My Criminal Father Surrogate: Masculinity in A Perfect World

 

   I've been wanting to tackle the subject of "masculinity" in film for quite some time now, but I hadn't quite known how best to do that. There's a certain buzzword, "toxic masculinity," that especially elicits a lot of strong feelings from a lot of different angles. While a post-#MeToo world has exposed some very disturbing truths about the way masculinity has historically performed, I'm not here to roast 50% of the world population. Actually, I really want to talk about a man's capacity for good.

Ted Lasso (2020)

    There’s certainly a lot of discussion to be had for newer media celebrating men for possessing attributes not historically coded as "manly." But what's even more fascinating to me are the attempts to bridge the gap between traditional masculinity and new age expectations--to reframe an older vision of manhood in a way that feels true to what we know about how it functions today. Take Clint Eastwood’s 1993 film, A Perfect World.

         The film follows Butch Haynes (Kevin Costner), a convict who breaks out of prison. To cover his tracks, Butch takes five-year-old Philip Perry (TJ Lowther) as a hostage. Law enforcement is quick to jump on his trail, with stonewall Chief Red Garret (Clint Eastwood) leading the search.

         Though Philip is his hostage, Butch quickly grows protective of the kid. Meanwhile Philip, who grew up in a house without a father, starts to admire this man who says he has a God-given right to go trick or treating, a privilege his overprotective mother would never afford him. Despite the circumstances--which include a statewide manhunt--a friendship grows. Though none of the characters ever say it out loud, Butch becomes something much like a father to Philip.

    The film isn't one of Eastwood's more famous films, but those who have seen it often regard it as one of his best. Janet Maslin of The New York Times reviewed the film, saying, " ... the world in which 'A Perfect World' unfolds is a place of sad, ineradicable scars that shape their characters' destinies ... A plot like this has many opportunities to turn maudlin, but 'A Perfect World' remains remarkably free of sentimentality. Instead, it is sustained by small, revealing surprises that carry Butch and Phillip ever closer to the film's stunning climax. This story builds up to an event that crystallizes all of its regrets about the mistakes that are passed from father to son, and about the kind of machismo that operates on cue."

    Liam Gaughan wrote for Collider:

“Eastwood is known for his hypermasculine characters, but A Perfect World is perhaps his best film about masculinity, as its trio of traumatized men are all punished for showing sensitivity. Eastwood’s films are frequently under fire for their political baggage, but A Perfect World doesn’t lionize its characters or offer an easy solution. It presents a slice of reality, and the flawed characters forced to inhabit it.”

    Butch becoming this parental figure to an impressionable boy like Philip is at odds with not only his criminal history, but also the traditional dimension of masculinity as a whole. Men are not conditioned to be good nurturers, and Butch represents a very concentrated type of masculinity. And yet Butch performs the function of father figure very well. You start to wonder if maybe "becoming" a father might be just the thing that this apex predator needed to unlock a truer version of himself.

The Mandalorian (2019)

    This observation coincides with a widespread cultural reevaluation of manhood, resulting in this modern renaissance of onscreen depictions of men--even "dangerous men,"--whose heroic deeds often entail them acting in the capacity of a father to a child surrogate. A Perfect World predates this modern obsession by some thirty years, but it feels oddly prophetic in how it foresaw the 21st century fascination with men self-actualizing by effectively becoming dads. And this brings us to the question of both the truthfulness and usefulness of this model.

In a 2016 issue of APA Divisions, Professor John A Minahan wrote on the subject of toxic masculinity and fatherhood:

    “Power can destroy relationships; transformed by care, it can also create, nurture, guide and protect relationships. And there is no better way for a man to learn how to effect that transformation than by becoming and remaining a father.”

As Gaughan noted in his piece, the film gives no easy answers. It just reminds us that this lock and key--manhood and fatherhood--fit together perfectly in some way. And, in "A Perfect World" we would know how.

How Does the World See Men?

         New studies reaffirm every few years something we’ve known for a long time. Men are more likely than women to commit violent crime, and they have also historically underperformed in the domestic sphere. And when men abandon their families, it presents a whole array of issues given that absent fatherhood predicts a number of potential problems for the children left behind.

      And this is where media depictions come into the picture. Without getting too deep into the weeds, studies have also shown that media shapes beliefs if not always behaviors. If the media constantly shows men as creatures of violence and bad fathers, then the masses are more likely to take it for granted that men are creatures of violence and bad fathers which in turn encourages men to become creatures of violence and bad fathers.

         Discussing how film has represented half of the entire world’s population is no easy task, especially since men account for roughly 70% of film roles in general. But one specific iteration of masculinity feels especially pertinent to this study: the manliest of them all, the bad boy.

         The bad boy appears in varying manifestations, and there are all sorts of subtypings, but let’s take stock of his most recognizable attributes: Ruggish. Defiant. Rejects society’s moral code in favor of his own. Casually suppressing violent tendencies. Either he has a history of criminal activity or he’s on the fast track to life behind bars. Most essentially, the bad boy is charismatic. The bad boy represents a picture of masculinity that is desirable and aspirational. You either want to have him or you want to be him.

         He appears across genres and time periods, but you can find him most often under the adoring gaze of the leading heroine. The bad boy represents a sort of danger for the girl who falls for him because he is often violent. But rather than deterring his love interests, this feature only turns him into more of a prize for the girl who can tame him.

    Stories featuring the bad boy often pair him with a girl pure of heart who redeems the bad boy of his toxicity. Such stories center around the fantasy of redeeming the bad boy through unconditional love. (I’ve seen some refer to this as the “Beauty and the Beast trope.” Knowing how that association has misrepresented the fairy-tale, I’m not going to perpetuate the cycle, but you know what it’s referring to.) It's a familiar story, but one that's accumulated a lot of baggage. Redemption for real-life bad boys is seldom to never as simple as being loved by the right woman, and individuals who fall for this myth leave themselves vulnerable.

In a Lonely Place (1950)

    These days we’ve come to the (correct) conclusion that it isn’t fair to ask girls to subject themselves to the bad boy’s dangerous tendencies or take it on themselves to repair what he must fix on his own time. If a man is harboring violent tendencies, he’s not suddenly going to drop them all just because he’s been tamed by a good-hearted woman.

Romances about dangerous men will probably never disappear entirely, but they exist today in a very thin window. Modern depictions usually either tone down his toxic behavior, or they’re more honest about his unsuitability as a romantic partner. We’ve come to the decision that romance can’t really redeem the bad boy.

   But romance with a St. Mary isn't the only relationship in which a man can enter into. If romance cannot heal the bad boy's vengeful heart, could fatherhood?

Again, people became really interested in this question fairly recently, but the image of a stone-hearted man with a darkened past finding redemption through fatherhood has actually been around for a while. Les Miserables has former criminal Jean Valjean being cleansed for his sins by becoming a father to the orphaned Cosette. He doesn't do this hoping Cosette will somehow fix him. He just does what he feels he must, rising to the occasion, and he becomes "a man who only learned to love when you were in his keeping."

    Even traditionally masculine spaces like the wild, wild west asked these questions. John Ford's 1949 western, 3 Godfathers, follows three outlaws who make a deathbed promise to a woman to take care of her newborn child. The film floats on an irony underpinning the image of John Wayne having to carry a baby across the desert, but the film is sincere in its presentation. Becoming caregivers to this child turns these criminals into heroes, two of whom will ultimately give their life to see this kid to safety. 

    This archetype is powerful because it presents an alternate vision of what masculinity could be, offering hope both for men looking to break out of the space society has carved for them and for everyone else who has to put up with them.

Full House (1987)

        This model saw a resurgence in the late 80s and early 90s. This was a time when third-wave feminism was causing society to rethink gender roles, including masculinity. The trope of domesticating men by saddling them with a child saw a comeback in popular media, but it manifested most frequently in comedic form, including the 1987 film, Three Men and a Baby, a sort of loose remake of 3 Godfathers. This era saw a lot of films and tv shows lampooning the absurdity of the male ego by showing how quickly it unraveled under the strain of domestic living.

    Such stories generally had an optimistic ending with the macho man (or men) transforming into a good father, but again this situation was mostly played for laughs. So fragile is the male ego that any introspection has to be padded with slapstick and irony. A Perfect World is the rare film to earnestly probe the overlap between manhood and fatherhood.

         Is Butch a Good Father?

     Butch shares a lot with the standard bad boy figure. He’s defiant, assertive, and isn’t contained by the laws of the land, but we see early on that there is a little more to him than all that.

    Butch and Philip's first interaction has Butch effectively rescuing Philip from his slimy escape partner, Terry, after he smacks the boy on the ground. In a sort of calming ritual, Butch invites Philip to grab the gun while he pretends to be at his mercy. Turning the situation into a sort of game helps calm Philip and signals the beginning of Butch’s parenting. This is also the first time the audience gets the idea that this guy we just saw bust out of prison might have more going on than just blanket man-anger. You watch Butch help soothe this kid and think, "Well, here's a guy who took 'Child Development' sophomore year." We maybe haven't let down our guard quite yet, but it's an unexpected turn, nonetheless.

Butch's character loaded with a lot of heavy baggage, but the movie makes it easier to warm up to him by shifting a lot of the responsibility from Butch onto Terry, the guy who appears aroused by the mere thought of violence. Butch and Terry are onscreen all of ninety seconds before Butch tells him (and us), "Let's get something straight--I don't like you!" distancing himself from "the bad one" right from the start. It was, after all, Terry who broke into Philip's house and created a stir that attracted the neighbors. We might not trust Butch if he took Philip selfishly, but after Terry’s disturbance necessitates the kidnapping, Butch is free to reap the benefits of becoming Philip’s salvific father figure. (This contrast will make Butch all the more noble when he eventually kills Terry—in defense of the kid no less—after he has served his narrative purpose.)

    The film also has a distinct narrative momentum worth remarking upon. Butch doesn't really have a specific endgame in mind for most of the film beyond just not getting caught, and there's no clear benchmark Butch needs to clear in order to achieve this. Nor is Philip actively working to escape from Butch. Midway, they imagine running off to Alaska, but running off to play with the polar bears isn't really the engine of the narrative. So ... our protagonists are without any real goal or motivation. This ought to be a problem because a film with no forward drive can easily wind up feeling pretty aimless and boring, but the film does feature a goalpost, it's just not embedded in the Butch-Philip storyline. The law enforcement team is the ones with the assignment: track down this criminal and toss him back behind bars.

Because Butch and Philip are more or less just dancing around Texas without any specific agenda, their interactions are carried not by any real plot imperatives, but by the characters themselves and the bond they are building. As Maslin points out, their relationship isn't hyper-sentimentalized. It's a slow-burn connection based on small interactions, like them provoking the other cars to honk at them while they pass. And again, because the audience's perspective is tethered more to the authorities, the guys who are out to put this dude in prison, we are allowed to be pleasantly surprised as this bond grows and the situation betrays the expectations set upon it. We really start to root for this relationship.

Butch’s parenting style appears to mostly be spoiling the kid. We see Butch help Phillip break out of his shell and experience a life that his overprotective mother denied him. Butch lets Philip steer the car and even hold a gun. (Philip thinks the gun is loaded, but we later learn that Butch wouldn’t be so irresponsible.) And look! he’s even good at fostering a healthy sense of imagination in Philip by telling him their car is a time machine.

    A tender ground for both parenthood and manhood is that of disciplining children, but Butch seems to have a good handle on that as well. There’s one episode where Philip accidentally puts their car in neutral and it starts to roll down the hill, and when Philip is driving the car straight toward him, Butch doesn’t panic or berate. He just stands straight on tells Philip to put on the brakes. How many parents wish they could stare down the stampede of parenthood with such composure?

There’s even a chapter where Butch is trying to have sex with a barmaid, and Philip ultimately ruins this for Butch. This would be a natural episode for your standard “bad boy” to lash out at Philip in anger, but again, Butch is graciously understanding with the kid.

Perhaps most significantly, Butch shows a sort of deference to Phillip that he certainly isn’t used to under the smothering hold of his mother. This is perhaps most evident after Butch robs the convenience store when Butch pulls the car up to Phillip but does not make him come. “Up to you,” he invites. Butch talks to Philip like he’s an adult, all the while never being crass nor crude. And this is the ultimate gift Butch gives Philip. It’s not just that Butch shows Philip how to be a man, he treats Philip like a man.

    The easiest explanation for their connection is that Butch sees himself in the kid. As Butch explains to Philip, “Me and you got a lot in common, Phillip. The both of us is handsome devils, we both like RC cola, and neither one of us got an old man worth a damn.” It’s that last piece especially that binds Butch to the kid. Butch’s relationship with his own father was strained, and the film links his own unruliness to the hole left by his father’s treatment. (We’re told that Butch’s father was in and out of his life growing up, but there's a suggestion of abuse as well.) By raising this kid right, Butch seems to think he can fill in his own void.

It's also really easy to see why Philip would attach himself to Butch. We see right from the start that Philip has been raised in a house without a father, or really any kind of male presence. So when this rogue rapscallion bursts into his life, Philip is intrigued. He wants to know what manhood is all about, and Butch is only too happy to show him.

   One would think that being raised by a criminal might be somehow corrupt the kid, but that never seems to come up for him. All throughout their criminal splurges, Philip never abandons his manners once. He’ll take a roller coaster ride on the top of the car, please, but Philip doesn’t really rebel or start participating in despicable behavior when he’s with Butch. (Well, he does steal a Casper costume, and after Halloween has already passed, so I guess that's on his permanent record now ...)

What's even more striking is that Butch's rise to fatherhood doesn't sap him of his manhood. He doesn't have to become less "manly" in order to emotionally support this kid. In a lot of ways, Butch is presented as this unicorn who somehow carries everything we admire about masculinity (strength, confidence, liberation) without embodying any of its toxicity.

But the film doesn’t let the audience, or Philip, get too comfortable. Butch’s potential for violence is never too far away. Costner himself described the character, saying, "As written, this character is likable in many ways. Very likable, very charming. But if you take his cookie, he might kill you for it." At one point, Butch steals a car from a family on a picnic. After driving away with their newly acquired automobile, Butch casually remarks how the husband did the right thing by handing it over: “Imagine if he’d put up a fight. I’d have to shoot him, then that family would be without a father.” Philip is not amused by the comment, but he says nothing. No doubt, Philip will remember Butch’s little admission later on when really has to decide whether his new friend is a good or a bad guy.

         Mr. Eastwood

    I also want to contextualize this film within the film library of its director, Mr. Clint Eastwood, for whom the topic of masculinity has special relevance.

Eastwood’s particular forte, at least during the first half of his career, was the world of westerns, a genre that harbors a traditional vision of masculinity (and I'm saying harbors instead of something like celebrates very deliberately). His resume includes films like The Outlaw Josey Wales and Pale Rider. While not a literal western, A Perfect World borrows heavily from this field with most of the principal characters correlating directly to archetypes of the genre. You’ve got the outlaw, the sheriff, the wide-open plains of the countryside, the gang’s all here. (Eastwood also directed A Perfect World fresh off his 1992 western, Unforgiven.)

    Eastwood’s films live in this weird twilight zone that is at once hypermasculine and also sensitive. This is perhaps best embodied by Dirty Harry. This film, and its subsequent sequels, follow police inspector Harry Callahan, a tough-as-nails officer charged with tracking down a psychotic serial killer. Callahan is ruthless but also highly motivated by doing the right thing. He’ll do anything to stop the bad guy, even work outside official police protocol. He's "bad" without being bad. Eastwood didn't direct this movie himself, but it is arguably his most famous contribution to film, and it informs the way masculinity tends to play out in the films he did helm.

Eastwood’s leading men get to have all the rawness of traditional masculinity without carrying the correlating destructiveness. And if they do suffer from some latent toxic masculinity, at least they have the decency to feel conflicted about it. Men in these films also don't often get "happy endings." The film usually culminates with them getting the deed done, usually having to get their hands dirty in the process, and then exiting the scene to marinate in their solitude. They often make the world better, but don't usually get to enjoy the fruits of the paradise they created for others--another common feature within westerns. Neither romanticized nor condemned, manhood in Eastwood’s films is a sort of responsibility that a person must endure gracefully. In this movie, that burden falls on two characters.

   There’s Butch, obviously, who walks a fine line between the patriarch gatekeeper for Philip while navigating his own potential for violence, but what’s especially interesting is that the film suggests that Butch owes at least some of this latent toxic masculinity to Chief Garnet, the other character bearing the cross of manhood.

In some ways, the film seems even more focused on Garnet's trial of masculinity--no doubt largely because the role of Garnet is played by Eastwood himself. On the surface, Garnet seems to represent a very straightforward brand of masculinity. He's stern and emotionless, and he cares about getting the job done.

But behind Garnet's mask is regret and insecurity. And what's more, his investment in this case is anything but impersonal: Garnet is the parole officer who compelled the judge to sentence Butch to juvenile hall for the relatively harmless crime of joyriding. Garnet hoped that by locking him up, Butch might correct himself, but Garnet’s decision only exacerbated Butch’s criminal behavior. In this way, Garnet functions as a father figure to Butch. And like a father indoctrinated with hypermasculinity, Garnet chose tough love. So naturally, his "son" grew up broken.

Laura Dern is also here, but I unfortunately don't talk about her much

    This introduces an interesting variable into the equation. We've seen that Butch has it in him to be not only a perfect gentleman but also a positive influence in Philip's life. It's just that little criminal part of Butch that ruins everything. That hidden stain in Butch’s soul? That crumb of masculinity that is toxic? That piece of him that makes an otherwise wholesome father figure a potentially dangerous entity? Garnet gets to live with the very real possibility that this came from him.

    If manhood is a responsibility, then Eastwood seems to be claiming that fatherhood is not only part of the deal, but neglecting those duties is a sort of sin that one must atone for. But in a cycle of toxic masculinity, is such a feat even possible?

The Dark Side of Masculinity

         You’d think the film's thickest tension would be whether or not Philip is safe with Butch. That’s certainly on the minds of all those in pursuit, but the film seems confident that Butch would never hurt Phillip. Butch says as much to Phillip toward the end of the film. “I’ve only killed two men in my life. One of them hurt my mother, and the other hurt you.” This isn't akin to something like The Shining where it's pretty obvious from the get-go that Jack is a ticking time-bomb and it's only a matter of time before he explodes on his wife or his kid. There's never any sign that Philip might become a casualty of Butch's lawlessness. He operates by a very strict moral code. Only injustice unlocks the beast in Butch.

    But, there is a beast.

This really comes to head toward the end of the second act when Butch and Philip are staying with a farmer and his family, all initially unaware of Butch's identity. The movie clearly links Butch's temper with his intolerance for abuse. So when Butch sees the farmer smack his grandson, it unlocks his rageful impulses, the things we knew were locked inside Butch but hoped we'd never have to see. Maybe if he can silence all the abusers at gunpoint, Butch can silence his own demons, the wounds wrought by a fatherless upbringing. This is when Butch brings out the gun and ties up the family, and suddenly we're wondering if Butch is about to kill someone.

Seeing Butch unhinged like this forces Philip to ask the hard questions. Who is this guy? Truly? Is this what it really means to be a man? This is the only way that Butch really can hurt Philip. Not in turning his fire onto him, but in making Philip watch the monster take over. Philip ultimately can't forgive Butch for opening up this box, and so in one of the most biting moments of the film, Philip takes the gun from Butch and shoots him before running out the door.

    With one shot, the film appears to dissolve the illusion of "manhood: the ideal." Masculinity isn’t some romanticized country unknown to sheltered children like Philip. Manhood is broken, capable of expressing itself only through anger and violence. And worse, Butch has passed the curse onto Philip, who has now inflicted violence on another person.

    At least, that's how it seems at first.

Redemption for the Broken Man

    In screenwriting jargon there's what one calls a "culminating moment" which generally coincides with the film’s climax when all the plot threads the film has been spinning all come together. In relation to character arcs, the film’s culminating moment generally happens in tandem with the character making a choice that they would not have made before the ordeals of the plot. This signifies both growth in the character and the central thesis of the text.

    Since we're already talking about fathers, let's use Finding Nemo as an example. The main tracks in this film have been 1. Marlin's desire to get his son home, and 2. Marlin learning that he needs to not deny Nemo any chance for growth. The culminating moment would be when these two tensions collide, when Marlin lets Nemo do the dangerous thing and help save the fish in the net. Marlin would never have let Nemo attempt something so risky before his adventure at sea, and so his reversal becomes this statement on parenthood and the importance of letting go.

    The guiding forces in A Perfect World have been 1. the manhunt for Butch, and 2. the growing friendship between Butch and Philip. These two lines intersect when the police finally catch up to Butch and force him to give up the boy. Philip starts walking back toward the police but stops when he realizes that the men in uniform are going to hurt his friend if he leaves him. And so, Philip runs away from the authorities and back to Butch: this is what the story has been building to.

    This is the film's culminating moment, but is it a token of anyone's growth? I don’t think so. Philip hasn’t exactly been trying to escape from Butch. This isn’t truly a reversal of his character, so I can't comfortably call it Philip's arc. As far as Butch goes, he doesn't really do anything here either that marks any shift in his methods. He gives up Philip, yes, but only because he's reached the end of his rope. So I guess the question is, does every movie need a character arc?

    Not necessarily. Stories are often about change, but they can also be a about discovery. The revelation of A Perfect World isn't in the transformation of any character, but in finding beauty hidden somewhere society would have never bothered to look. While Philip casting his protective veil over Butch isn’t necessarily something new facet of his personality, it is something society would never expect. Philip becomes a man not by entering a cycle of violence, but by instead choosing mercy even when the world would have expected him to do otherwise. Turns out Philip's crowning moment came not with a bullet, but with a hug. 

I talked earlier about whether fatherhood can redeem the bad boy, and the film’s answer is complicated. Becoming a father doesn't cleanse Butch of his impurities. He’s still packing emotional baggage and scars that can’t just be healed overnight, and that's not even factoring in his debts to society as a person who has broken the law. Just so, the film does sanctify the relationship that has bloomed between Butch and Philip. Butch has shown Philip the worst of what manhood has to offer, but he’s also shown him what it means to truly respect another person. While the film doesn’t redeem Butch, it does still offer him grace. When Philip takes Butch’s hand and starts to lead him to Garnet, you start to hope that Butch and Philip can surprise us again. Maybe Garnet will get to correct his mistake and help Butch repair his twisted psyche. Maybe with enough therapy, Butch can not only reenter society, but also reenter Philip’s life and fulfill his function as that masculine railing Philip needs.

    But it’s not to be. Remember how society sees men. When Philip has brought Butch to Chief Garnet, Butch tries to hand Philip a letter. But as Butch reaches in his pocket, a policeman immediately assumes that Butch is going for his gun, and he shoots Butch in front of Philip.    

When a film pulls off denying its characters an arc, it's generally because the film is commenting the society in which it is made, revealing what it is about this world that stops its characters from evolving. By dropping the hammer on Butch at the last minute, the film makes a comment on whether society could ever accept men as being capable of caring, or really anything but violence. It’s also telling that the law enforcement mistakes a display of affection for an act of violence. The film paints a dismaying picture of manhood, not because men cannot change, but because society does not expect them to.

But in a way, it doesn’t matter whether Butch lives, the audience just remembers Butch was a good “father” to Phillip. That is what the audience connects to, and that is what they take away from the film after it's done, and that's what they start looking for in the real world after the credits roll. Regardless of the sustainability of their relationship, the audience becomes attached to Butch and Philip's love anyways: we get to imagine that in a world that trusted masculinity a little more, in a perfect world, Butch could have been a real father to Philip.

         What Makes a Man?

        I want to clarify, when I talk about fatherhood redeeming masculinity, I am speaking collectively. I'm not suggesting that we place the onus of change in the hands of children to fix a man's toxic masculinity. It's not any fairer to ask children to fix men than it is to put that on women. I'm just noting that fatherhood represents an underutilized reservoir of masculine expression, one that encourages men to use the full breadth of their protective instinct in a healthy way. Who knows what will happen if we redefine masculinity along this axis? As masculinity continually becomes a subject of public interest, such a paradigm shift is possible.

    We see this in characters like Peter Quill/Star Lord of Guardians of the Galaxy. In many ways, he is a portrait of the archetypal bad boy, and is also framed by the story as desirable, but there’s a complexity to his portrayal that audiences weren’t asking for back in the Kurt Russell years. His rogueishness is a facet of his character, not a romanticized quality unto itself. The films contextualize his brutishness within a larger context, one that includes trauma and mental turmoil. The unspoken truth about bad boys is that though they have been historically romanticized, they are better classified as tragic.

        Stranger Things actually plays with this motif quite a bit. Steve in season one is your standard bad boy and carries the corresponding vile traits. In one of the series’ smartest storytelling moves, Steve’s redemption comes not through the love of the heroine, but through becoming a protective figure toward the younger members of the cast.

   You see this even more clearly in the character of Hopper, who at the start of the series embodies a very stoic picture of masculinity. The show doesn’t shy around some of his latent toxicity, but it’s also honest about what that means for him. You get the idea that he and Joyce could be good for each other, but he’s got some internal issues to resolve first. Perhaps most significantly, Hopper starts to become his best self when he adopts Eleven and finally has someone to take care for.

   What does this all mean? Are we still a society that would shoot Butch, so to speak? It's hard to ascertain what effect this is having on society since discussion on the subject is still in early phases. While masculinity isn't entirely untapped, I will confess that even researching for this piece was a little more difficult than my usual essay because there just weren't as many readily visible sources. Just so, the fact that we are starting to celebrate things like Dad Hopper suggests that we as a society are becoming more interested in this area.

The Witcher (2019)

      Our obsession with redeeming the bad boy speaks to a hope we have for manhood in general. History has conditioned men to be fierce, to eschew vulnerability, to bury their hearts. But we still hold onto the hope that with just enough tenderness, the beast will melt away, and then we can all see the protector that was hiding behind the aggressor.

Romance doesn’t seem to do the trick, but romance is designed as a two-way street between people on equal footing in a give-and-take relationship. In purely functional terms, this kind of relationship entails two people each giving up a little bit of freedom in the name of the wellbeing of their partner and getting sexual gratification in return.

         Parenthood by design isn’t balanced. The parent and the child are not on equal footing. The child is entirely dependent on the parent. The parent doesn’t get anything in return for their service--and that's why this model has more to offer--the love it reaps demands both complete presence and purity of intent. If there is anything that can cleanse men of years of conditioned anger, it's learning how to give such selfless love.

    And honestly, going against historical precedent, societal expectation, and even personal demons to do this--I think that takes a very special kind of strength.

            --The Professor