Heard all the Hollywood hand-wringing about the death of the
movie star? About how the only things that can get people to the
box office are comic-book heroes and animated sequels? The people
who say this definitely haven't seen Magic Mike or Argo. The thing
is, the leading man isn't dead, but he's evolving into something a
little more complicated. Mark Harris explains the rules of leading
men and tells us who is one (Channing Tatum), who isn't (Taylor
Kitsch, at least not yet), and why

The ten highest-grossing movies of 2012 included the following:
Three adaptations of young-adult novels. Three adaptations of comic
books. Two cartoons. One installment in an action series. And one
original, non-franchise, live-action movie that was, technically,
aimed at adults.
Nine of the ten movies were, or were intended to generate, sequels.
The movie aimed at adults was about a man whose teddy bear talks to
him. None of this is news. We're all pretty familiar by now with
the not-so-brave, no-longer-so-new world of franchises and the
adult children who make them. What's most jolting about this list
is what's missing from it: movie stars.
I don't mean that they're literally absent: Recognizable men are
cast in lead roles. What's missing is, rather, the value stars
bring to a movie—a quality long thought to be one of the most
reliable and precious commodities in Hollywood. The
twenty-first-century movie business, judging by this list, appears
to be one in which Skyfall's Daniel Craig counts for neither more
nor less than Twilight's Robert Pattinson or The Hobbit's Martin
Freeman. It's a business in which you can get to $200 million or
$250 million by hiring Andrew Garfield (for The Amazing Spider-Man)
or David Schwimmer (for voice work on Madagascar 3). And notably,
it is a business in which you will not get to that top ten on the
back of someone like Johnny Depp or Brad Pitt, unless they get
there on the back of something like Pirates of the Caribbean 5 or
Ocean's Whatever.
It's hard to escape the logical conclusion: Movie stars just don't
matter anymore. Financially, sociologically, culturally, they're
either obsolete or doing a damn good job of pretending to be.
Whether it's because they stopped doing what movie stars are
supposed to do or we stopped wanting them to do it, here we all
are, apparently, in a post-movie-star universe in which the movies
seem to be doing just fine without the presence of an entire
category of people who have been, for the better part of the past
century, the main reason a lot of people went to the movies. And we
shouldn't be surprised. If, in 2013, our primary allegiances are to
genres and concepts and properties rather than to people, if our
biggest modern movie stars are Batman and Bourne and Wolverine and
James Bond, and if the most a flesh-and-blood actor can hope is to
be chosen to serve as the temporary avatar for one of those
characters, then what meaning can the term movie star possibly
have?
Plenty, it turns out. We still need movie stars. And perhaps more
surprisingly, we still have movie stars—lots of them, and
arguably a more talented and interesting variety than at any time
in the past thirty years. But they play by new rules, and they have
to navigate an industry that often seems hostile to their very
existence.
···
To make sense of the new movie star universe, it may help to
acknowledge that the very words movie star now seem like kryptonite
to half of Hollywood's A-list (and A-list aspirants). From Johnny
Depp, who is, lest there be any doubt, a movie star: "That 'movie
star' stuff, I just don't buy it; it just doesn't make sense to
me." From Steve Carell, who has worked very hard to try to become a
movie star: "I don't think of myself as a movie star... I'm an
actor, and I love my job." From Armie Hammer, the star of the
hugely expensive big-studio franchise-wannabe The Lone Ranger: "I
personally don't see myself...as a movie star."
This may all come under the heading of protesting too
much—the way the second somebody says, "I don't consider
myself wealthy," you know they're a lot closer to it than you are.
But you can't blame actors for running away from a term that reeks
of greed and compromise. Ever since the Reagan-era Wall Street boom
infected Hollywood with a bigger-is-better aesthetic and box-office
performance became a routine part of plugged-in chatter, the
industry and the press have welded the idea of stardom to money so
completely that it has been dumbed down all the way to the level of
elementary-school math. According to Hollywood and its observers, a
star is someone who can open a movie.
But to equate stardom with mere bank-ability ruins the
fun—unless your definition of fun is long and tortured
analytical discussions of whether Tom Cruise is "still a star,"
even though nobody wanted to see a man that short play Jack Reacher
or, for that matter, see a movie titled Jack Reacher. Beyond that,
it misses the truth. For one thing, some actors can indeed open
movies every single time and yet are not what we think of as movie
stars (specialty acts like Tyler Perry and single-niche performers
like Jason Statham), just as there are actors whose box-office
records may be spotty but whose stardom is indisputable (Pitt, for
one). By the numbers, Adam Sandler is a movie star, but only when
he makes an Adam Sandler movie. His stardom, like Abbott and
Costello's in the 1940s and Burt Reynolds's in the 1970s, is
extraordinarily consistent, but also dependent on satisfying rather
than challenging the modest expectations of his target audience.
When Sandler tried to break those chains, as he did in Punch-Drunk
Love and Funny People, he won over critics but lost his base. Stars
shouldn't be constrained by the fact that they do one thing
well—nor should the designation of movie star be subject to
such casual revision every time the grosses roll in. All stars have
flops; real stars survive them.