Let me confess a deep, dark, shameful secret — one that threatens to revoke my citizenship in the Republic of Straight Male America (which, let’s be honest, I wasn’t exactly invited to in the first place): I have never seen Gladiator, Fight Club, Rambo, Rocky, or even The Godfather.
That’s right. I am a fully grown man, pushing 41, gay as a Mariah Carey deep cut, and not once in my life have I voluntarily sat through a cinematic ode to clenched jaws, blood-soaked vengeance, or monologues about “being made an offer I can’t refuse.” And guess what?
I’m fine. I’m thriving. And I’d like to keep it that way.
Hypermasculinity: Now Streaming in 4K
There’s something about the cultural obsession with what I like to call “sweaty man cinema” that has always made me feel like an outsider. These are the movies where men prove their worth through fists, guns, or having their emotional breakthroughs in the form of grunts while staring at a sunset. And I get it — for a lot of folks, these movies are iconic. They’re cultural milestones. But to me? They’re beige. Loud. Unseasoned. The cinematic equivalent of a protein shake left out in the sun.
Growing up in West Texas, masculinity wasn’t just a norm — it was the currency. If you weren’t into football, muscle cars, or Chuck Norris, you were suspect. Being a queer, half-Puerto Rican kid in a town where “sensitive” was a slur and The Godfather was considered a religious text was… character-building. Which is to say, traumatizing.
So no, I didn’t grow up quoting Scarface or flexing during Rocky IV. I was too busy memorizing the entire choreography to Dreamgirls and surviving Christian conversion camp. And honestly? One of those things was far more emotionally resonant.
Pop Culture’s Manliest Mascara-Streaked Tears
The thing about these “man classics” is that they’re often pitched as deep. Brooding. Substantial. But strip away the operatic music and slow-mo punches, and what you usually get is a dude with daddy issues solving problems by punching drywall. What’s revolutionary about that?
Fight Club is, supposedly, a critique of toxic masculinity. But most of the men who idolize it skipped that part and just think “soap and violence equals freedom.” Gladiator is visually stunning, sure, but how many monologues about honor must we endure before someone just says, “Hey, maybe therapy would help”?
It’s not that I hate all traditionally “masculine” stories. It’s that I’m exhausted by ones that center masculinity as a performance. Where strength is defined by how little you cry, and bonding means shared silence while sharpening knives.
Give Me Female Rage or Give Me Death
If I’m going to invest two and a half hours in a film, I want drama. I want complex emotional arcs. I want someone to scream “I AM NOT THE ONE WHO’S CRAZY!” while throwing a glass of wine. This is why Gone Girl lives rent-free in my soul, and why The Godfather doesn’t even have a lease application.
Hypermasculinity in media is boring. Women get to be witches, spies, mothers, monsters, saints, and icons — sometimes all at once. Men get to be mad at their fathers and own guns. Yawn.
Even in horror (my favorite genre), the Final Girl trope has more emotional nuance than the entirety of Rambo’s filmography. You think Rocky was brave for climbing stairs? Try running from a masked killer in heels after watching your friends die.
Matthew’s Seen Them All — And That’s Okay
My boyfriend Matthew, ever the sweet, even-tempered contrast to my emotional hurricane, has seen most of these movies. He’ll make comments like, “Oh, that’s a Godfather reference,” and I just nod like I understand, while secretly wondering if the movie ends with someone yelling “you in danger, girl.”
When we cuddle up to watch something together, he’s learned to expect Pose, not Predator. He gets to bring his nostalgia, and I get to bring mine. And sometimes, I even try to meet him in the middle. (As long as the middle has a decent score and at least three costume changes.)
Reclaiming What Manhood Means (To Me)
Part of my resistance to these films is rebellion. Growing up, people constantly tried to fix me. To straighten me out — in every sense of the word. And movies like Rocky or Rambo were tools in that mission. They were held up like a mirror, one I never saw myself in. I still don’t.
I don’t believe being a man means stoicism and suffering. I think it means nurturing. Empathy. Strength through softness. I think it looks like walking your chihuahua daughter Daisy through the park after a brutal day. I think it sounds like saying, “I love you,” even when your voice trembles. And I think it feels like turning to your partner during a sad scene and admitting, “That hit a little too close.”
None of that needs a boxing ring or a mob hit.
Final Thoughts: Keep Your Godfather, I’ll Take My Gay Icon
I may never see Gladiator. I might go to my grave not knowing why we don’t talk about Fight Club. I’ll likely live a long, full life without ever understanding why “Adrian!” is yelled into the void. And I’m okay with that.
Because the movies that shaped me weren’t about brute strength. They were about survival. Identity. Audacity. From The Color Purple to To Wong Foo, I found my heroes in characters who lived loudly, loved defiantly, and weren’t afraid to take up space.
So no, I haven’t seen The Godfather. But I have seen Paris Is Burning.
And I rest my fabulously unbothered case.