It's a bit after the event now, but I felt very sad about Patrick Swayze's death. I've long been teased for confessing (with a perverse pride) that Dirty Dancing is my favourite film ever. Perhaps not what you'd expect from a rather serious gal -- or perhaps precisely the colourful, escapist film you NEED when you're a rather serious gal. I don't know. I worked in hotels when I was young and identified immediately with the film's raw, crazy energy and the weird hotel environment that isn't home to anyone for long, where would be philosophy graduates are working cheek by jowl with professional kitchen porters and seasonal receptionists. All semi-knackered by long shifts, but all young enough to be able to burn the candle at both ends (and the middle) and stumble through another day.
Swayze dared to act for women, to exploit an athletic physique and, I suppose, to reveal himself on screen. Not as a major Brando-esque acting talent. But as someone taking life by the throat and grabbing the opportunities that came his way. Without embarrassment or condescension.
After the cancer diagnosis he kept trying – and apparently kept smoking. Whatever.
I don't suppose anyone really thought he could beat such an advanced form of such an aggressive cancer. But such was the force of his combined onscreen/offscreen persona that it did seem just possible. I imagine watching Ghost (which I didn't like as much) will nonetheless be a real tear-jerker, now the leading actor is really and irrevocably on the other side.
And in the end his life and death are the ultimate reminder. Life's not fair. It's there on its own terms, to be lived.
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