The Family Man
The stratospherically powerful movie director was explaining his philosophy of life.
(Photo by Jean-Philippe Delberghe)
“And what I’ve figured out over the years,” he said, “is that for all the success I’ve had in my career, none of that stuff is really important at all.”
The group of journalists he had summoned for an interview listened politely.
“It’s not about the noise,” said the director, “like the Oscars, the great reviews, the praise, the fans.”
The journalists arranged their expressions into Joey’s gracious loser face from Friends, and nodded thoughtfully.
“And yeah,” said the director, “the material stuff is nice – the bank balance, the big house, the fancy car and the private jet. They’re fun for a while; but they’re not what truly matters, not when you get down to it.”
The journalists raised their eyebrows in respectful acknowledgement, while privately wondering, if these possessions were really of so little import to the director, whether he might at some point consider sharing some of them around.
“What truly matters,” said the director, “is your family. You know. Your kids.”
The stony hearts of the journalists began to melt just a little. It was nearly Father’s Day, after all, and who could fault a man for loving his children?
“I won’t lie,” said the director. “I have to tell you that, yeah, I have a really nice career, and when the career was all I had, I really enjoyed it. But it was only when my kids came along that things fell into their real place for me. Because the career’s good, but the kids come first. No question.”
The journalists began to warm towards the director.
“They change everything, don’t they?” he said. He pointed an authoritative directorial finger around the room. “You all know that. Everyone knows it. Nothing in your life brings you quite as much joy as your kids do, does it?”
The journalists, thinking of strapping sons, doted-on daughters, and, in the case of one windblown hackette from London, a selection of adored godchildren, exchanged sidelong smiles, feeling just that little bit fuzzy inside.
“They open up your heart,” said the director. “And any priorities you thought you had before, well, they just take them and they toss them right up in the air. Don’t they?”
The journalists began to feel positively soppy.
“I cannot tell you,” said the director, “the number of people I’ve kept waiting for meetings because I’ve been doing something with my kids.”
The journalists’ smiles began to waver just a trifle.
“I don’t care who they are,” said the director. “Actors, screenwriters, my accountant, anybody. If they want to meet with me and my kids want me to do something with them instead, well, what the kids want is going to come first. It’s the way it is these days.”
The journalists began to fidget just a little with their pencils and scratch pads.
“Just the other day,” said the director, “my assistant came into the room and said, ‘OK, this guy’s flown all the way from New York to meet with you, his appointment was at 11.00 in the morning and it’s now 1.30 in the afternoon.’ I said, ‘Too bad, Ziggy, I’m playing Monopoly with my eldest, I have all four railroads, he has a hotel on Park Place, and we’re not quitting till one of us goes bankrupt.’”
He nodded firmly, and sat back in his chair.
“That,” he concluded with satisfaction, “is what having kids will do for you.”
The journalists became suddenly absorbed in checking the fine print on their parking ticket validations.