GQ, the “1957 Man”, and I
by Nina Terol
My mom has just arrived from the US, with a huge bundle of magazines—my pasalubong order—in tow. One of them is the 50th anniversary issue of GQ (October 2007), where a vintage photo of post-Godfather Al Pacino graces the cover. There are nine other cover options (Muhammad Ali, Johnny Depp, Sean Connery, Paul Newman, Tom Brady, John F. Kennedy, Jack Nicholson, Robert Redford, and Michael Jordan), and I suddenly found myself wishing that my mom had gotten the Newman, Kennedy, Redford, or Depp covers instead. But I loved The Godfather, and I admire Pacino’s acting chops, so I rationalized that this cover was fine. Besides, I do read a magazine for the features; I mutilate the editorial spreads and the ads for my collages and “vision art.”
What happened in the next two hours left me somewhat amused: I pored over the magazine, page by page, fully absorbed by the magazine’s engaging commemorative features, its interesting ads, its witty punchlines. I remember that the last few times I read GQ (with younger celebrities such as Jake Gyllenhaal, Heath Ledger, and Johnny Depp on its covers), I was also very much absorbed by the magazine’s content and not the men in it. In contrast, there is also one copy each of Bazaar and InStyle in my pasalubong stash, but I’m saving them for much later—for “mindless reading.” In those magazines, the only things I look at are the clothes and the ads, really.
What it is about this “gentleman’s” magazine that has me ignoring everyone else around me while I bury my head in its pages, I don’t know, but it’s definitely worth a closer look. Maybe this issue’s retrospective tone makes it seem much smarter to me than it really is, or maybe seeing gentlemen in pinstriped suits makes me long for a more genteel time in history, or maybe it really is seeing all those masculine visions that got me so hooked. Or maybe I like it because it’s smart but unpretentious, frank but not over-the-top. It’s honest and straightforward—but not crass. Just like a true gentleman should be.
One feature that caught my eye and had me reading ‘till hours later was Michael Paterniti’s “1957 Man.” For this assignment, Paterniti, GQ’s “boss correspondent,” spent two full weeks in all the glory of 1957—and none of the conveniences of the present age. He dressed in pinstriped suits and fedora hats, towed a briefcase to work, read vintage copies of The New York Times, drank at least three martinis for lunch, pounded away on a typewriter (no emails, no “undo” keys), called using a rotary phone (no text messages for urgent updates), and relegated the housework and the domestic duties (especially babysitting) to his wife, dubbed “Mrs. 1957 Man” in this piece. It was, for “1957 Man,” a time of rediscovering Man’s masculinity, of feeling the power of the suit, of having clearly defined roles as breadwinner and king of the household.
"Going to work is what 1957 Man does. Leaves the house at 8:20 sharp, arrives at the office no later than 8:30. At his desk, he has a cup of coffee, black. Sometimes he’ll take a moment to scan the paper’s front page to see what those damn Commies are up to now—or how the Brooklyn Dodgers have fared. And then he gets at it, typing fast and furious for the first few hours of the day. It’s a good, old-world sensation, the keys slowly thunking out sentence after sentence. The little bell rings at the end of each line, and he reaches up for the silver handle, to return the barrel...
"...There is no Internet to distract him, no frantic e-mail, no signing up the kids for summer camp, no Amazoning birthday presents or scanning “Vacation Rental by Owner.” Somehow 1957 Man can live, confident that these things will magically take care of themselves.”
It goes on about how, in 1957, men did not tell their wives where they would be after work. They would simply tell their wives to “not wait up,” or that they “would be home late.” Wives were expected not to question their husbands, and especially not to visit them at the office “except by invitation to one of those open-house events some companies stage in order to show wives and kiddies what Daddy does all day.” The 1957 Man does not participate in household chores, does not talk to his buddies about the kids, and expects his wife to wait on him hand and foot. But then, he opens doors, wines and dines his lady (or, to women’s chagrin, his ladies), and dresses oh-so-elegantly. There is always a trade-off.
Fast-forward to my thoughts, circa 2007. I live in a household of two, where my hubby-to-be takes down the trash, delivers and picks up the laundry, does little odds and ends around the place, and—more than sometimes—does the groceries and cooks our meals. He also does some budgeting, and oftentimes is a better budgeter than I am. I do my share, of course, washing the dishes, keeping the place as orderly as it can be, cooking and cleaning, and bringing home my piece of the bacon. (We have our clothes washed at the laundromat and have our “manang” come in for major cleaning once a week. When the kids come, I’ll be expecting him to stay up on “night duty.”) It’s a pretty egalitarian setup.
But I also find myself wondering how life would be if I had lived, say, my grandmother’s life. She was a simple homemaker and a mother of six, wife to an airline captain who took her on trips around the world and pampered her like a princess. She had everything that she wanted, but I wonder if she ever enjoyed the emotional intimacy that women now demand from their husbands and partners. Men in those days did not Talk with their wives (they talked to them); they did not let their guards down and show any hint of vulnerability. I’m not sure how I would have fared as a “Mrs. 1957.” Probably not too well.
So for all the flack that we’re giving our men about still being so under-evolved, I realize that they have come a long way since half a century ago. They help with the dishes and unabashedly prepare breakfast in bed for you (when they’re in the mood, or when you’re not in the mood and they have to make up for something). They drive the kids to school and attend parent-teacher conferences. They share their thoughts and engage you in meaningful conversation. They treat you as a best friend, a partner, and a lover—not just as a Wife who is there to keep house. They watch the Fab Five, and they know how to pick out the colors that go well with you. Heaven bless 2007 Man.
And as for GQ and 1957 Man? Heaven bless them, too. As he closes his feature, Michael Paterniti (even his family name is a pun!) shares a telling anecdote:
"When the party reaches fever pitch, Mrs. 1957 Man begins her own movement. It’s about 1 A.M., and she rounds up a dozen or so women. And quite suddenly, they’re outside, at the water’s edge, shucking their dresses, peeling off their bras and panties, rushing out into the black ocean water. There’s splashing and shouts of joy, all these naked women in the water. Only half-aware, the men amble outside from the bar, from their smokes and drinks and chat, to see what the commotion’s all about: Their wives now in the sea, out over their heads, laughing.
"After a time, the women emerge, bodies aglow, the makeup washed from their faces. They are oblivious to their own beauty, foraging for their dresses in the dark.
"On the shore, their husbands stand in thin ties and fedoras, struck dumb by this unexpected show of feminine force, struck dumb by joy and miracle and desire. The world is changing so quickly, and we are struck dumb, in love, willing to remake ourselves—willing to give it all away for this beauty and strength, and everything born from it—here and now and evermore."
Thank God I was born at the right time—and thank God that GQ, of all publications, made me see that.
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