As far as “the last of the Hollywood icons go,” Brad Pitt remains one of the few still from an era we can only classify as “pre-Harvey takedown,” all filled with the smoke and mirrors that led audiences to believe nothing sinister was going on to create the illusion of “magic.” That simple time in the 90s when traces of glamor and sophistication were still present in the likes of Leonardo DiCaprio, Johnny Depp (oh those days before the Amber Heard abuse taint) and Ryan Phillippe (before cheating on Reese with Abbie Cornish). Of course, the most symbolic of all was, and, one supposes, still is Brad Pitt.
From the moment he conned his way into the heart of Thelma–though certainly not Louise–with those immortalized abs, Brad Pitt knew he had the hearts (via the pangs of vaginal desire a.k.a. moisture) of female viewers everywhere. And he ran with it. For many, many years. Years that saw him both dominating the box office and the ability to seamlessly mimic any of his numerous famous girlfriends (and occasional wives) in the style of Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride (but maybe that narrative rubbed off on Pitt during his shared screen time with her in The Mexican, Ocean’s 11 and Ocean’s 12).
As his cachet waned in the wake of the public’s knowledge of his behind-the-scenes affair turned eventual marriage to Angelina Jolie, Pitt’s “angle” seemed to change. Now that he was playing the part of “husband to serious humanitarian,” it appeared as though he wanted his filmography to more fully encompass that, with the likes of Babel, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button following after shacking up with Jolie. And, speaking of that latter movie, we seem to have come upon the beginning of that particular film in the narrative of Pitt’s life, where, all at once, it looks as though he has been struck with the geriatric stick–the one that money is supposed to be able to buy you out of when you’re a “star” (one imagines it’s a financial investment more urgent for women–thanks societal double standard!–if Pitt’s first ex-wife is any indication). But then, it’s possible Pitt is taking the Clooney route in terms of letting the ruggedness of “maturity” stand out on him physically, what with the clout of his past few movies not exactly saying much (Allied, among such an example).
Having turned fifty-five on December 18th, the full weight of Pitt’s age suddenly feels heavy on all of our decrepit shoulders. Like maybe how those screaming Beatles fans must have felt when they saw Paul McCartney in the video for “Say Say Say” with Michael Jackson. While they were busy lusting–tossing bras, panties and wilted flowers more wilted than their dreams of banging a Beatle–McCartney’s baby face was slowly but surely transforming into the same mug as some English woman named Aunt Millie might also possess. The exact case went for Marlon Brando, Elvis Presley and Rock Hudson (“undercover” gay boys make us fall the hardest). And now, so it is for Pitt (with DiCaprio closely following–it already happened to Depp [who also turned fifty-five earlier this year] quite some time ago). So yes, maybe there is something to this whole dying young business (here’s looking at you, James D. and Norma Jeane).
And yet, while it’s “happening” to him, these blatant signs of mortality, pock-marked upon the human face and body as they can be, are more so an unwanted reminder to those who once worshipped him as some sort of twenty/twenty-first century (mainly the former) Adonis that the fire in their shriveled loins is almost as dulled as Pitt’s complexion and vigor. Both mercifully and cruelly, Pitt’s aesthetic legacy will remain forever preserved on the silver screen, where possibly only the present generation will continue to wank off to his more attractive celluloid self, as future ones will have no need of touching themselves when robots can do it for them. Which is maybe more than Brad Pitt ever did for Jen, Angie or his cabal of soon to be slack-jawed adorers. Gil Shepherd he is not.
