“Even if it is about hopelessness, the fact that we communicate is hopeful. I think there is something in the gesture of creation that is hopeful.”
“I always say I feel like we’re pitbull dogs, we’re raised to fight. All of us were expected to be able to fight. I don’t have to live up to that expectation or that persona any more.”
There is only so far an assumed identity, let alone one that transgresses gendered cultural norms, can take you.
How little the line between ‘ironic’ and ‘actual’ misogyny matters. Joy at the denigration of somebody else is, after all, one of the few emotions acceptable within a hypermasculine state of mind.
In ‘micro expressions’ of masculinity, the role or the perception of ‘effort’ is important. The paragon, the most masculine, is the man who can enact himself upon the world without even trying. As such, to even admit to thinking about masculinity in this way feels on some level like weakness, as though if I was a real man I wouldn’t have to.
For the progressives who have been rocked by the Trump election, who thought that this version of white privilege and proto-masculinity was buried, the past is present. It is ugly and furious, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like it’s in control.
Intellectually, I understand that it’s healthy to express emotion. I’ve read Brené Brown. I’ve watched Inside Out. I get it. But it’s hard to express emotion when I’m barely conscious of feeling it.
Phoebe’s Fall, and the emerging genre it is part of, raises questions about the public who feast on the undeniably gripping stories, and the voices we cannot hear in these podcasts—those of the victims, mostly women, most likely killed by men.
Jimmy is, of course, fictional, but as a character he reflects (albeit sometimes exaggeratedly) a broader cultural problem. That we don’t know what to do with male vulnerability.
“For me at the moment, even though I do a million different jobs, the thing that I want to be is just a great dad. I look no further than my own father for inspiration, for being there.”
I realise now that it would’ve been better for us both if I had stayed away sooner. But it was hard for me to let go of you because you were my father and I loved you.
“My decision to present these men in the way that I did was a way of emphasising the problem of subjectivity – whether we can ever truly know the ones we love.” The author of The Love of a Bad Man on the familiarity of manipulation and the cold, close places where masculinity and femininity find each other.
Although perhaps not always overt, the idea that men are responsible for carrying on surnames still seems to be pervasive.
The charismatic, reluctant role model that is Ankit Chopra, on parents, careers, social enterprises and appreciating the people who just get on with making the world a better place.
Homer chats with former hockey goalkeeper Gus Johnston about sport, ostracism, coming out, aggression and Albert Camus.
Forster was knowingly out of kilter with our expectations of what a rock singer was meant to be, to look like, how one was meant to speak and act. He was his own man, and a different kind of man at that.
It’s an odd thing to look at someone you’ve shared your life with and wonder if they’re about to kill you.
When one male speaks out about his mental health experience, he is a role model for others, normalising it and inspiring others to do the same.
Homer chats (at some length, because he’s very charming and generous) with Benjamin Law about masculinities, vulnerability, visibility and the things he loves.