Westerns today, however, when they are made, go out of their way to chastise any man in a stetson who might have a faint whiff of toxic masculinity. The last basic cowboy romp was Costner’s Open Range back in 2004, and even that felt like a throwback. Since then we have had several superb subversions of the genre – the gay love story Brokeback Mountain (2005), the all-female Meek’s Cutoff (2010), and last year’s Cry Macho, the ultimate yelp of male existential angst with Clint Eastwood essentially reflecting on the hollowness of past glories. The difference between Cry Macho and, say, The Shootist, is that the very notion of the cowboy has changed. Wayne’s JB Books is still celebrated, a tough guy to be admired and a little feared. Eastwood’s Mike Milo is a bit of a soft touch, kind to both animals and children.
