BACK when Americans got up early to get ahead and men were men (as in men), “going west”, it was said, put hair on your chest. The unforgiving sun, the desolate expanse, the chance to mix it up with others who painted their faces where you rolled up your sleeves – going west in the 19th century was akin to joining the service in the 20th.
In the 21st, young Americans tend to stay home. They shy away from mixing it up, lest they get hurt, or sued. Those who do leave home go to universities where old-school values are under attack and an ageing cult of Haight-Ashbury types preach the soft new faith of fops. The adventurous still paint their faces, albeit for different reasons, and go west. To Hollywood.
Not everyone has acquiesced. From the first flicker in the first movie house, there have been leading men who cringe at the fopification of their image. Rudolph Valentino cherished his friendship with
