I have this boxed set of westerns sitting on a shelf; shrinkwrapped, it grins at me every time I walk past, daring me to open it, to sit down with the first movie and enjoy. For far too long, I have been averting my eyes, making excuses to myself, the TV, the DVDs themselves.
I’m too busy. I’m going to watch something else first. I’m not ready. I want to be able to savor you.
For the most part, though, my excuses are just that. I’m afraid to admit the real reason I don’t tear into that delectable bit of entertainment — that beautiful Sergio Leone Anthology consisting of A Fistful Of Dollars; For A Few Dollars More; The Good, The Bad And The Ugly, and Duck, You Sucker — is that I’m afraid it will unman me.
There. I’ve said it.
Clint Eastwood is the last of a dying breed. One of the few from old Hollywood that still plies his craft deftly without relying on tricks and gimmicks and technological wizardry. This recent article from the New Yorker (so recent that it is dated six days in the future) underlines his skill and undeniable coolness.
Maybe what I need to do is to sit down with those movies and try to absorb some of that manliness through the cathode rays. A sort of contact high, if you will.
In any case, I’m going to have to resign myself to the fact that I will never be as manly as Clint Eastwood. By doing so, at least I’ll be able to enjoy those movies I’ve been avoiding.
T. Keith Edmunds
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