Picturesque XIII
I stare up at the movie screen, unable to keep my eyes off the last few minutes of “Gladiator,” unable to keep from weeping. As I have realized, I’m a shtinker when it comes to character plights, and “Gladiator” fits the bill.
But that is not what touched me. Over my own muffled sniffles I hear my father shuddering and gasping sadly. My own father, crying, from a movie? In a small gesture I outstretch my left hand. He grips it, and for the last few minutes of “Gladiator” we sit, in the dark, sniveling and gasping for breath, in a small, short burst of paternal affection.
