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When Aaron learns of Gene Hackman and his wife Betsy’s tragic deaths, he can’t stop thinking about what really happened in those final days. In this intimate reflection, Aaron explores the space between facts and truth—and the power of storytelling to fill in what logic alone never could.
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Story created & performed by: Aaron Calafato
Senior Audio Engineer: Ken Wendt
Additional vocals: Cori Calafato
Art: Pete Whitehead
Original Theme Music: thomas j. duke
Additional Soundscape Design: Isaac Gehring
TRANSCRIPT
Aaron Calafato:
I’m sure a lot of you heard about this, but in mid-February, the legendary actor Gene Hackman and his wife, Betsy Arakawa, died in their home. The circumstances were tragic. Betsy apparently died from a rare virus. She had been a caretaker for Gene Hackman, who was suffering from Alzheimer’s. Because of that condition, he may not have realized she had passed. Days later, he died from heart disease, with Alzheimer’s listed as a contributing factor. They were both found over a week later—together in their home.
Now, for me, there are the facts—the events as they happened, the logic of it. And then there’s the story underneath that we don’t know, but we can feel is there. Logic and facts alone sometimes just aren’t enough. And I’ll tell you why—right after the music.
The first time I really noticed Gene Hackman was because of my dad. I just called him the other day, and he mentioned he was rewatching all of Hackman’s movies again. That must’ve been sad for him when he found out Gene Hackman passed away—not just that he died, but how he died. I remember the first time I saw him was with my dad, watching Hoosiers. I was a kid. And my dad said, “That’s a real actor. That’s a great American actor doing something very subtle but beautiful on camera. He’s just being normal.” In the flash of Hollywood and entertainment, he was a normal, everyday person doing extraordinary things—and bringing that to the screen. And that’s a great service.
I remember leaning in and thinking, “I don’t know... he’s not doing much.” But my dad was right. It was in the nuance. If you look at his filmography—I won’t go through all of it—but there’s Hoosiers. Then Superman, where he played Lex Luthor. His comedic timing was fantastic. Then the blockbuster Crimson Tide, opposite Denzel Washington—those two going back and forth, monologue after monologue, mano a mano, in an imagined ocean, in an imagined submarine. Green lights flashing on their faces, sweat pouring down, as they both tried to take control of the ship. Gene Hackman with that look of confidence and a cigar in his mouth, like he already knew he’d won. I remember thinking, “This guy’s a badass.” And you could go on and on. We all know his contribution to film.
I don’t know much about his wife, Betsy. But what hit me with this whole thing—when I read the story—was that I actually had a hard time sleeping. That rarely happens to me with this kind of news, because I don’t really know these people. I have empathy. I feel bad. But this one stuck with me. Because I kept wondering: What was that like? Was that necessary? Could it have been prevented? How does something like that happen?
There’s this tragic element—knowing that she passed away, and that he, because of Alzheimer’s, didn’t realize it. Or maybe he did. And what was that like? You almost don’t want to think about it. When you just look at the facts—when you read the articles and they say: this happened, then this happened, and here’s the timeline—you get it. Investigators and journalists have to look at things that way to uncover the truth of the event. But that doesn’t uncover the truth of the story.
It’s a story we’ll never really know, but we know it’s there. The story of love between two people. And no matter how tragic the ending, we can imagine there was still something meaningful in it.
If I were to make a film—when the time is right—about those last days between Gene Hackman and his wife, I’d honor their memory by approaching it this way: We’d see the events briefly, but the focus—the camera, the story—would zoom in on the memories they shared leading up to that moment. And cinematically, maybe before Gene Hackman passes, there’s a glimpse. A realization. That she’s gone. But a glimmer of hope—that she’s waiting for him on the other side. That within that suffering, maybe there was a moment of recognition. And peace.
By the way, feel free to use that idea to make a movie—because I’m never going to. I’m just here to share the reflection. The story I’d like to believe happened. And I know what you might be thinking—because I’m thinking it too: Dude… that’s just a Hallmark movie. You’re kind of sad. You’re just making this stuff up to make yourself feel better.
But you know what? I actually don’t think I am. I think it’s necessary. Because the facts alone aren’t enough. Not because I can’t comprehend them—but because they don’t honor what got them there. You know what I mean?
The facts of how they went out say nothing about how they got there. When we over-analyze the timeline—the detective work and the breakdown—sometimes it can imprison someone’s identity in that final moment. And that’s why I freaking love stories. Because stories try to honor a deeper truth. That people are more than just a time signature. More than just a notification on your phone. More than just the headline you saw one day and forgot the next. People are so much more than just the moment—or moments—leading up to when they leave this earth… and end their story here.
I’ll talk to you next time.
