Bernarr Macfadden, once a colossus of American media, is now
a footnote - deservedly so, some might say. In the 1920s and ’30s, his empire
of pulp and spectacle reached millions. His tabloids and magazines - Liberty,
True Detective, Photoplay, and the gloriously trashy New York
Graphic - were devoured by a public hungry for scandal, sentiment, and
semi-nudity. He was the proto-Rupert Murdoch, though with less polish and more
sweat.
Born sickly in the backwoods of Missouri, Macfadden clawed
his way to prominence with Physical Culture, a magazine preaching
health, fitness, and dietary lunacy. He renamed himself “Bernarr” because it
sounded like a lion’s roar - subtlety was never his strong suit. By the 1920s,
he was rich, influential, and utterly shameless. He hobnobbed with presidents
and peddled quack cures, all while dodging obscenity charges for his racy
covers.
Macfadden fancied himself a political messiah, running for
president on a platform of low taxes, xenophobia, deregulation, and moral panic - the
usual stew. He was a narcissist of the purest strain, indifferent to ridicule
and addicted to attention. His prose was earnest and awful, his thinking
muddled and mystical. He cheated on his wives, mistreated his children, and
preached virtue with the fervor of a man who had little.
Yet, for all his bombast, he did champion ideas now
considered sensible: exercise, moderation, and a diet light on meat. He was
mocked by the medical establishment, and rightly so, for pushing raw milk and
“dynamic tension” calisthenics. But he also helped popularize health
consciousness in a country that sorely needed it.
This biography, rich in interviews and primary sources, captures Macfadden’s contradictions with wit and clarity. It’s a valuable read for anyone interested in media history, tabloid culture, or the strange American obsession with self-improvement. Macfadden was a crank, a clown, and a visionary - often all at once.
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