I went to a screening of Cool Hand Luke last night on the WB lot. I’d never seen the film in a theater before, and the digital restoration was absolutely gorgeous. Watching the film, I was struck (again) by Paul Newman’s remarkable screen presence, and how much of it came not from the genetics that made him beautiful to look at, but from his inner light, the soul that filled him. Cool Hand Luke is one of my favorite Newman films, particularly for the way in which he captures the spirit of this man who’s been beaten down by life, doesn’t see much good in it, and yet still has the ability to change the lives of his fellow prisoners with his spirit and tenacity.
I was very torn being at the screening because a very big part of me had wanted to skip it and go instead to the huge Prop 8 protest in West Hollywood. I’d made plans to go to this screening before I even got to LA, and I had a guest coming who I didn’t want to cancel on at the last minute, but still, no matter how great and rare an opportunity it was to see Cool Hand Luke in a theater, my heart was wishing I was at the protest.

As we were leaving the screening, my friend observed that the difference between Cool Hand Luke and The Shawshank Redemption is that in the latter, Andy Dusfresne’s redemption comes from his escape from the prison, whereas in the former, Luke’s redemption comes not from his physical escape, but from his refusal to quit trying to escape, his stubborn insistence on getting back up to fight, even when it seems there’s no chance he can win.
On my way to the screening, I had a rather heated exchange with my cab driver about Prop 8. The driver was a black man who’d immigrated here from Africa over 20 years ago; he’d voted against Prop 8, he said, and was sad that it had passed, but then he said, look, this is a democracy, it’s not perfect, but it’s what we have. And the majority of Californians voted in favor of it, so the gays should just live with it. Why protest? What’s the point? I sat there biting my tongue for a minute, weighing whether I really wanted to get into this discussion in a cab, when I was going to be stuck in there for at least another 10 to fifteen minutes in rush-hour LA traffic. Of course, those who know me well, know that my ability to just bite my tongue is pretty limited, so I plunged in.
I asked him, what if the majority of citizens of California decided to vote on something that limited your life? What if they decreed that cabs can only be driven by people who were born American, not by immigrants? What if they passed a proposition limiting what marriage means for you — that, say, you could not get married because you’re black, or because you’re an immigrant, or because you’re a cab driver? What if the majority of your fellow voters said that you are not equal, that the way you are — because you were born with dark skin, or not born within the US, gave them the right to dictate your life, to tell you that what you are is not okay? Would you still feel that way then?
Would you just meekly nod your head and say, “okay, sure, if that’s what 52% of you say is the way it is, I’ll just go right along with that.” Would you not rage and protest and scream until your voice was hoarse? And he pondered all this, and finally responded that change for black people in America did not happen overnight, it took many, many years for the majority societal mindset to shift and evolve, and that we have to be patient and just keep working for change, but that protests would not do any good. They did for the Civil Rights movement, I said, and then we arrived at my destination, he thanked me for the discussion, and we parted ways.
So last night at the screening, Prop 8 was very much on my mind. But as I watched Newman’s Luke escape, and be shackled, escape again, and be shackled twice and beaten down until he begs for mercy, I thought about the fight for equal rights for same sex couples. Luke is beaten up in a fight, and keeps getting up, again and again, even swinging punches as he’s on the verge of absolute collapse; he keeps fighting, no matter what. Near the end of the film, he digs that ditch and refills it, digs and refills, until he’s finally begging the guards for mercy. And they think they’ve finally got his “mind right,” that they’ve turned Luke, with his natural charm and relentless smile, into their obedient lap dog who will fetch the water, fetch the rifle, fetch the dead turtle from the river. Until he escapes, again. And even at the end, he dies rather than going back, but they never beat him. He dies “smiling that Luke smile.”
That’s what we have to keep doing in the fight for equal rights for gays and lesbians in this country. No matter how many times a discriminatory proposition is passed by the majority, we have to keep getting up out of the dirt and fighting. We have to keep punching back, even when it seems there’s no way to win.

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