I could as easily say fictional men who warped my ideas about love, romance and relationships.
A few weeks ago, I talked Rob into watching the old Rex Harrison/ Gene Tierney movie, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir. It’s about a young post Victorian widow who falls in love with the ghost of a sea captain who died in the house she rents for herself and her young daughter. Tierney is a cipher. Blank and suitably malleable. But Harrison is a stitch. And a man.
Rob’s favorite line now is from the movie,
“I’ve lived a man’s life, and I am not ashamed to admit it.”
After the movie was over, he pressed me to explain why I would have loved such an odd film. It was a favorite long before I was widowed or even married for the first time. And it’s not really all that hopeful because in order for the characters to be together, the widow has to grow old – alone – and die – alone.
But it wasn’t her. It was him. Unabashedly male and yet in a charmingly rakish way that wasn’t overwhelming and still allowed the tender aspects to show.
Oh, and Yul Brynner!? How could I forget him? When the king and Anna dance, does it get more romantic than that? Or the scene where Ramses informs Nefertiti that she will be his just like his horse but,
“I will love you more and trust you less.”
It a far cry from Tom Hanks and John Cusack. Perhaps we can blame Oprah for that?