blubbering away
behind a newspaper held up close
to my face over my eggs.

Fortunately, | think it’s okay
for men to snivel and whimper
and honk in their handkerchiefs
at weddings. Even to dab at their
eyes during newscasts when
mutilated children are shown be-
ing brought back from the Ira-
nian front.

I don’t trust a guy who doesn’t
shed a tear now and then. What
is he, some kind of insensitive
jerk? Gawd, if you're gonna live
in the 20th century, you gotta be
prepared to weep a little.

So I sez to the kid: ‘You want
to know why Mommy and Daddy
are crying? It’s therapy. We're
having fun.”

The kid, shaking his head:
“Weird.”

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