Martyred saints are great and all, worthy of remembrance and veneration.
But maybe every leap year, we ought to lend February 14th to Rudolph Valentino, a veritable secular saint of fame. Here’s to the spoiled brat who became a busboy, then became a taxi dancer, then possibly a gigolo and maybe a petty thief, until finally (after briefly trying his hand at opera) he found the place that cinematic history had reserved for him. He went from being an undisciplined Italian kid with an unpronouncable name (Guglielmi), destined for life as a simple farmer, to becoming the very epitome of 1920s masculinity on the Silver Screen.
What’s that? You say your saints must suffer? Valentino did, certainly.
Had he achieved, out of nothing, a vast and dizzy success? Then that success was hollow as well as vast — a colossal and preposterous nothing. Was he acclaimed by yelling multitudes? Then every time the multitudes yelled he felt himself blushing inside . . .
Here was a young man who was living daily the dream of millions of other men. Here was one who was catnip to women. Here was one who had wealth and fame. And here was one who was very unhappy.*
Sounds familiar, particularly if you’ve read the cover story of this week’s Rolling Stone. Just shift the pronouns gender-wise, replace “blushing inside” with “freaking out violently in shopping mall dressing room,” and we’re no longer talking about Valentino at all.
So this raises the question … could anyone ask their beloved to be their “Valentino” with a clear conscience? Or to bring it up to date, “Be My … Britney?”
On second thought, we’re probably better off letting the martyred saint keep the 14th. Far less depressing that way.
(Happy Valentine’s Day, all.)
(Photo from Dr Macro’s High Quality Movie Scans)
