Rick Schatzberg’s book “The Boys” is part memoir, part suburban time capsule, part elegy to aging and loss, part treatise on male bonding, part photography, part poetry. To spend time with it is to walk down memory lane into a life that’s not your own, but nevertheless resonates with an aching familiarity. To meander through its soulful pages is an emotional experience. One is left feeling somehow closer to a kind of gentle wisdom, though, at the same time, still confounded by life’s eternal wonders and mysteries.Through the counterposing of lush, euphoric, snapshots of his lifelong buddies’ boisterous gatherings of yesteryear and the stillness and gravitas of his contemporary large format portraits, this sensitively rendered photo book carries a cinematic scope and momentum. I am reminded of certain indelible films on the theme American masculinity such as “Diner,” “Deer Hunter” and “The Last Picture show.” Like the male characters in these films, Schatzberg’s band of brothers also live and breathe in a continuum of space and time. Each photographic portrayal has its own arc, its sense of a life lived— which feels all the more palpable for not having been created out of fiction, but rather blood, sweat and [email protected]