When I was a college boy, one of my history professors argued persuasively, if self-interestedly, that pink was the medieval European color of manliness—it was the color of living flesh, of manly health. And I certainly admire the pinks one sees in Renaissance paintings. But I’ve never been able to see the good of it in our lives. When a man puts on a suit, it had better be dark blue. Maybe a light pink shirt would go well with summer linens, to remind ladies that we are at leisure. But men in pink is decadence, and today we call that decadence Barbie.
For my part, I prefer to go the way of men and see Oppenheimer, the historical drama (including the damned commies), and nuclear explosions. It’s great—go see it as often as you can, especially in IMAX. I think if you do it once a week throughout its run, it’ll change your life. Best thing you can do this summer. It’s a big hit, too. But nothing compared to Barbie, which debuted to around $400 million globally. I didn’t see such success coming, because I avoid the vast gossipy majority of social media—Instagram, especially. It’s too late to stop it now; it’s an astonishing cultural phenomenon because it’s mothers and daughters at the movies, in pink. It’s the consequence of a decade of Taylor Swift success. Men should be ashamed of themselves. Nothing less than America—the great modern republic of the ordinary life in which it is possible for us to have self-respect—is on the line.
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