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When Tom Hanks won his first Oscar for Philadelphia in 1994 — playing the role of a lawyer with AIDS who fights back when his firm unlawfully fires him — the standing ovation was immediate. Even his competitors (Liam Neeson, who’d been nominated for Schindler’s List, and Anthony Hopkins, up for Howards End) stood and hugged him on his way to the podium. Hanks clutched the Oscar, looked up to the balcony, and began a well-practiced speech.
“Here’s what I know,” he declared, before talking about the perfection of his “lover” (Rita Wilson) and the impact of his high school drama teacher and classmate, both of whom are gay. “I wish my babies could have the same sort of teachers, the same sort of friends,” he explained, “and therein lies my dilemma tonight: I know that my work in this case is magnified by the fact that the streets in heaven are too crowded with angels.”
Hanks was referring to the victims of AIDS — and the fact that playing one, in the throes of death, defying discrimination, is what won him the Oscar. He continued by saying he hoped that the grace of the creator “cools their fevers,” “heals their skin,” and “allows their eyes to see the simple self-evident truth, that is made manifest by the benevolent creator of us all,” one that "was written down on paper, by wise men, tolerant men, in the city of Philadelphia 200 years ago.” The tears welling up in his eyes threatened to spill over, but he finished with a steady gaze: “God bless you all, God have mercy on us all, and God bless America.”
Tom Hanks at the 1994 Academy Awards.
Steven D Starr / Getty Images
Like Philadelphia, the speech was celebrated as a paragon of progressiveness — no matter that he didn’t say the word "AIDS," or that his call wasn’t for others to accept gay people, but for the gay people in heaven to understand that they should have been treated like humans when they were on earth. And while it’s easy to critique the ham-fisted attempts on the part of straight white people, 30 years ago, to figure out how to feel and act about gay people and the disease that was killing them en masse, the speech reflects the altruism and sincerity that has come to reside at the heart of the Tom Hanks image.
It’s that feeling of goodness that gets Hanks repeatedly compared to Jimmy Stewart, and which earned him the designation of Best Hollywood Star in 2015 — his fifth win since 2002. It’s what makes him the apotheosis of the goofy dad, the most inoffensive and unscandalous and overwhelmingly likable star in a business built on assholery.
To call Hanks “a classic Dad” is to speak of a specific, goofy, white middle-class Dad — a trope built on the pillars of white privilege, asexual masculinity, and nostalgia for a straightforward history of great men. It’s a place of spectacular safety, of seeming simplicity and straightforwardness. That Dad is also a Boomer Dad — who, like Hanks, came of age in the ’80s, ruled the ’90s, and who could still do little wrong in the 2000s. And today, that Dad is exhausted: Trying to keep up with multiculturalism and globalism and new understandings of what it means to be a good guy, it’s all so much.
Most Dads — the trope insists again and again — are idealized, if embarrassing: Dadness might have voted for George W. Bush; maybe Dadness even put on blackface for a Sammy Davis Jr. costume in the late ’80s. Dadness stopped saying “the gays” only relatively recently. But Dadness isn’t bigoted — Dadness is nothing if not well-intentioned, though those intentions are often firmly centered on the known parameters of its own existence.
In this way, Hanks’ image, his Dadness, is much like that of whiteness: eliding its own existence as an identity, thereby camouflaging the ways it wields power and steers the status quo. And like whiteness, people seldom question Tom Hanks’ success, his dominance, his choices: It’s just the way it is.
Hanks remains one of our most beloved and successful stars not by representing the new, however, but by embodying the flabby, comforting middle. Which isn’t to condemn him so much as to situate his success — something that his ostensible normalness has largely exempted him from. For one of the most important stars of the last 30 years, he’s astonishingly untheorized; his appeal, much like that of the Dad, has either been chalked up to sheer likability or ignored as benign. But that which doesn’t seem powerful or political is often potently so.
Abc Photo Archives / Getty Images
Most people understand Hanks through one of his iconic roles. Depending on your age, it might be Big, or Forrest Gump, or Cast Away. But to understand how Hanks arrived on his throne of peak Dadness and all that it represents, you have to go back to the early ’80s, when Hanks himself was just a young Dad. Back then, he was known only for his leading role in the sitcom Bosom Buddies, in which he played Buffy — one of two best friends who spent half their lives dressed as women so as to live in an all-women’s apartment building —and in which cross-dressing was played, as was typical at the time, for laughs. He was a young New Yorker on the take, living it up and hitting on women — he just happened to spend half of his life in dresses. That fraternity masculinity mixed with physical comedy would go on to become the heart of Hanks' ’80s appeal — though at the time he didn’t quite know how to harness it.
In 1988, Newsweek would declare that Hanks “was good from the beginning, and everybody knew it” and that “even people who didn’t like the show liked him.” But Hanks struggled to find work after Bosom Buddies. As producer Brian Grazer recalled, when he came in to audition for Splash, he had “everything at stake [...] They wouldn’t even let him read for Police Academy.” Chevy Chase, Michael Keaton, and John Travolta had already turned down the role. But Hanks walked into the audition in jeans, construction boots, and a work shirt — and amazed Grazer and Ron Howard, who was set to direct: “I’ve seen thousands of actors read for parts,” Grazer said in 1987, “and I’ve never seen anyone who looked as if he felt as comfortable with himself.”
That comfort, and its byproduct, confidence, helped sell the story of man who falls in love with a mermaid, and formed the basis for his image as “normal guy thrust into abnormal situation,” a premise that, at least in the ‘80s, always involved women. He had, as the Washington Post put it, “a slightly harassed, gently sarcastic air” about him; he was a little rude, a little manic, a little bit of a turd.
Hanks' "glib years" in Bachelor Party, Volunteers, and Nothing in Common.
20th Century Fox, Tristar
Hanks rode the $69 million success of Splash to a slew of quick-hit pictures: amplifying his rascality in Bachelor Party, which Hanks would later call “a sloppy rock-and-roll comedy that has tits in it”; The Man With One Shoe, which disappeared after an anemic $8 million gross; the bonkers Money Pit and forgettable Nothing in Common and the easy appeal of Dragnet, a remake of the classic ’60s television show that paired Hanks with Dan Aykroyd. He was making films at a ridiculous pace, in part, as he was later quick to admit, because he said yes to everything — he’d been poor for so long that everything looked great, even the stinkers. Esquire went so far as to call them the “largely inconsequential Glib Years.”
Somewhere in the middle of that glibness Hanks also made 1985’s Volunteers, playing an Ivy League douche who flees his gambling debts by going into the Peace Corps only to fall in love with Beth, played by future wife Rita Wilson. It’s a classic ’80s comedy, which is to say it has a thin, vaguely thought-through premise, and is heavily reliant on racist jokes and tropes of varying degrees of explicitness. But it also put Hanks in three-piece suits — “I play a very cool guy with a Bostonian accent and I’m dressed real nice,” as Hanks put it — which, along with his wise-cracking personality, prompted the widespread comparisons to Cary Grant. “A youthful avatar of romantic comedy,” a Rolling Stone profile declared, “the rightful heir to Cary Grant.”
Hanks on the cover of Esquire in 1987.
Esquire
That idea was solidified by an Esquire cover story that paired a photo of Hanks in white pants, a blue suit coat, and a handkerchief with the promise to teach readers 'How to Look Like a Page Out of Esquire.' Inside, Hanks is dressed in more Waspy outfits, leering at women whose faces are carefully obscured. In the profile, he admits that when he goes to the men’s clothing store, he requests “a suit like Lieutenant Castillo wears on Miami Vice.” It all feels rather lecherous — and the opposite of what we’ve come to associate with Hanks today.
The positioning of Hanks as a sex symbol felt wrong, in part because Hanks-on-the-prowl required accessing the part of the average-looking guy who’s bitter that he doesn’t, in fact, look like Cary Grant. Leering Hanks also wasn’t drawing audiences in nearly the way it used to. Hanks knew that, or at least knew that the Cary Grant comparisons were wrong. As he told People, “I’d most like to be like Jimmy Stewart.” He hated the Esquire photo shoot, the look of which he later described as “sleazy French golf pro.” And he was increasingly sick of playing the sly, the put-upon, the exasperated. He complained that critics had taken to introducing their reviews with “Here’s Tom Hanks being another smart-ass jerk.”
Hanks knew he didn’t look like a traditional movie star. He said he had a “bizarre body,” with “a big ass and fat thighs,” “a goofy-looking nose, ears that hang down, eyes that look like I’m part Chinese and are a funny color,” “really small hands and feet, long limbs, narrow shoulders, and a gut I’ve got to keep watching,” and hair that “makes me look like a Talmudic scholar.” Not looking the part, however, gave Hanks an air of reliability, of what film scholars have termed the “Average Joe” — a role that he had periodically leaned into while saying yes to every film in sight, but never so deeply, so perfectly, as in 1988’s Big.
In playing a boy who finds himself in a man’s body, Hanks matured as well. The goofy boyness didn’t go away — there he was munching on mini-corn, gargling chocolate sauce, and calling top bunk when Elizabeth Perkins asked if they were going to have a sleepover — but all the lechery was stripped away. There were no more attempts to capture the knowingness of Grant; instead, Hanks settled into the moonfaced wonder of Stewart. And it helped make Big one of the biggest hits of the year, grossing a massive $151 million worldwide.
Big rebooted Hanks' career and turned him into a bona fide movie star. But he was anxious that his image was becoming overdetermined with niceness: When he made the cover of Newsweek, he hated that the cover image was one of him smirking. “There are some really nice, handsome photographs of me,” he said, “and they used the one where I’ve got this goofy look on my face.” The Newsweek profile — like a gig hosting Saturday Night Live that also riffed heavily on his nice-guy-ness — was ostensibly promoting Punchline, a difficult film about a med student turned aspiring stand-up comedian. But audiences wanted Big Hanks, and the movie, despite winning positive reviews, proved a disappointment at the box office.
Sitting for a Playboy interview in March 1989, Hanks comes off as both frustrated with and resigned to his image. “I think they confused my not caring about a lot of things with being nice. I just show up for these things — photo shoots and stuff — and say ‘Hi, what do you want me to do?’ They get to do whatever they want and I don’t care about whatever they want and I don’t care what clothes they put on me or anything like that. But it’s not like I’m being a nice guy — I simply don’t care. Life’s too short to worry about that.” When asked why the word “vulnerable” comes up in articles about him, he replied, “Fine, great. Vulnerable. Also: ‘He appears so crushable.’ Yeah, fine. I don’t know anybody who isn’t.”
Hanks knew how other people wanted to see him, but he didn’t know if he liked it himself: thus the half-assery of Turner & Hooch, a massive hit in which he’s paired with a slobbering dog, but for which, he recalled thinking, “We just worked ourselves into the grave, and in the end, I thought, ‘Did I really work this hard and invest all this care for a movie called Turner & Hooch?'”
There was The Burbs, in which Hanks faces off against suburbia — with a poster that proclaimed, "A comedy about one nice guy who got pushed too far" — and Joe Versus the Volcano, which is essentially the same idea filtered through something like a film student’s senior thesis. Volcano somehow grossed $39 million and has, today, become a cult classic in its badness. But at the time, it was sign of Hanks’ potential slowly seeping from him. That idea was ratified in what Hanks and others agree to be the nadir of his career: Bonfire of the Vanities.
Hanks in Joe Versus the Volcano, Turner & Hooch, and Bonfire of the Vanities.
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