(published in the June 2011 issue of Billionaire Magazine)
There was this scene in the movie The English Patient that I guess sums it best - Ralph Fiennes' character Almasy recounting a previous expedition: "I once traveled with a guide who was taking me to Faya. He didn't speak for nine hours. At the end of it he pointed at the horizon and said, 'Faya!' That was a good day."
That for me is male friendship. Call me a dinosaur but for the life of me I cannot get the need of men today to spill their guts out to everyone. Men are supposed to be silent (particularly about themselves), have no emotions (or at least keep it buried), and rather have their actions do the talking. As John Wayne would put it: talk low, talk slow, and don't say too much. The Duke was actually giving advice on acting. He might as well be talking of male friendships.
That's as un-PC as you can get but screw that. Time was when conversation between men would have been a grunt and a squint. Men don't spend time together to get empathy or share feelings or exchange greeting cards. They get together to get things done, whether it be building a rocket ship or getting wasted. And if it's usually the latter, so be it.
"You're not too smart are you? I like that in a man."
Of course we men are stupid. That's genetic. We don't remember anniversaries, are bad at taking hints, terrible at giving gifts (take the Three Wise Men for example - do they give baby Jesus a cuddly bear or cute squeeky toy? No! Like any guy they were most likely at a gasoline stop convenience store buying beers when somebody suddenly remembers: "dude, we have to give baby Jesus a gift!" "We do?" "Like, totally!" "Word. Just pick up that ... uh, gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Whatever. Don't forget the beer."). And - despite countless rantings of women for men to force themselves to acquire this ability - are simply unable to muster the necessary brainpower to be psychic and predict what they want without them having to tell us. But coupled with that stupidity is a real man's sense of certainty, that certitude, of right and wrong, of who we are, what we do, and what we're supposed to do (whether what we're thinking or doing is smart is another thing altogether). These days that manly sureness is gone, replaced by a roomful of doubts due to some angst about missing parents or a bicycle that was stolen in childhood, or a high school sweetheart lost due to a letter never sent, or some other piece of crap.
"Come with me if you want to live." That line, popularized by Arnold Schwarzeneger in the Terminator movies, was actually first uttered by a human, Michael Biehn's character in the first Terminator movie. The line became one of the more famous pieces of movie dialogue for it's simplicity. And certitude. No doubts, no angst. Just a simple declaration. I miss those days when a character could say such lines with a straight face. Now, even James Bond (albeit played greatly by Daniel Craig) has issues, as seen in Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace (the latter for which he was seen seeking closure, sheeeesh!).
Who needs a man with issues? Nobody does. The last thing I need is a plumber who breaks down all of a sudden because the pipes he's trying to repair reminds him of ... I don't know, inadequacies? Men don't have issues, we just get drunk. Or start hitting things. Preferably soft walls or much weaker men. Rick didn't spill his guts out to Sam, he just sat there sullenly drinking his whiskey. And when he did lose it, for a moment, to whine about how "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world" Ilsa had to walk in on his, he stops himself and asks Sam to play a tune while he stares blankly out to nothingness.
Come to think of it, Rick was actually quite chatty. I prefer McQueen's Bullitt, a movie with no speeches for the lead character, no opening up, no apologies. He just drove his 1968 390 CID V8 Ford Mustang very fast and shot bad guys using his cool quick-draw shoulder holster. Also Lee Marvin in Dirty Dozen, silently and very relaxedly blowing up Nazi's. If he got any more relaxed he'd be asleep. Or remember Samuel L. Jackson's character in Snakes on a Plane. Yes, I know. It's stupid. But I did say men are stupid right, so who cares? And when Samuel L. Jackson's character stood up, sure of himself and his anger that the snakes must die, not for a moment does anybody think about the absurdity he is about to mouth: "I'm tired of all these m....f.... snakes in this m....f.... plane!" He shoots the plane window, the snakes get all sucked out into space, and all is again right with world.
Men don't go whining about their feelings. Well, at least not in public. Feelings are to be shared, privately, with wives. And even then, it's a constitutional right of men that women don't divulge such confidences to other women. At least, not within their hearing range.
"Nobody cries in baseball!"
So what's the point for men to have friends if they don't share feelings or confidences anyway? Frankly, I don't know. Although it's certainly more fun to do stuff if there are other people around. The problem is, "other people" would normally, can't be, women. A guy just wants to be left alone, in peace, while watching a boxer ripped apart in the ring. He doesn't want to hear the cluck clucking behind him about how sad it is for the widow and the kids the boxer will leave behind. A guy just wants to drink, munch on pork rinds, and shout: "hiiiit him againnnnn!!!! Keeeeel heeeeeeem!!!!" (preferably with a deep voice and not a screech).
I must say that having an audience while one does things would be good. And having somebody watch your back while you do things wouldn't hurt as well (hence the importance of wingmen). That's why in the olden days, men don't bring women to dinosaur hunts. They detract from the concentration and just suck the fun out of the hunt. With fellow cavemen, you won't have to bother on whether the other caveman is feeling thirsty or uncomfortable or if walking exposed to sunlight could damage the skin. There's nobody around bitching about the other cavewomen while watching for your reactions. And at least other cavemen won't go sullen when through your fault everybody becomes lost because of your refusal to ask directions.
That's why the famous friendships are always between men. Because they're so much more fun. Simple, stupid, yes, but without drama. Do you know of any famous female friendships? Aside from Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas (uh ... ahem!), nobody else comes to mind. Fine, Laverne and Shirley. And those women from Absolutely Fabulous. But that's it. Ok, fine, the Golden Girls. Thelma and Louise. Fried Green Tomatos. And those women who made that quilt. And the Joy Luck Club. And Little Women. But that's it ok? Anyway! Ok! Ok! There's also Charlie's Angels. Oh and there's (gnashing of teeth) those Sex and the City girls (we'll get back to them later).
On the other hand, famous male friendships are numerous: from Bert and Ernie to the Odd Couple. In between there's Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony, Don Quixote and that fat guy, Watson and Crick, Masters and Johnson, Smith and Wesson, Clinton and Gore. Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs. The (very brief but undeniably great) partnership of Fr. Merrin and Fr. Karras. Han Solo and Chewbacca. Plus those guys from the Streets of San Francisco. Lethal Weapon (1-4). The guys from The 40 Year Old Virgin and Wayne's World. Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. The Three Stooges. Laurel and Hardy. The Beatles. Michael and Scottie. Jaworski and Arnaiz. McGarret and Dano. Sam and Dean Winchester. And, of course, there's Ocean's Eleven.
Which brings us to the Rat Pack. Not that travesty the Brat Pack. The real thing. That epitome of macho cool and effortless swagger. Of Frank, Dino, Sam, Peter, and Joey. In short, of guys doing all those stupid things and getting away with it. From the original Ocean's Eleven, to those Vegas shows, to Robin and the Seven Hoods, the Rat Pack just sang, drank, flirted, gambled, smoked as if the Surgeon General was in their pay. (He probably was. The Rat Pack could justifiably be considered as one long commercial for Jack Daniel's and Camel cigarretes.) And their jokes weren't even that funny. Example - Frank (to Dean): Why do you drink so much? Dean: I drink to forget. Frank: What do you want to forget? Dean: I don't know, I forgot a long time ago. Classic. George Clooney and Brad Pitt? Pleeeeaaase!
And the jokes kept coming. Despite Frank getting suicidal over Ava, Dean wanting to sleep early to play golf the next day, Sammy getting booed due to his inter-racial marriage with May Britt, Peter being Peter, and Joey frustratedly reminding people that he is an actual member, the Rat Pack just kept "the gasoline" flowing, trying to keep "the rain" away. Which reminds me of a time I was drinking with a friend. His girlfriend left him recently. We hear the news and say: "That sucks. Sige, next round on us."
That's it. No two hour sharing of feelings. No sharing by which we could "somehow, er, cathartically dispel all that heinous shit." By the way, that's a line from the movie Heat (another great guy buddy movie. And if you can't tell which is the central friendship in that movie, you're a woman).
Which brings me to the unpleasant topic of "bromances". I mean, what the hell is that? Wiki defines it as "a close but non-sexual relationship between two (or more) men, a form of homosocial intimacy." See? It contains the word "homo"! Ok, homo is not a word but you get the point. Homer Simpson would. There is no such thing as a bromance. It's either the relationship is gay or not gay. If you start sharing feelings or listen to Kenny G. with another guy (or, as Paul Rudd said, listen to Coldplay), you're gay. I don't care what Oprah says, men don't show feelings in public, don't exchange intimacies or emotional issues with other guys, or - what the heck - don't use facial cleansers (specially in public washrooms). Actually, if you care about what Oprah says, you're gay. Period.
Not that there's anything wrong with that (as Seinfeld would say).
Anyway. Where was I?
"Lost without my Boswell."
As usual, the shrinks have the last say. Rannveig Traustadottir, professor of social science at the University of Iceland, writes:
"Although the majority of men may not have close friends they do not conduct their lives in isolation. Block (1980) found that most of the men in his study had a variety of same-sex relationships. These include what Block calls 'activity friends,' such as a weekly tennis partner or drinking buddies; 'convenience friends' where the relationship is based on the exchange of favors; and 'mentor friends' typically between a younger and an older man.
While women's friendships are usually defined as self-revealing, accepting, and intimate, men usually shy away from intimacy and closeness. Authors identify at least three barriers to close friendships among men: competition between men, traditional masculine stereotypes about 'real men,' and fear of homosexuality (Fasteau, 1991; McGill, 1985; Miller, 1983).
In a discussion of gender differences in friendship, Sherrod (1989), points out that although men rate their friendship as less intimate than do women, at least in terms of self-disclosure and emotional expressiveness, men's friendships nevertheless serve to buffer stress and reduce depression in the same way that women's friendships do. Sherrod also reports that when men do achieve a high level of intimacy with other men, they usually follow a different path than women, one that emphasizes activities and companionship over self-disclosure and emotional expressiveness."
All the foregoing probably explains why men hate Sex and the City. Feminists brush it off by merely citing sexism. Sexism has nothing to do with it. What rubs off men the wrong way with it is this: although men like doing stupid things together, at least they're doing things. And we happily admit what we did was stupid. Sex and City women don't do anything except whine, bitch, and prattle about themselves. And, what's worse, is that they're proud of it. I don't know of any guy who hates Police Woman (Angie Dickenson version), Princess Lea, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Because these women do something! Police Woman catches bad guys (after swinging her lush hair and shouting "freeze!"), Princess Lea battles the evil empire, while Buffy slays vampires. Sex and the City women? As Robert De Niro's Al Capone in The Untouchables (another great buddy movie, the mentor-mentee relationship between Connery and Costner is really one of the all time greats) would say: "They ain't got nothing!"
Which leads us to that quintessential example of male friendship: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.
Anybody who connotes anything homosexual between the two misses the point. Beyond the fact that Conan Doyle's 1880's England sees nothing wrong with two single men sharing a flat, the bond and trust built between the two is grounded on the fact that both are familiar with, have dealt and must necessarily face violence. This may be hard to understand for today's metrosexual guy whose only exposure to combat is when he hits the gym or pounds the treadmill (or, even more childish: paintball or ultimate fighting). Holmes and Watson (as envisioned by Conan Doyle) have been tested repeatedly in real life crisis (like their creator) and developed a certainty (that word again) regarding their masculinity. They, like all real men of the past, can afford to have, be comfortable with, deep friendships because they already know who they are, without self-doubts clouding their judgment or their relationships.
Holmes and Watson, furthermore, complemented each other. Not to emotionally grow or "be all that they can be" nonsense. Holmes stayed the same curmudgeonly, arrogant, drug addicted, calculating machine from the moment we see him to the moment he retired to his Sussex bee farm. No. The friendship was valuable for how they were able to get things done. In their case, solving crime. They didn't compete against each other, they fought alongside each other. One trusting the other's abilities, courage, and reliability. Holmes was the intellect, the detached observer, and instigator. Watson the steady nerves, the expert marksman, the approachable ladies' man, as well as faithful chronicler. The important thing was to get the job done. Holmes and Watson may be fictional but all the great men friendships, fictional or real, are the same on this simple fact: The friend for a man is the one who could help him get to Faya as agreed.
They say that society imposes certain rules and demands. Obviously, the impositions on men and women are different. Male friendships, while certainly different from the friendships formed by women are still friendships and none the lesser. For all their simplicity and apparent absurdities, bottomline is that men would be lost without their Boswells. And we can all drink to that.
