Age of the Chest

Sociologists And Historians, most of whom are men, are beginning to write of our epoch as The Age of the Bosom. Vital Statistics, which used to be, for example, b. 1885 – d. 1952, are now more likely to be something on the order of 38-24-36. Of these latter figures, the statistic that is really vital is the first, which is also a pretty good score for nine holes of golf. Unfortunately, what was originally functional is now largely ornamental and frequently artificial, as is so much of modern society.

But this may also be known in some circles as The Age of the Chest, for the upper part of the male torso has begun to catch on. The chest may never equal the bosom as a topic of conversation, fascinating to artists, photographers, and persons who, despite the hubbub of 20th Century life and 20th Century-Fox, have not lost their sense of proportions, but it is indubitably coming into its own. A man may not be tersely described as 44-32-34, but his chest may do more (concluded on page 65) Age of the chest (continued from page 57) for him, on the beach or in Hollywood, than merely serving as the outside of his lungs.

The Age of the Chest is thought by some scholars to have begun with the appearance of Marlon Brando in A Streetcar Named Desire, an appearance that many ambitious young men have imitated since. With or without a T-shirt, the Brando chest was the focal point, and some critics say the only point, in the film. Certainly it was much more in evidence than the streetcar, and was the sturdiest chest, with or without drawers, amongst all the ramshackle furniture in that decadent New Orleans apartment. Indeed Brando may be said to have done for the chest what John Barrymore a generation earlier did for the profile, a feature now largely neglected. Barrymore, however, had a good side and a bad side, which kept him sidling up to the camera, whereas Brando looked good from either side, front or back, though he probably took care not to be photographed just after exhaling.

If Brando made America chest conscious, Burt Lancaster in recent cinema roles has brought the chest to its height, as well as its breadth. The Lancaster chest is a thing of rugged beauty, possessing some of the rocky grandeur of the Sierra Nevada, but without fish or game. It is unmistakably male, and suggests brute strength, virile passion, and a tendency to perspire under the hot sun or in a warm embrace.

Speaking of brute strength, it may be that not Brando but Johnny Weis-muller and the other portrayers of Tarzan should be credited with initiating The Age of the Chest. However, the Tarzan costume (an off-the-shoulder leopard skin) is inferior, chest-wise, to the more civilized bareness of the present era. Unlike the bosom, which often benefits from being seen piecemeal, the chest needs to come on one with overpowering completeness. The chest, in other words, should leave nothing to the imagination and should simply be itself, there being little chance that it will be mistaken for anything else.

When Victor Mature began to appear in roles that called for a brave show of chest, many felt that this was going a little too far, though it rarely went more than a couple of inches below the navel. The Mature chest, as distinguished from the immature chest, indicates that ripeness or fulfillment has been reached and decline may be setting in. But in a coat of chain mail, even with narrow lapels and natural shoulders, Mature displays remarkable chest expansion and an understandably pained expression.

Certain chests, such as those of Frank Sinatra, Fred Astaire and Jerry Lewis, have never been exploited by Hollywood. Some shrewd producer, however, may get the idea of putting one or all three of these gentlemen into a film, stripped to the waist and gleaming with artificial sweat. Such a picture would have tremendous box office appeal, especially to the Average Man, now hunched self-consciously in his seat while his best girl drools over the massive chest muscles of Marlon or Burt.

What the sweater is to a girl, the T-shirt is to a man, and he too wears it as tight as possible and pretends to be unaware of admiring glances. A man wearing a loose-fitting T-shirt probably has something to conceal, or he is only half a man, and not the upper half at that. Usually a man possessing a socalled barrel chest, with staves instead of ribs, will buy a T-shirt that is a couple of sizes too small, and then return it to the store if it fails to shrink. One of the worst things about winter is that some men find it no longer possible to go around without a coat and shirt. For several months, at least January, February and March, they are quite without C.A. (Chest Appeal), looking no better than undeveloped chaps in heavy tweed sports jackets. The flower blushes, unseen, the light is hidden under a bushel, and there is a great longing for summertime.

But of course the chest is best displayed au naturel, which is French. Then the pectoral muscles stand out in stark relief and ripple like the flanks of a fly-bitten horse every time their owner makes the slightest motion, such as coughing gently to be sure everyone is looking. Then too, observers are able to behold the beautiful mat of hair, with "Welcome" across it, hair that is curly and vibrant and would make superb filling for an invalid cushion or a softball. In a T-shirt all of this is lost, save perhaps a few inquisitive hairs peeping over the top of the collar and providing, at most, fringe benefits.

Considering what a hunk of male chest does to the heroine in the movies, men are going to have to develop themselves with bar bells, push-ups, or at least deep breathing. Then whenever the opportunity arises, they will say, "Isn't it stuffy in here? Mind if I take off my shirt?" Also they must demand new styling in clothes, with plunging necklines. There may not be much cleavage, but for muscles and hair, there's nothing like it. Anyhow, it seems to be what women want these days, and, in The Age of the Chest, one should keep abreast of the times.