If reincarnation is our lot after breathing our last, I can only hope I come back as Gar. Never did catch a last name, but I’m doubting one was necessary. Say it out loud – always in hushed tones – and even the uninitiated have some idea. Hell, the name itself seems to conjure the very look of Sam Elliott, circa 1985. Mask is based on a true story, so there might have been such a man walking the earth at some point, but if so, I don’t want to know about it. Reality couldn’t possibly measure up to the fictionalized account. For here, in a movie about the triumph of the human spirit, is the most fully realized portrait of masculinity ever seen by mortal eyes. Whether sleeveless or filling out the world’s greatest t-shirt (“Moustache Rides”), he is everything we hope to be and usually fail to achieve. Break the mold and shut this shit down.
Imagine you are Rusty Dennis. Sure, you’re also Cher at her peak, but you’re also a slice of rarefied trailer trash who last saw employment around the time JFK met his maker. You sleep with every biker not currently incarcerated (and perhaps a few who are), not out of love, but simply to recapture how you last felt in Gar’s arms. He’s the kind of man who arrives via motorcycle, knocks back a beer, then disappears again for a week or two. Maybe a few years. And no, he’s not out looking for work. He too has managed to secure an existence where bills miraculously pay themselves; that is, if they ever had the courage to arrive in his mailbox. He’s a wanderer, a free spirit, and unlike the rest of the human refuse that constitutes Rusty’s immediate circle, Gar isn’t running away from a damn thing. It’s not hard to imagine that he never has to worry about where he’ll rest his head. Lights are off, but the door is open. Second room on your left, lover.
When Gar does arrive back in town, it’s like a returning celebrity. Where ya been, Gar? Mom’s been asking about you. Ever the gentleman, he’ll avoid telling one and all to fuck off, and that stony glare is enough. Always enough. His time is his own, and the terms are always his. And to hear Rocky speak, it’s as if the planets align once again. Something just ain’t right when Gar’s away, and a tragic doom hangs over the proceedings whenever he storms off in a huff. Because with Rusty, huffs are as inevitable as STD’s. He’s willing to give Rusty another go, of course, despite the past, so keep the lip to a minimum. Plenty of broads who wouldn’t dare try. His bike is fully gassed up, and you doubt his sincerity at your peril.
If I’ve seen Mask once, I’ve seen it a dozen times, and my takeaway is always that Gar has never done another’s bidding. I doubt he’s ever asked permission. He takes and takes and leaves you feeling as if you’ve given willingly. Not only can one never imagine Gar in a state of panic or fear, it’s utterly impossible to believe he’s ever been so much as slightly concerned. Things just get handled. No stress, no heartbreak, no pain. A man above the clouds, fucking and fighting and riding the wind, cheating death because death too wouldn’t have the nerve to come calling.
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