We no doubt live in the age of Brad Pitt, as others before us have
lived in the age of James Dean or Steve McQueen. The lean and handsome
Missourian, who drove out West in the late 1980’s and seduced Thelma and Louise on
the road, has settled into an iconic status.

He seems to be what he seems to be. There isn’t pretense, or fake
gloom, or wild smiles to please the crowds. When Pitt grins, there seems to be a
reason for it. But when he wants to be left alone…. leave him alone.

In the late afternoon sunlight, I once saw him drive up to Casa Vega in
Sherman Oaks. He stepped out of his black SUV in a ghostly haze of
cigarette smoke and handed his keys to the valet. He was wearing a white tank top
and rumpled khakis. His skin was brown and his blond hair shimmered.

Like McQueen, Pitt has acted in very few movies that are worthwhile.
What can you remember when you walk out of an “Ocean’s 11 or 12” or “Mr.
and Mrs. Smith” or McQueen’s “Bullitt”? You recall the actor’s movements, the
grace and the limbering athleticism: Stoic, contained, tough and
unreachably sad.

Pitt, a chain smoker, may end his life early and thereby achieve a
legendary immortality. Like McQueen and Dean, Pitt is headed for a quick exit as
he speeds through our lives. His beauty and honesty are as fleeting as
those fast moving, high summer cumulus clouds on the Great Plains.