Part of the reason I'd never really watched It's a Wonderful Life is that my father does a very accurate Jimmy Stewart impression. He does it very often and very insistently. He has done this since I was very young. It was funny when I was a child, embarrassing when I was a tween, tiresome when I was a teenager, and by the time I had become an adult, it was background noise that I would really rather do without. Like Maroon 5.
This is all to say: I was over Mr. Stewart and his entire oeuvre before he ever had a chance.
The association between Jimmy Stewart and my father, if you will sit with me in radical vulnerability for a moment, is going to make the rest of this piece very uncomfortable for both you and me. But it will be doubly uncomfortable for him, if he ever reads this, because he's a homophobe.
The first year I watched It's a Wonderful Life — really watched it, not just like, had-it-on-in-English-class watched it — I was in my mid-30s. And as the movie went on, it became increasingly clear why it is considered both a cinematic masterpiece and a Christmas classic. It's not just the writing or acting or direction or cinematography or whatever Oscars are for; it's that James Maitland Stewart, born May 20, 1908, in Indiana, Pennsylvania, is a stone-cold hottie of the silver screen.
It becomes apparent at a certain point during the movie that Mr. Stewart is tall. I mean this in a sexual way. He's 6 feet, 3 inches tall, trim, and, if you're objectifying him the way I do at this special time of year, you will notice that he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and long, graceful limbs. He was a very well-proportioned young man. And you know what they say about well-proportioned young men.
Which is why, as my husband sat across the living room on the loveseat, experiencing the kind of movie magic only Nicole Kidman could describe, I was reclined on the couch, phone in hand and browser in private mode, furiously googling "jimmy stewart dick size."
Because you and I both know he's swinging some wonderful pipe.
When that man fell into the swimming pool toward the beginning of the film, I prayed that he would emerge in a pair of translucent-wet white drawers, sporting a VPL (visible penis line). I would even have settled for a VPL after he gets out of the freezing water later in the movie, after he rescues what's-his-face. I could still have gotten a rough measurement then, doing the math to account for shrinkage. But I got nothing. He remained fully clothed. And I know we were doing morals back then, but I still consider this an appalling discourtesy — no, a crime. Frank Capra, you gotta give me something to work with.
We unfortunately don't get anywhere close to a BDR (big dick reveal) during the film. Which bites, because — if I have not yet made this clear — 38-year-old Jimmy Stewart is a very handsome man with a period-appropriate yet kickin' bod, and feelings arise. One wants to peep that rear window. To discover how the west was won. To take Mr. Smith all the way down to Washington town.
In some random internet forums I found, anonymous posters suggest that he was big-dicked, queer, and slutty — which are three of my favorite attributes in a man. (But no sources were cited, so I know not to take these posts at face value, and that's called media literacy, which is very important when researching Old Hollywood dick.) I imagine there are answers in books somewhere, but what am I supposed to do, go to the circulation desk at my local library and ask for the Dewey decimal code for cock lengths?
Also, my father's name is James and my mom called him Jimmy. We never circled back to the upsetting truth I promised.
My google search, thorough though it was, did not return any dick pics or definitive measurements. Surprised? No. Disappointed? Yes. I mean, it's Christmas! It's the season for miracles! Zooey Deschanel and Mary Steenburgen got that sled in the air — miracle. Mara Wilson got a new house and convinced Kris Kringle to knock up her mom by way of Dylan McDermott* — miracle. That bitch Virginia got her Santa Claus — miracle. Where the fuck is my miracle? Where is the length of Jimmy Stewart's penis? Flaccid or erect, I'm not even picky at this point!
I repeat this google every year, hoping and praying that some centenarian size queen out there has finally written his sexual memoirs. Every year it's nothing, nil, zero, zilch, beans. And it occurs to me as I write this: Perhaps it's a simple miracle-related technicality. Perhaps it's because I never asked in the proper Yuletide fashion. If that's the case, please allow me to do so now.
Dear Santa: Jimmy Stewart dick size?
*Mark my words, we will be watching Miracle on 34th Street in the year 2072 asking the exact same questions about Dylan McDermott's penis. If someone could consensually document this information in detail now, it will really help some idiot 50 years from now. That idiot might even be me.
