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.

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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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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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