Date with an Angel opened to mixed reviews. Some said it was reminiscent of Frank Cappa movies; that it reminded them of It's a Wonderful Life. Others were not so kind, condemning it as sexist, boorish and bad. I did not go see it.
One lazy afternoon (this was long before I began my "career" as a publisher) while channel surfing, I chanced upon it. The beginning was almost like science fiction, so I paused to watch. And kept on watching.
The premise was thin, there was nothing to like about the antagonists, and the "angel" seemed to have been chosen more for her ample bosom and ability to look dumb than anything else. The main male character's best friends were a constant distraction from Phoebe Cate's surprisingly comedic performance as the protagonist's fiancee, and that seemed to be just about all the film had to commend itself. Still, I found myself drawn to the protagonist.
He was a romantic. A composer whose vision was to fill the world with gentle music. Rather than follow his dream, however, he was preparing to "sell out" while his ineffectual and all but invisible father stood by, and go to work for his fiancee's father as a salesman to satisfy her expectations, and to be the success his mother wanted him to be. And it was killing him.
In the middle of the frantic and gleeful celebration to commemorate his spiritual death, the "angel" crashes the party, where she finds him full of doubts, a creeping apathy, a longing to hold on to his dreams and a need to be loved for himself.
Slowly, it dawned on me -- what could be a more fitting allegory for our time from the male perspective than this? Struggling to do right by others, a man clings with a weakening grip to the truth within. All the others around him -- resentful feminists, domineering bullies, the narcissistic "liberated" women, cynical media, the punctilious law and the harmless but boorish "guys" -- are indifferent to his pain. All but the angel, who epitomizes the idealized feminine principal.
Warrior, King, Magician, Green Man, I'm not into all that mythopoetic stuff, but I understand icons and principals. How we distill the essence of what is expected of us by our evolved roles into one for you because you're a woman and one for me because I'm a man, how this damages us when we hold the principals too far apart, or enervates us when we become overzealous in our efforts to make no unnecessary differences, and so make no differences at all.
There are differences. We know it. Scientists know it. Parents know it. Even the feminists at Ms. have admitted they know it. But in our hurry to reconstruct a finer masculine and a fiercer feminine, have we lost sight of what is already fine and fierce in the essence of each?
Our man is dying. While everyone argues either over his impoverished spiritual estate, or the angel placed high upon her pedestal, he collapses to the ground. Out of the dark blue of night, the angel appears in a tearful rage to drive the squabblers away and call attention to his still form. Contrite, they take him to the hospital where the doctors predict his imminent demise.
Despondently, they leave him alone, and the angel appears. Taking him into her arms and embracing him in wings of love, she sings a poignant prayer. Revived, he awakens to find she has stepped down from her high pedestal. She is an angel no more, but, as he is a man, so she is a woman. Together, they leave hand in hand.
Sophie B. Hawkins recent hit, "I Wonder Why," got me to thinking about Angel, of what it says about our time, and of what we need to make our milieu whole.
Warmest regards, Rod
Send Editorial Comments to The Backlash!
Please report all problems to The Web Master