The Lion King. (1994) The Hunt For Red October. (1990) Field Of Dreams (1989). They are great films, but there are specific reasons why these three are the ones that mean the most to me.
The Lion King reminds me of my father. When I think of my father, I think of Mufasa. I also think of Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch, but Atticus is impossible to live up to. Like Bluey’s Dad.
But the parallels to Mufasa deepen. Mufasa dies suddenly, and it’s something that defines Simba for the rest of the film. When Simba finally triumphs, he does so by finding himself, and thereby honoring his father. His wandering was Simba trying to ignore his father and his father’s death. It’s more than just the sadness of the death; it’s what the death means, and what Simba does in response.
The Hunt For Red October is pretty much my foreign policy and my patriotism distilled into a movie. Communism sucks, and despite herself, the United States of America remains the hope of the world. The book had to be written by a right-wing guy, and while I reserve the right to modify any of that worldview in accord with the truth, it came along at the perfect time. You know, before a whole bunch of our citizens decided that they had to be ashamed to be an American.
Before we get to the last one, I’m going to add one to my “Dad” list: Top Gun (1986). I think I am Pete Mitchell. Now, I am not that cool. And you could criticize the film for loads of reasons. Most people think that the subplot involving the prior death of Pete’s father is a shameless attempt to add emotional depth to a stupid action movie. First of all, Tom Cruise is a great actor, and he’s able to convey in words and gestures exactly what being a boy haunted by the death of his father looks like. Trust me, I know.
If you’re wondering, yes, I do think Top Gun: Maverick is a better film than Top Gun. But that doesn’t make Top Gun unworthy of my respect.
Field Of Dreams has a huge Dad element. And it breaks me as much as it breaks me as it does most men. And Ray Kinsella is the exact age as my father was when he died. Pay attention to the picture monologue at the beginning.
More than this, if I’m defined by being a Christian and being an American, I’m defined distantly but no less really by my love for baseball. The lead actor Kevin Costner has acted in several films that are love letters to baseball, and I owe him for that.
Yes, if you’re wondering, I have read “Shoeless Joe” by W.P. Kinsella (and the novel of Red October), and it doesn’t have “Hey…Dad? You wanna have a catch?” but it did leave me weeping for another reason, a much sadder reason: What if these aged ballplayers had literally believed that the Good News was baseball? What if that was real? It was the saddest thing I’d ever read. I doubt anyone anywhere loves baseball more than me. But if there was no Jesus Christ, risen from the dead, I would want to die. Seriously, just kill me, because living would be pointless. I’ve eaten enough steak, and spent enough evenings with women that there’s no charm in the world of sense that I truly need. I cried on that Kindle for an hour.
Since I have talked a lot about my father, I want to leave you with a verse from a song that means a lot to me. The other verses and chorus talk about estranged fathers and sons, but the final verse says this:
I wasn’t there that morning
When my father passed away
I didn’t get to tell him
All the things I had to say
I think I caught his spirit
Later that same year
I’m sure I heard his echo in my baby’s newborn tears
I just wish I could’ve told him
In the living years. (Mike And The Mechanics, “The Living Years,” 1989. Sung by Paul Carrack.)
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