JUSTIN LANGER: Paul Kelly inspired movie How to Make Gravy helped me shed tears for my late mother

‘Hello Dan, it’s Joe here,

I hope you’re keeping well.

It’s the 21st of December, and now they’re ringing the last bells. If I get good behaviour, I’ll be out of here by July. Won’t you kiss my kids on Christmas Day, please don’t let ‘em cry.’

When singer-songwriter Paul Kelly wrote his song How To Make Gravy he would have been unaware that a movie would be made from his lyrics.

Had he known, I wonder if he’d have realised the line, “don’t let ‘em cry”, would have been impossible, because this is a movie that triggers tears.

Although for generations, crying, especially for men, was taboo — “boys don’t cry”, and all that guff.

The week before last, while writing my weekly column, I sat on a hotel bed in Adelaide and typed away on this laptop. Between paragraphs, and almost out of habit, I grabbed the TV remote control and pressed the red start button.

On the home page came up the list of movies, headed by How To Make Gravy.

Having read a recent line about how good it was, I decided to press play.

My gosh, I’m glad I did — although I’m also glad I didn’t watch it on a plane because, frankly, it would have been a little embarrassing.

As an Aussie bloke, we’ve always been told we aren’t meant to cry, but I was reduced to a puddle of tears thanks to my new favourite Christmas movie.

Not since my Mum died have I sobbed so hard. This time, the tears came from happiness (although I don’t want to ruin the movie if you haven’t seen it), not grief, but the outpouring of tears still had a similar effect on me.

The night my Mum passed away in her bed, I watched her cancer-riddled body being wheeled out of the family home on a gurney. I can’t remember a sadder moment.

A while later, it was a glass of red wine and KD Lang’s take on the song “Hallelujah” that triggered a river of tears.

A build-up of emotion from months of seeing my mother endure palliative care was released as I sat side-by-side at the dinner table with my family.

Those tears came from somewhere deep inside my soul.

They arrived at the end of a journey, where the mask and armour of being the brave son, the big brother, and the dad were torn off.

Those ancient warnings that a warrior does not weep and a provider cannot crack — where survival demands a face of stone and emotions are sealed behind granite expressions — are hard to break.

Generational shifts are changing these conventions.

Younger souls are breaking down those ancient chains, understanding that true strength lies not in silence but in the courage to feel and let go.

Mental health awareness demands this, reminding us that tears are not a weakness, they are liquid courage.

They are the body’s dialect, the soul’s most honest language, born from sadness, regret, pain, memory and happiness.

Boys learn early that tears are forbidden tributaries, dangerous currents that must be contained, controlled, and compressed into tight, impenetrable reservoirs of unexpressed pain.

Maybe that’s why they come from so deep within when we do let go.

Don’t get me wrong, the stoic warrior mask has been crucial in my personal and professional lives.

Staring down a fast bowler, standing tall in times of pressure, and remaining calm in the eye of the storm have required the steel drummed into me as a boy — and then man — in our culture.

Truthfully, I could count on my hand the times I have cried.

But when I have, there has been something therapeutic about the experience.

That includes last week watching How To Make Gravy.

Leading up to the flood over my laptop, two things had happened.

The 10th anniversary of Phil Hughes’s tragic death saw the production of a fabulous documentary on his life.

While watching it, I smiled, laughed, grimaced and controlled the growing lump in my throat several times.

Then I caught up with a close friend in Adelaide who has been rediagnosed with cancer, which has spread to his lung.

Between wheezing breaths, he cried, not for himself but for his family.

His tears were of gratitude that it was him who was suffering, not one of his kids or his wife.

As he explained, we often hear people saying they would do anything to swap places with their suffering kids or partners.

He wanted me to know that he was OK and happy that he wasn’t watching his loved ones going through the journey he was.

His courage was so authentic that I left our meeting in awe of a man walking the talk and leading his family through the darkest of periods despite being the one who was being tested.

Our meeting was confronting yet inspiring. It was also emotional watching my mate bare his soul to me.

His tears were not a sign of weakness — they displayed bravery, fearlessness and vulnerability.

In the eye of his private storm, I left with a renewed respect for him while grappling with the fact that we may not see each other again.

With these in mind, my decision to watch How To Make Gravy was untimely, although I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

The last time I saw my grandfather alive, I am sure I saw a tear rolling down his eye.

He lived in Mandurah, and we had driven down to visit him on a Sunday. Pop Langer was as tough as they come — in my eyes, he would be the last person on Earth to cry.

Driving out of the driveway, my strong 16-year-old recollection was that he was crying as we waved goodbye.

At that moment, it seemed odd, but a week later, my Pop was lying in the hospital unconscious. He died that night.

Again, cancer had riddled his body.

For all these years since, I have wondered whether he knew something was wrong and that that would be the last time he would see us.

He knew he was sick, but not one of us knew. Such weakness was not the way of his generation.

I also wonder why he had to wait until the last days of his life to release his emotions. If that was the case, I wish it could have been different.

When Coldplay was in Perth, Chris Martin started the song Sky Full of Stars by encouraging the crowd to put their phones in their pockets and their hands in the air.

I was lucky to go to both concerts.

On the first night, I did as he asked and got caught up in the moment to the standard degree of my socially-aware consciousness.

It was fun.

The next night, with my brother and daughters, the rock star offered the same invitation.

As if something had overtaken my body, I remember thinking, “f... it, I am going to let go here and get immersed in the moment”.

Letting go of all inhibitions, I put my hands in the air and danced like the only person in the room. For three or four minutes, I felt completely free, entirely liberated. The feeling was intoxicating, and it felt so good.

Like singing your heart out in the car, dancing in the kitchen or around a fire pit, or punching a bag with every sinew of your being, letting go of your emotions can be like medicine.

The same can be said of crying.

There is a freedom and cleansing that comes from crying, and while, as a man, I am probably not meant to be so bold, or soft, as to say this, I reckon it’s about time to say it’s OK.

Thanks Paul Kelly. Happy Christmas.