On Elizabeth Taylor and Being TOO Gay

Every now and then I find myself asking, am I too gay?

If you just asked whether such a thing really exists, the answer is “Hell, yes!” Haven't you seen those over-the-top gents flouncing about on The Jerry Springer Show in pointlessly tight clothing, wrists akimbo, stretching the letter “s” to perilous lengths, and, to borrow a phrase from an old showtune, “flaming with all the glow of sunrise?”

Granted, I am not that sort of head-turning caricature, but I enjoy indulging in a bit of camp as much as the next gay man. (Some cozy night by the fire, I may regale you with tales of how I once won donned full drag to host a talent show while impersonating Joan Rivers, sans facial reconstruction. Yup, I admit – I am that gay.) My proverbial Lavender Elite Card has been stamped “active member” for more than three decades, and because I authored Musicals101.com, I am even immortalized in the charming book How the Homosexuals Saved Civilization (if you don’t believe me, look it up – I’m in there). So it is only natural that I occasionally find myself wondering if I have finally stumbled a few steps beyond the boundary between gay and (Oh Mary, don't ask) too gay.

Such was the case the other day when I heard about the death of Elizabeth Taylor. While others were recalling her various films, marriages, tragedies, friendships and philanthropies, I have the sneaking suspicion that I may have been the only person on earth whose first reaction was to recall her as a song lyric. In the hilarious off-Broadway revue Whoop-Dee-Doo!, someone impersonating an effusive fan warbled the refrain, “I love you Elizabeth Taylor-Hilton-Wilding Todd-Fisher-Burton-Burton-Warner . . . -Fortensky,” openly hoping that Liz would remember his bid, since (in the wake of her marriage to the much younger Larry Fortensky) she was apparently “into romance with a kid.”

Remembering someone’s full name because it was in a lyric? If that doesn’t prove I’m too gay, then what (short of writing the song in question) would? Hell, I haven’t felt that gay since I led a contingent in the New York Pride Parade while singing showtunes on a bullhorn. (Hey, you have go a long way to be one of the homos who saved civilization!)

My warped mind then turned to the two screen musicals Taylor appeared in. She got her start as a child actress at MGM, where every performer under contract had to be willing to appear in musicals. Four years after winning international stardom in National Velvet, Taylor was seen synching her lips to someone else’s voice in A Date With Judy (1948), ostensibly crooning “It’s a Most Unusual Day.”

Unfortunately, three decades later, Taylor sang for herself in the screen version of A Little Night Music (1977). Although gorgeous and dramatically effective as Desiree, her singing was one of the film’s chief liabilities. Unanimously dismissive reviews made the film a “must miss.” Attending the film’s opening day in Manhattan, I was one of only eleven people in a rather large theatre.

Did you know that Taylor almost filmed yet another Sondheim musical? In the late 1970s, there were plans to produce an all-star screen version of Follies, with the divine Liz playing Phyllis, a role originated on Broadway by Alexis Smith. Imagine the oft-divorced Taylor tackling “Could I Leave You?” For better or worse, plans for this project never jelled.

I saw Taylor on Broadway twice; first in a brilliant revival of The Little Foxes and then in a decidedly less-brilliant revival of Private Lives – which nevertheless provided a priceless moment when Richard Burton took his then ex-wife in his arms and uttered Noel Coward’s glorious line, “Deep down in my deepest heart, I want you back again.” (I’ll never forget the way that audience gasped!) Like millions of others, I treasure her searing performance as Martha in the film version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966). Taylor set aside any hint of her vaunted Hollywood glamour, turning herself into a coarse, braying uber-bitch. It led to her winning the Academy Award – her second – and rarely has the honor been so richly deserved.

In recent weeks, as Taylor's health worsened, it was rather sad to see the slimier supermarket tabloids gleefully competing to dig up the most ghoulish available photos of her. So when death finally came, there was a special satisfaction when the front page of every legitimate newspaper emblazoned with breathtaking photos from her glory years. To the end, Elizabeth Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Burton Warner Fortensky was one of a kind, and it is fair to say that her extraordinary presence made this planet a slightly more interesting and endurable place for the rest of us.

And if saying that makes me too gay, then light the candles, get the ice out and roll the rug up. (Ye gods, another showtune . . .)

Rubberneckers - Don't Call Them Theatre-goers

Last week, while commuting to a course I teach at Philadelphia's University of the Arts, the bus I was on got stuck in a snails-pace traffic jam on the New Jersey Turnpike. After thirty minutes, we came upon the cause of the snarl, a dump truck loaded with scrap metal which had overturned on the opposite side of the highway. Despite some rather scary looking piles of twisted steel, no one appeared to be injured. The debris and the people dealing with it were all on the other side of the road. The only things slowing us down were those moronic drivers who had to stop and gawk. One of my fellow bus passengers grumbled, "Hell, there isn't any blood over there. Why bother slowing down?"

Perhaps it is in our human nature to crave a look at disaster, so long as it is someone else's. That certainly explains why the media continues to focus on the spectacular public implosion of Charlie Sheen, even though many, including myself, have long since stopped giving a rat's extremity about this superannuated Brat Pack wanna-be (I am old enough to point out that his far more talented and attractive brother Emilio was a legitimate Pack member, and had the good sense to grow up.) This morning, the network news shows put off reporting on such trifles as our two wars in the Mideast or the deadly rebellion in Libya, and instead lead off with footage of Sheen looking like an embattled dictator facing rebellion as he wildly waved a machete on the roof of a Los Angeles hotel and vowed vengeance on the studio executives who just (and justly) fired him from his obscenely overpaid role on Two and a Half Men. It seems that, no matter how low this pathetic man goes, the media (and a depressingly large percentage of the public) will remain glued to his every misstep, nurturing the hope that they will get be watching live when Sheen's boundless megalomania comes to some kind of a bloody climax.

This obsession with rubbernecking would explains why people continue to fork over small fortunes to see Spiderman Turn Off the Dark. Aside from having a hilariously clunky title, this so-called musical has left two cast members seriously injured, over a hundred thousand ticket buyers poorly entertained, and every critic in New York howling that the show is a disaster. The New York Times (which has a sad propensity of late to praise ghastly musicals) went so far as to describe Spiderman as "one of the worst musicals in history." Now, word has it that the show's producers are planning more rewrites, necessitating yet another postponement of their frequently delayed opening night. Despite all this, according to Playbill.com, Spiderman filled 85% of its seats last week, pulling in a whopping $1.28 million at the box office, a figure only outdone by one Broadway competitor, the long-running Wicked.

At this point, no one can seriously claim that they are attending Spiderman in hopes of seeing a good show, or even a passable "work in progress." Millions of people who routinely ignore Broadway are now quite aware that this so-called show is a $65 million (and by now that official figure must have ballooned to one far higher) mega-flop. So I suggest the press stop referring to anyone attending Spiderman as "theatre-goers." Call them what they are -- rubberneckers, dimwitted thrill-seekers hoping to witness the next bloody accident. Its not about the story or even about the songs; its about watching a disaster in the making, with the added forbidden hope that one may get to see another performer meet a painful, perhaps even blood-soaked fate.

Considering the number of people who are currently making a living by providing coverage of the devolution of Charlie Sheen, I daresay the producers of Spiderman may find enough paying rubberneckers dumb enough to cover at least part of their ill-advised investment.

Blogging Again: Once More, With Feeling

After a rather long break, I am resuming the Musicals101 blog. The reason for the time off was simple, if not downright clichéd: yours truly spent the last two years going through his midlife crisis. Dumped by my longtime companion of 20-plus years, and beset by a resulting swarm of financial and emotional challenges, I found it impossible to create new posts. (To those who wrote in, my sincere thanks for your kind concern – it was reassuring to know so many people cared.) It was all I could do to maintain Musicals101.com and continue a reduced lecture schedule. Lecturing is one of the sustaining joys of my life, and the talks I gave over these past two years were a constant source of motivation and emotional renewal.

As 2011 dawns, I am happy to report that life is much brighter. On a personal note, I now am in a new and very rewarding relationship. Professionally, I am getting busier. Along with the course I teach at NYU’s Steinhardt School each spring, I am now offering a year-long course at the Brind School, part of the University of the Arts in Philadelphia. I am also offering several talks for members of the National Council of Jewish Women NY Section, and a course on “Musicals as History” for the Five Towns Senior Center’s adult education program in Hewlett, NY. And I continue a longstanding series of afternoon talks for the Golden Age Club at the Jewish Center of Kew Gardens Hills.

Along with these, I am continuing my multi-media “Theatre Chat” series at New York’s Sutton Place Synagogue on Sunday, Feb. 27^th with a 1:30 PM talk entitled “Screen to Stage: When Films Become Broadway Musicals.” There was a time when critics and ticket buyers were hostile to movies adapted for the stage . . . now it is rare to find a new musical that is not based on a hit film. What changed, and why? With Sister Act, Catch Me If You Can and Priscilla Queen of the Desert coming to Broadway, this is certainly a timely topic, and you can count on me to pull no punches in discussing the best and worst musicals to come from this ongoing trend. (Admission for the general public is $10; for reservations or further information, call 212-593-3300).

Speaking of “pulling no punches,” you can expect the same from me in this blog. My goal is to post new articles here on a weekly basis, offering my take on events in musical theatre and other topics of interest. So please stop by regularly, and I’ll do my best to make it worth the effort. You may not always agree with what I have to say, but odds are you won’t be bored. I’m ready to make new friends, and even to risk making some new enemies . . . and that’s as good a definition of “being alive” as any I can think of.

Now what’s this I hear about Beyonce doing a remake of A Star is Born? Won’t it be fun to stick with Garland's glorious version on DVD and stay away from this new cinematic abortion . . .

Heroes

It is amazing how quickly people forget. On Sept. 11, 2001, I had thought all of America had learned to have new respect for the word "hero." But in the eight years that have gone by, I have heard that word hurled at all sorts of people.

The one that infuriates me is when any over-paid professional athlete is called a "hero." Excuse me? A criminal like Michael Vick is not any sane person's idea of a hero. Only that rare athlete that triumphs over a physical challenge or illness deserves to be called a hero. I, for one, would stand and cheer for Lance Armstrong or figure skater Scott Hamilton anytime, anywhere.

I could even understand athletes who can lay claim to landmark achievements being seen as heroes -- the longtime grace and talent of New York Yankee Derek Jeter are worth celebrating, worth emulating. But such should be the exception -- not the rule.

On Sept. 11, 2001, a small army of police and firemen ran into unspeakable danger at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon when everyone else was desperately trying to run away. Those men and women were heroes. So were the many thousands of rescue workers who labored at those attack sites, compromising their health -- they too were heroes, and some have already paid with their lives, and many are being denied help with crippling medical costs. Shame on our country for treating these heroes so shabbily!

All sports commentators please take note: let's treat the word "hero" with greater care. Label "stars" and "celebrities" as what they are -- heroes are just that . . . heroes.

Ernest Borgnine, Lying Coward

In 1964, many an eyebrow was raised when Ethel Merman married Ernest Borgnine. Foreheads fell back into place when the marriage ended after just a few days. Merman filed for divorce on the grounds of extreme cruelty, and neither she nor Borgnine would ever publicly discuss what was obviously a very painful experience for both of them.

Well, Mr. Borgnine has finally decided to vomit on his ex-wife's memory. In his recently published 2008 autobiography and interviews relating to it, Borgnine claims that other passengers on their honeymoon cruise did not recognize Merman, setting her into a rage that led to the quick break-up. So if you believe Borgnine, one of the most infamous break-ups in show business history occurred because he was better known than Merman.

What anobvious load of crap! While it is true that in 1964 Borgnine was an Academy Award-winning actor and star of the popular sitcom McHales Navy, Merman had been a stage and screen star for three decades, and had just enjoyed international acclaim in the hit comedy film It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World (1963). A frequent guest on television's top rated talk and variety shows, Merman was one of the most recognizable celebrities in America. To suggest that her fame was substantially less than Borgnine's is not just a lie, but a clumsy one.

The fact that Borgnine is now 92 does not make his attack on Merman any less despicable. Interviews make it obvious that he is clear headed and in full control of his faculties, so he knows what he is saying. To do this when Merman is no longer around to tell her side of the story forever marks Borgnine as a coward, and a lying coward at that. If there was one ounce of truth in what Borgnne says, he could have told his side of the story when Merman was alive with little to fear. No, he waited until she was dead for a quarter century to spew this vile nonsense. Whatever the truth of the Borgnine-Merman marriage is, it is clearly so humiliating to Borgnine that he finds it necessary to close out his life by lying about it.

Shame on you, Mr. Borgnine. Whatever you have been as an actor, you are finally nothing but a disgrace as a human being. You will soon join Merman in death, and this is how you will be remembered -- as a lying coward. Rest assured that plenty of us will mark you as such for decades to come.

And a p.s. to Robert Osbourne of TCM -- you can call yourself a "journalist and film historian" all you lie, but your interview of Mr. Borgnine makes it clear that you are neither. Any journalist or historian would have challenged Borgnine's cowardly attack on Merman. By merely sitting there and nodding as he heaped calumny on the dead, you proved to be nothing more than another fawning TV celebrity brown nose. You are an embarassment to those of us who treat show business history as a serious subject, and have about as much right to call yourself a journalist-historian as Tyra Banks.

Hopes -- and a Suggestion -- for the New Year, 2009

New Year's resolutions have never been my style. I instinctively mistrust any decision that is motivated by a change in calendars. However, I am prone to spend the last hours of any year giving some time to reflection on what is past, and on empowering good things for the year to come.

It seems 2008 was a kicker for most everyone, so I cannot say mine was particularly tough. But mine was a year packed with change, some of which was delish, and some of which was hellish. Some friends had it far tougher than I, so I'm not complaining. Still, I cannot say I will regret letting the year slip into the past.

My hopes for 2009 are many, but here are a few:

• That the worldwide financial crisis will inspire people, companies and nations to re-think the way they do things.
• That the United States will resign from its self-appointed role as the world's cop, especially when its own moral house is in such disorder.
• That the professional theatre (musical and otherwise) will survive this rough time and rediscover that talent and wit matter more than money or hydraulics.
• That contemporary rock and rap music will go back to hell and disappear from the musical stage (yeah, I know -- about as likely as AIDS and cancer spontaneously disappearing from the planet).
• That the purveyors of political hate draped in the trappings of religion will drown in their hypocrisy, and that voters will realize that denying rights to anyone endangers the rights of all.
• That America will give it's new president time to get a handle on the chaos it took Bush and his crew eight long years to create and deepen.
• That Broadway will get a glorious, tuneful ad totally new musical that audiences will still love when it is revived 60 years from now.
• That your greatest hope for the new year will be fulfilled, and that all of us will know love, health and prosperity.

And along with all the hopes, here's a suggestion: get this new year off to a good karmic start by committing at least one act of spontaneous kindness. Hold a door for a stranger, throw an extra dollar onto a tip, give a harried salesperson a sincere compliment -- whatever comes your way. Not everyone can be nice all of the time, but none of us can do it too often either.

Lansbury's Birthday Gift to Broadway

Instead of waiting for the world to give her a gift, she went and gave us one -- how classy can you get?

In my last blog, I innocently mused that if the upcoming revival of Blithe Spirit could come up with an exciting choice for the role of Madame Arcati, “the potential for theatrical magic will be damn near unbearable.” Little did I know that no less than Angela Lansbury would be taking on the role. Lansbury back on Broadway? Suddenly the word “magic” seems inadequate.

It is only just over a years since Lansbury appeared in Deuce, but I think I speak for most of her fans when I say how much we hoped that well-intentioned but unsatisfying play would not be her last Broadway hurrah. Lansbury is one of the most incandescent stars of my theatergoing lifetime. My sincere hope is that she has many years of excellent health ahead, but let’s be honest – few actors have held forth on Broadway through their eighth decade, and the divine Angela is now 83. Madame Acarti is precisely the kind of larger than life character that Lansbury excels at playing, and I can think of no one more suited to make every word of Noel Coward’s dialogue sparkle.

That Lansbury will be sharing the stage with Christine Ebersole and Rupert Everett makes this the sort of exciting, power-packed theatrical event Broadway desperately needs. Sure, a part of me would be happier if that kind of excitement was provided by a new musical – but there are few sweeter prospects in any theatre-lover’s life than a stellar revival of a classic Coward comedy. And with Lansbury as Acarti – wow!

I have long since lost count of the times when I have taken part in an ovation welcoming Angela Lansbury to a stage. It is going to be a great joy to do so again. How nice of her to celebrate her 83rd birthday (Oct. 16th) by giving Broadway the newws that she's coming back -- how fascinational!