How dare you Steve McQueen, how dare you.
“They disappear on November 7th—'the day Steve McQueen died,’ we are wistfully instructed, as if called to observe a moment of silence for expired masculine ideals.”
I wish people wouldn’t throw around lines like this without offering any sort of specifics or evidence. Which expired masculine ideals in particular is Troy Patterson, reviewing the new season of True Detective for The New Yorker, discussing? How has Steve McQueen come uniquely to represent this?
The only masculine ideal McQueen introduced, that I can think of, is sweaters. Cable-knits, Arans, Guernseys, Fair Isle. Has Troy Patterson, or any one of his New Yorker colleagues, worn a thick, wool sweater to combat the wintry, East Coast winds? No one did, before early adopters like McQueen used their stardom to wear sweaters publicly, thereby creating a manufacturing boon in Ireland and the United Kingdom. Sweaters were working class wear before this. Unless you were on a boat, proper people didn’t do it. I can’t do Season 3 of True Detective after Vince Vaughn in Season 2: None of us deserved to be subjected to that. I’d rather read Laird Barron for my masculine cliché genre fun. But sweaters live forever, just like Steve McQueen’s memory deserves to do, untroubled by posthumous cheap-shots aimed, in any case, at the wrong target.
Thank God no one dresses like this anymore. So expired.