Andrew McCarthy's dilemma began three years ago, when the actor and director’s then 21-year-old son, Sam, was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor strumming his electric guitar, telling a story about a friend’s romantic follies. McCarthy was at the kitchen table, laughing. Then Sam stopped strumming and looked up.
“You don’t really have any friends, do you, Dad?”
“I have friends, Sam,” McCarthy told his son. “I just don’t see them, but I know they’re there. That’s enough.” He’s recounting the scene now, calling from Dublin where he’s directing a stage production of The Crucible. “Sam considered me—probably knew I was full of shit—then graciously accepted my answer with a brief nod.” Sam went off to see his girlfriend. McCarthy sat there, spinning.
It’s a strange problem for a man like McCarthy to have. He emerged as a defining face of 1980s Hollywood, with star turns in Pretty in Pink, Less than Zero, and St. Elmo’s Fire that cemented his status in the Brat Pack. He went on to become an award-winning travel writer and made the transition to director, with credits like Orange Is the New Black. A man with that résumé, you’d figure, had people.
So he decided to go on a road trip with his friends, and during they journey, they would say, ‘I have never talked about this before.’ I could tell.” Some of it was the stranger-on-a-plane dynamic, he figures. But mostly he thinks men are starving for exactly this conversation and almost never get the chance to have it.
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