This Article Originally Ran On Blumhouse.com
Everyone has that one family member that they connect with more than any other. There’s no real logic behind the connection, hell the two that share the bond may not even talk all that much, but the bond is still there. The bond shows up in connections more than in conversations. A shared walk. A similar speech pattern. For me, that bond was with my grandpa, Joe Faraci.
Me and grandpa, we had a lot in common. We’re both second born sons who are short. We both love chocolate a little too much. We are mama’s boys. We tend to be quiet in large gatherings. We would rather walk than ride. We tend to keep our emotions to ourselves. Well, I still do. Grandpa died in 2006, so I’m hoping he let go of that trait in the years since.
Certainly genetics play a part in the similarities between me and my grandpa, but there’s also the want to be like him. My parents divorced when I was a wee little shit, and grandpa became something of a stand-in father figure for me. I started to stand like him; feet apart, hands clasped behind the back. I picked up his speech pattern to some extent as well - short sentences that tend to be more joke than actually meaning anything. I still keep an eye on the ground at all times not because I’m worried I’ll trip over something, but because maybe someone dropped a quarter on the ground. Grandpa had a knack for finding things. I don’t seem to have that, but hey, you never know where twenty bucks may show up.
When grandpa died, I was shocked, though I really shouldn’t have been. He had been sick for a while, but I was living in Los Angeles being young and stupid so it didn’t really register. The reports I was getting from New York was that it wasn’t anything too serious, and I was pretty sure no one important to me was ever going to die (again, young and stupid). I was at work when my dad called to tell me what happened, and as I stood there surrounded by my co-workers, I told myself to hold it in. “This isn’t the place to get all sad” I thought, so I finished the day with as much of a smile as I could muster.
On the way home, I laid in the back of my roommate Paul’s car, a crappy green Volkswagen Rabbit with such a small backseat that even a shorty like me would be uncomfortable in it. Still, with Paul driving, I wasn’t going to get all weepy. “Deal with it later” I thought.
That night I did laundry, searched my closets for my suit pants which I never found, and packed. By the time I was done, my pal Than had shown up to drive me to the airport. I wasn’t about to get all emotional in front of him and there was no way in hell I would be one of those people who cries in an airport. By the time I got to my seat, my head was hurting. I figured it was either lack of sleep or lack of food or maybe both. I closed my eyes.
When I arrived at my grandma’s house, she was crying. Her husband, her best friend since she was a kid, was gone. My grandma is a strong woman, like superhero strong, and to see her like that, to see her lost and suffering. She held onto me, her tears landing on my neck. Between sobs she said to me “He’s gone”. My heart shattered. Still, I held back. I figured that in a moment like this, grandpa would be the rock, and she needed that rock, so I shoved what I felt down as deep as I could. For four days, I stood at the ready. Grandma needed some water? I was on it. Uncle Frankie needed cigarettes? I was on it. Dad needed a paper? I was on it. If Joe Faraci couldn’t be the goffer at his own funeral, I was happy to fill in. There wasn’t time to focus on me, I had to focus on the job at hand.
In what I can only call an insane idea, we held a three day wake. To be fair, the room was packed each day, and if there’s one thing my family is great at, it’s sitting around doing nothing, so this kinda fit us well. The first day kind of flew by. I spent most of it with my sister who hadn’t gotten the… we’ll go with opportunity… to grow up with the New York Faraci clan and was quickly learning the true meaning of “loud” (the New York Faraci’s, aside from grandpa and myself, are known across the world for being too loud).
The second day of the wake was the hardest, grandpa served in World War II and as such, a group of World War II soldiers showed up. They stood before his casket and gave him is new orders - Joe Faraci was to report to God. These men who fought in the war, all of them around the same age as grandpa, stood in their uniforms and pushed back tears as they spoke. They had done more than a few of these, and they knew that sooner or later, someone would be doing it for them. That was when my brother broke down. I held on. Grandma needed tissues and water. Frankie needed cigarettes. Dad needed a snack. What they needed, I found. I ended that night with a stomach ache and a head that felt like it was going to explode.
At the church service my brother gave the eulogy, and he knocked it out of the park. My mom, who lost her own father when she was young and had found a portion of that lost love in grandpa, barely made it through the service. I’d never seen her cry like that before. My stomach kept hurting, my head came closer to blowing up.
At the cemetery, there was another military moment, this time with the folding of the flag. The ceremonial bugle playing of the funeral honors was pre-taped, which I think bummed everyone out a little bit more. Still, the soldiers who actually went through the stages of folding the flag and handing it to my grandma, were top notch. They were also young, attractive women, which we all agreed grandpa would have loved, and not for any progressive reasons. Grandpa was a Depression Era kid. To him, being progressive was sharing a sandwich with someone who wasn’t Italian.
The next night, my last night before heading back to LA, I went with my brother to see SHAUN OF THE DEAD. We needed some laughs, and even though I had become positive that I had a brain tumor the way my head had been throbbing for three days no matter how many Advil I took, and my gut was screaming in pain, which I believed was due to my steady diet of White Castles for the week. Either way, I didn’t want to be the wet blanket who wussed out.
Sitting there in a random theater in Manhattan with a handful of movie critics trying to act like my eyes weren’t about to fly out of my head, I sat back with my popcorn and soda and waited. The movie started and pretty quickly, I was laughing. From time to time, I got freaked out. I was loving it. I mean, it’s SHAUN OF THE DEAD, who doesn’t love it?
Then it happened. The movie took a real turn. I mean, we had seen Shaun’s stepdad die, and it was sad, but the sadness gets overtaken with a gag pretty quick, so you don’t really wallow in the moment. Not long after that though, the movie went straight for the heart when Shaun’s mom dies. Watching it at that moment, I felt bad for Shaun. This person he thought would always be there for him, this person he took for granted all his life, was gone. That was when I figured out what SHAUN OF THE DEAD was about; the movie is the story of a guy who had emotionally cut himself off from the world being forced to release everything pent up within him even as he had to keep focused on the job at hand.
As I watched Shaun crying over his mother, I started to think about my grandfather, the grandfather who patiently acted like he enjoyed Faith No More when I was 12. The grandfather who took me to get a blood test and threatened to punch the doctor if he hurt me. The grandfather who used to dress up like Santa on Christmas. The grandfather who carried the announcement of my birth in his wallet.
I started to think about how I never thanked him for playing Santa, or for pretending to like Faith No More, or for threatening a medical professional on my behalf, or for keeping me in his wallet. I couldn’t think of a single time I ever thanked him. I thought of every Christmas present and birthday present, and how I always thanked grandma, but never him. He was always just there, quiet and standing to the side.
I thought of my grandpa and, with nothing else to focus on, with no job at hand, I cried. Not little tears, either, but big ones. With each sob, with each snork to pull back the runny snot coming out of my nose, my head and gut hurt a little less. By the time the credits started rolling, my pain was gone.
That is the real power of movies. Good ones. Bad ones. I don’t know if quality of the movie really matters so much as the moment. Sometimes you’ll hit on one that connects with you at just the right time and the next thing you know, that ball you’ve been holding in your gut comes out. Sometimes it’ll be a movie you’ve seen before but suddenly it takes on a new meaning. Sometimes a movie will leave you with that pain in the gut, sometimes they take it away. No matter what feelings you need to exorcise, movies are always there, ready to help. For that, I am eternally grateful.
A few years later, I was at the Arclight Cinema in Hollywood with my buddy John. I can’t remember what movie we were going to see, but I kind of feel like neither of us liked it. Or maybe we thought we wouldn’t like it but ended up loving it. Either way, as we walked in, I saw Edgar Wright, and all I could think was how much I wanted to tell him about my grandpa and how much SHAUN OF THE DEAD helped me release what was balled up inside. I wanted to thank him for curing my exploding head and easing my twisted gut. I wanted to thank him for allowing me to feel something when I needed it most. I guess he felt the unnatural burning of eyes in the back of his head, because Wright turned around and looked at me. Then he smiled and started walking towards me.
Turned out he thought I was someone else. Still, we had a nice quick talk about PUNISHER: WAR ZONE. I didn’t bring up grandpa. I’m still working on discussing my feelings. Luckily, I have plenty of movies to help me along the way.