In 1928, Wayne began playing bit roles in the films of Ford and others, initially unbilled or billed as Duke Morrison, and in 1930, he was given his first real break when Ford recommended him to director Raoul Wash for the lead part in the Western epic, "The Big Trail". A tall (six feet four), strong and silent type, he subsequently rode tall in the saddle in innumerable other low-budget Westerns, serials, and sundry forgettable films after "The Big Trail" failed to click with audiences.

For eight years he languished as the hero of some 80 films and seemed firmly entrenched in the position of a low-paid lowly star when Ford, who had remained a close friend, cast Wayne in the role of the Ringo Kid in his Western classic, "Stagecoach" (1939).

The success of the film provided the turning point in Wayne's career and the impetus for a hero's image that over the years has assumed mythical proportions. Year by year, often in films directed by Ford, Wayne developed into one of the biggest box-office attractions the screen has ever known. As he matured and his features began to crack, Wayne's image came even more to embody the American spirit. Usually garbed in a cowboy's outfit or an officer's uniform, he came to project the essence of strength and confidence on his many bigger-than-life roles as a crusader for just causes and a leader of men. Compared to many actors, he spoke little, but as Ford once observed, "what he said meant something."

In addition to cementing his stardom, Ford Westerns of the 40s and 50s also gave Wayne an opportunity to display depth and poignancy, particularly in the role of Captain Nathan Brittles, the aging cavalry officer reluctant to end a way of life in "She Wore a Yellow Ribbon". Equally defining was his role as the harsh, uncompromising Tom Dunson leading a cattle drive in Howard Hawks' "Red River".

Less sympathetic than any of his previous performances, Wayne's new take on his trademark stoicism prompted Ford to remark, "I never knew the big son of a bitch could act." In his 1956 film, "The Searchers", he offered what may be his most complete role, that of obsessed Indian hunter Ethan Edwards. Both frightening in his determination and moving in his inability to become part of society, he embodies both sides of the myth of the Western frontier.

As his screen persona projected American values, so too did Wayne the public figure project the image of the ultra-American, a superpatriot in the most rigid Old Guard style. During the McCarthy era, he helped form the Motion Picture Alliance for the Preservation of American Ideals and eventually became the group's president. A fundamentalist and a superhawk, he made the Vietman War a personal crusade and paid it a Technicolor tribute as the co-director and star of "The Green Berets" (1968). It was his second film as director. In 1960, he had produced, directed, and starred in "The Alamo", the gallant saga of the historical event he saw as a metaphor for America.

Wayne was the father of seven and the grandfather of 16 from his three marriages, all to women of Latin extraction. His son, Michael (born November 23, 1934, Los Angeles, California) was in charge of Wayne's own production company. Batjac Productions, and produced his father's later films. The younger Patrick Wayne is a screen actor.

At the end of 40 years as a screen star during which he appeared in some 250 films, Hollywood paid its highest tribute to John Wayne when it awarded him the Best Actor Oscar for the performance as a hard-drinking Western marshal with an eye patch in "True Grit" (1969). However, it is his final film, "The Shootist", which provides the more genuine coda to his career. As long-time killer John Bernard Books attempting to live his last days dying of cancer in peace, he more accurately reflected the decline of the Western and the personal fight he had been waging for years. Off-screen, Wayne had recovered from three major operations. In 1963 he had a cancerous lung removed, in 1978 he underwent open-heart surgery, and in 1979 he had his stomach removed. Until his death he showed remarkable courage. A Congressional Medal was struck in his honor, a tribute to the man who, as Joan Didion said in her essay on Wayne, "determination forever the shape of certain of our dreams".