In March, the second most tragic death of a woman, in the last 50 years, finally happened, and every red-blooded man should be in mourning. Not just for Ernestine Jane Geraldine Russell ,born in Bemidji, Minnesota, USA, in 1921, who was to become one of the two most desired women on the planet, especially after teaming up with Marylin Monroe, in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, but for the passing of an era.
Jane Russell, as we knew her, was discovered by Billionaire Howard Hughes, who was naturally smitten, and promoted her heavily, pushing her into films. The Outlaw, from which several of the shots in this post originate, was the movie that made her a star, because she oozed sex from every pore, and had baying in the moonlight for more of her, but it wasn’t who she was that truly mattered, but what she represented.
She was from an age in recent history, when what men longed for in a girl was shapeliness, but cuddliness too. A girl had to be girly, curves in the right places, to be sure, but she needed to have generous hips, prominent breasts and generally be what, by today’s ridiculous standards, would be considered a big girl, if she wanted to attract the wolf-whistles.
This glorious feminine trait, so rightly popular in the middle of the twentieth century, harked back to a time when ancient men needed their ladies to be nice and meaty, for the sake of raising children, and slimmer ladies would never have got a look-in. Where the obsession sprang from, that pencil-thin was perfection is a mystery to many men, myself included, because deep down, men want girls to be, as Jane Russell most certainly was, voluptuous and sexy, all at once.
Those golden days of cinema, when every male within males would be irresistibly drawn to posters of films featuring their female goddesses, were also the days when ladies wanted to be as feminine as these sublime creatures, and would happily carry a few extra pounds, in the right places, if that was what it took to get the men interested. Big girls were big business, and certainly as sexy as hell.
The ridiculous part of the whole story is that Russell was anything but a feminist, though she had been a real tomboy in her youth, preferring jeans and shirts to dresses. As she herself put it, a man should be head of a household, a woman the heart of it, and this was the way nature intended it to be. She only ever made about twenty movies, and is best remembered for only two or three roles, but her legend was immense.
This wonderfully sexy lady gave a whole new meaning to femininity, along with Monroe, by letting herself be portrayed in the shameless hussy style that men found so appealing. She opened the eyes of women all over the world, to the simple truth of size being unimportant when it came to sexuality, showing that any girl can be a sex-siren, whatever her size, if she puts her mind to it.
That is, I very much regret to note, the legacy that was somehow buried, under the wieght of supposedly popular opinion, when genetically flawed individuals told the rest of us that big was no longer the buzz-word, having been replaced by skinny. Not for me, though, and I hope, not for you other guys and girls out there, who remember well how glorious it was, celebrating the sexuality of big girls with gay abandon.
For me, I long for those days to return, and am deeply saddened that the world has lost this iconic lady, who did so much to further the cause of the well-endowed females of this world. As far as I, and every other red-blooded male should be concerned, we lost a genuine treasure here, and we should shout from the rooftops, before the message disappears into the mists of time, that big truly can be beautiful, if you only take the trouble to look closely.