For the first ten years of my life, I was a complete fan of John “Duke” Wayne. Whenever I watched a Wayne film, I felt stronger, stood straighter and believed in my own ability to be brave. He was more than just my hero. He was the model of what a man should be: honest, direct, loyal, dependable, decent and full of presence. As a “Duke” man, you respected people because of their character, you honored family, you were well-mannered in polite company, and you expected others to be. When you needed to speak big and loud, you did while others listened. John Wayne was the man who made a difference who neither flinched nor gave up. If he got knocked down, he jumped back up. You wanted to be on his side because you knew your were on the right side.
During those early boyish years, I knew him as the legend—the cowboy legend. He was the “real” cowboy sitting tall and broad in the saddle. If a Wayne picture was on, I was watching it. I lived for those scenes when Wayne's character decides to take matters into his own hands. These were the moments when a man did what he had to do. One such classic scene is the showdown in True Grit. Wayne as Rooster Cogburn stares down Ned Pepper's gang while out in the open on horseback. After a minute or two of warning, Cogburn jams the reins between his teeth and gallops full speed toward the four criminals some hundred yards away. He fires his guns, one in each hand, while riding head first into his apparent demise. Cogburn shows no thought of death or of fear or of losing. He only displays his sheer determination to defeat his enemies, which were, of course, my enemies.
Even now as I watch these films, especially the westerns, I still feel a certain giddiness. A reflex, for sure, from days long gone. Films like The Searchers, Cahill, Big Jake and The Sons of Katie Elder still rekindle my childhood fondness for him. If I watch them for too long, to be honest, I begin to see the parody in them much like you see in old Elvis movies. And, yet, amid this adult view of who he is and was, I have never really understood why he was the chosen one. Why not Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart (The Lone Ranger or Batman for that matter)? I grew up watching old movies. I have probably seen Bogart, Grant and Stewart as often as I have seen Wayne. So, why was he the one who made the biggest impact on my young mind? In the broader spectrum of my existence, does it truly matter? Not much, I suppose. Then again, it could mean more than I realize. Perhaps, it is the key to discovering something new about myself. Too much of my life, past and present, is enigmatic and frustrating. By knowing this one thing, I will know (at least) something concrete about myself.
A few weeks ago, I was not focused on this question at all. That changed when I learned Joel and Ethan Coen were remaking True Grit. After a hesitative moment of disbelief, my mind was flooded with defensive questions about the nature of the production and, of course, the biggest question: “Who could possibly replace John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn?” Really, how could anyone follow in his giant footsteps. “What a risk,” I thought. The boy in me was rushing to his defense. "You can remake some things, but not a Wayne picture—not this picture." Rooster Cogburn was John Wayne, and John Wayne was Rooster Cogburn. From his Academy Award performance in the "real" True Grit to the reprising of his role in the sequel Rooster Cogburn, John Wayne had solidified his ownership of this character. It was like saying my dad was my dad. "Who could replace him?"
This news preoccupied me for a few more days, then I began to laugh it off. "This was silly," I thought. "It is just a movie, and, besides, I really like Jeff Bridges. He is one of my favorite actors." So, having come to peace with my younger self, I went to see the new version of True Grit. As I chose the day I would go, bought my ticket and made my way to my seat, I felt consumed with anticipation. I was concerned with the story and what might be seen without the added difficulty of looking past Wayne. In fact, the film was great—definitely worth the time. I laughed, winced and held my breath at all the right moments. A pure treat. As I watched the credits, I prepared to leave. A smile was on my face as I replayed the movie in my head. I stepped out into the aisle, down the stairs, turned left, and left again walking the corridor toward the light—the exit. During these few steps, without any provocation, I was struck with a thought—an epiphany—regarding my relationship with John Wayne. "It was not his life, which had made such an impression on me. It was, instead, his death."
When John Wayne died, I cried. In my tender heart, his death was devastating. It was, on that day, comparable to my father dying. He was bigger-than-life, so too were his characters. He was (they were) not suppose to die. He had, though, died on screen several times. In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, he died of old age. In The Cowboys, he was murdered. In The Shootist, eaten with cancer, he chose to die through a gunfight. None of these deaths were acceptable to me. In my mind, he was not allowed to die a natural or an unnatural death. It was simply unbearable. The legend of John Wayne was too great for me to fathom his absence. For he was not just an actor or a man, he was something more. An icon. A symbol. A transcendental figure. As a boy, he taught me about manhood and being a man. As a man, he has taught me about boyhood and being a boy. Walking down that corridor, I remembered the heartache of that day. How I ran outside to hide my tears. While I cannot recall the first death I clearly understood, his death was the first one to cause me to feel loss. His death was when I first understood the mortality of a man. It was when I learned people, even the most dear ones, will leave.
During those early boyish years, I knew him as the legend—the cowboy legend. He was the “real” cowboy sitting tall and broad in the saddle. If a Wayne picture was on, I was watching it. I lived for those scenes when Wayne's character decides to take matters into his own hands. These were the moments when a man did what he had to do. One such classic scene is the showdown in True Grit. Wayne as Rooster Cogburn stares down Ned Pepper's gang while out in the open on horseback. After a minute or two of warning, Cogburn jams the reins between his teeth and gallops full speed toward the four criminals some hundred yards away. He fires his guns, one in each hand, while riding head first into his apparent demise. Cogburn shows no thought of death or of fear or of losing. He only displays his sheer determination to defeat his enemies, which were, of course, my enemies.
Even now as I watch these films, especially the westerns, I still feel a certain giddiness. A reflex, for sure, from days long gone. Films like The Searchers, Cahill, Big Jake and The Sons of Katie Elder still rekindle my childhood fondness for him. If I watch them for too long, to be honest, I begin to see the parody in them much like you see in old Elvis movies. And, yet, amid this adult view of who he is and was, I have never really understood why he was the chosen one. Why not Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart (The Lone Ranger or Batman for that matter)? I grew up watching old movies. I have probably seen Bogart, Grant and Stewart as often as I have seen Wayne. So, why was he the one who made the biggest impact on my young mind? In the broader spectrum of my existence, does it truly matter? Not much, I suppose. Then again, it could mean more than I realize. Perhaps, it is the key to discovering something new about myself. Too much of my life, past and present, is enigmatic and frustrating. By knowing this one thing, I will know (at least) something concrete about myself.
A few weeks ago, I was not focused on this question at all. That changed when I learned Joel and Ethan Coen were remaking True Grit. After a hesitative moment of disbelief, my mind was flooded with defensive questions about the nature of the production and, of course, the biggest question: “Who could possibly replace John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn?” Really, how could anyone follow in his giant footsteps. “What a risk,” I thought. The boy in me was rushing to his defense. "You can remake some things, but not a Wayne picture—not this picture." Rooster Cogburn was John Wayne, and John Wayne was Rooster Cogburn. From his Academy Award performance in the "real" True Grit to the reprising of his role in the sequel Rooster Cogburn, John Wayne had solidified his ownership of this character. It was like saying my dad was my dad. "Who could replace him?"
This news preoccupied me for a few more days, then I began to laugh it off. "This was silly," I thought. "It is just a movie, and, besides, I really like Jeff Bridges. He is one of my favorite actors." So, having come to peace with my younger self, I went to see the new version of True Grit. As I chose the day I would go, bought my ticket and made my way to my seat, I felt consumed with anticipation. I was concerned with the story and what might be seen without the added difficulty of looking past Wayne. In fact, the film was great—definitely worth the time. I laughed, winced and held my breath at all the right moments. A pure treat. As I watched the credits, I prepared to leave. A smile was on my face as I replayed the movie in my head. I stepped out into the aisle, down the stairs, turned left, and left again walking the corridor toward the light—the exit. During these few steps, without any provocation, I was struck with a thought—an epiphany—regarding my relationship with John Wayne. "It was not his life, which had made such an impression on me. It was, instead, his death."
When John Wayne died, I cried. In my tender heart, his death was devastating. It was, on that day, comparable to my father dying. He was bigger-than-life, so too were his characters. He was (they were) not suppose to die. He had, though, died on screen several times. In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, he died of old age. In The Cowboys, he was murdered. In The Shootist, eaten with cancer, he chose to die through a gunfight. None of these deaths were acceptable to me. In my mind, he was not allowed to die a natural or an unnatural death. It was simply unbearable. The legend of John Wayne was too great for me to fathom his absence. For he was not just an actor or a man, he was something more. An icon. A symbol. A transcendental figure. As a boy, he taught me about manhood and being a man. As a man, he has taught me about boyhood and being a boy. Walking down that corridor, I remembered the heartache of that day. How I ran outside to hide my tears. While I cannot recall the first death I clearly understood, his death was the first one to cause me to feel loss. His death was when I first understood the mortality of a man. It was when I learned people, even the most dear ones, will leave.