God, what a man he was. That initial encounter, emerging from the scorching Georgia heat, a towering figure of 6 feet 4 inches, weighed down by military gear, a pistol at his hip, his face weathered beneath a steel helmet. Extending a hand, he offered a broad, welcoming smile and declared, “John Wayne.”
This wasn’t merely a name; it was a definitive statement. John Wayne, who passed away on Monday, dedicated 72 years and over 200 films to solidify that very statement, accomplishing his mission with remarkable success.
When questioned about his contribution to American cinema, John Wayne simply stated, “Vitality.” He possessed this quality in such abundance that it breathed life into even his lesser films and elevated his best to greatness. In a memorable scene from “The Searchers,” he stood in a doorway, his weight shifted to one foot, right hand resting on his left arm, gazing out at the desert. This seemingly simple physical gesture conveyed such profound emotion that French film critics reportedly rose to their feet in applause.
However, Wayne was not one to concern himself with French critics. He was an actor of instinct, not theory. He never formally studied acting. His skill developed organically through numerous collaborations in Monument Valley with director John Ford. Together, they crafted some of the most iconic American movies ever made, with perhaps as much deliberation given to their craft as to the whisky, poker games, and campfire camaraderie that filled their evenings.
These were Wayne’s formative years, working with “Pappy,” as he affectionately called Ford, in the remote desert, far removed from the distractions of Hollywood agents and studios, creating what were then known as cowboy pictures. It’s almost unbelievable, yet factual: John Wayne had already appeared in 62 motion pictures before achieving stardom as the Ringo Kid in Ford’s “Stagecoach” in 1939. He was 32 years old at the time, having spent over a decade in largely unnoticed acting roles after Ford recognized his potential on the USC football team. These early years and those Westerns undeniably shaped John Wayne. He didn’t gradually evolve into a movie star; he transitioned directly from being a movie cowboy to becoming an American legend, a status he carried with humility.
My first encounter with him took place at Fort Benning, during the filming of “The Green Berets.” He was the first movie star I ever interviewed and remained the easiest throughout my career. He had a knack for cutting through superficiality and focusing on what truly mattered – whether anyone wanted another tequila, a chess game, or had heard Hubert Humphrey’s latest blunder.
His convictions were always tempered with humor. On the eve of receiving his Academy Award for “True Grit” (1969), I interviewed him at his Newport Beach home overlooking the Pacific and his converted minesweeper yacht. We sat in his den, dominated by a large Civil War general’s desk and walls adorned with signed photographs and his rifle collection. After observing autographs from Richard Nixon, Dwight D. Eisenhower, and Herbert Hoover, he poured tequilas and suggested I explore more of his collection – in the restroom, where he had placed Humphrey’s photo.
Alt text: John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn in True Grit, a classic John Wayne cowboy movie, holding reins and rifle.
“This gun here,” he said, taking a rifle from the wall, “is what the Communists are using to kill our boys in Vietnam. And this one…” he retrieved another with gentleness, “…is the one I used in ‘Stagecoach.’ I’d handle it like this…” He attempted a one-handed swing, wincing in pain. “Christ!” he exclaimed. “That hurt!” He returned the rifle to its place. “Twisted my arm falling off a horse last month in Louisiana,” he explained, “and the damn thing hasn’t felt right since.”
Wayne was a staunch conservative Republican throughout his life. However, in 1973 in Durango, Mexico, he playfully declared himself a liberal. “Hell yes, I’m a liberal,” he stated. “I listen to both sides before deciding. Isn’t that liberal? Not in today’s terms, it isn’t. Nowadays, you have to be a f—– left-wing radical to be a liberal. Politically though… I’ve mellowed.”
He paused, leaning back in his director’s chair behind a chessboard, surveying his audience: wranglers, rugged extras, old friends and drinking companions, a couple of Mexican stuntmen, none of whom seemed remotely interested in philosophical discussions. He erupted in laughter, glancing at the chessboard. “Goddamn!” he roared. “I’ve lost!” He examined the board with mock bitterness. “If I wasn’t always talking politics, I could concentrate on this game.”
The jokes, the chess, the horses, and the tequila – he insisted he hadn’t had a hangover since switching from whisky – were all part of his carefully crafted persona. So was his legendary physique. Everyone knew he had overcome cancer, “The Big C,” and had filmed a scene in freezing water in the Sierra Madre mountains just six months later. He quit cigarettes for years, then took up little cigars because, as he put it, a man had to have something to smoke. Until his final days, he remained an imposing and remarkable man.
On screen, he commanded such authority that his acting philosophy, “Don’t act, react,” seemed entirely natural. John Wayne possessed the ability to genuinely react. Other actors had to stretch their abilities to their limits to hold the screen alongside him. A true test of an actor is whether, in a moment of simply standing in a scene, they appear merely passive or, like John Wayne always did, seem to be actively deciding when, why, and how to take control of the situation.
He starred in numerous excellent films, including “The Long Voyage Home,” “Red River,” “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” “The Quiet Man,” “The Searchers,” “Rio Bravo,” and “True Grit.” In “True Grit,” he famously took his horse’s reins in his mouth, wielding a pistol in one hand and a rifle in the other, charging into danger and, inevitably, vanquishing the villains as audiences cheered – a scene that perfectly encapsulated the essence of John Wayne.
He rightfully won an Academy Award for that performance, a pinnacle in his career of John Wayne Cowboy Movies.
Alt text: Young John Wayne in Stagecoach, a breakthrough role in classic cowboy movies directed by John Ford.
He continued to make films for a few more years. His final movie, “The Shootist,” was released in 1976. In it, he portrayed an aging gunfighter who had lived a life of violence in the West and now faced the fear of death. His character consults a doctor, played by James Stewart, and learns he has only weeks to live. He then spends his remaining days with strength and dignity. If a John Wayne tribute were to be shown on late-night television, “The Shootist” would be an excellent choice.
However, there was one final film he longed to make but never did, a project he occasionally spoke about. It lacked a title, and in Wayne’s mind, didn’t need one. It was simply intended to be one last movie directed by John Ford, who passed away in 1973 with Wayne at his bedside.
“God, Pappy’s death was a profound loss,” Wayne reflected slowly in 1976. It was a day for remembering both the living and the departed; he was in Chicago visiting his ailing friend Stepin Fetchit. He poured another tequila, reiterating his belief that tequila didn’t cause hangovers, though acknowledging that excessive consumption could lead to falls and head injuries.
“Until the very last years of his life,” Wayne continued softly, “Pappy could have directed another picture, and a damn good one. But they said Pappy was too old. Hell, he was never too old. In Hollywood these days, they don’t stand behind a fella. They’d rather turn him into a goddamned legend and be done with him.”
John Wayne then fell silent, and no one dared to speak, for who among us was bold enough to suggest that they would never be truly done with John Wayne, because he himself had forged that enduring legend.
