I Was Better Last Night, page 19
“And he should know better. Of every character on this earth, why would he want to play a minor American bootlegger?”
Robert begged. “It’s Peter Allen! All we have to do is stick him on a stage, let him shake his ass, and we cash the checks.”
“So then, what do you need with me?”
They needed me because they’d already produced a disastrous workshop employing a script by Peter’s best friend, dress designer Charles Suppon. The project was dead without major rewrites. Sadly, Charles was succumbing to the dementia that affected many AIDS patients in those days. He could not continue writing. Bob assured me that all the book needed was tightening.
I said no. I meant no. And to this day I know that no was the right answer. But then Robert pulled an intriguing rabbit out of his ass: The show would feature a very theatrical gimmick. Working with a special-effects company, Robert had devised a production of unique novelty. Whenever a musical number began, the stage switched from incandescent lighting to black light. Everything was underpainted with otherwise-unseen luminescent color. This allowed all sorts of magical effects to take place when the black light was operating. People could appear and disappear in an instant. A character could toss out a feather boa and have it become a staircase. Buildings and furniture could come to life. I began to imagine it as one of those trippy Betty Boop cartoons with dancing props and singing scenery. I thought, Peter Allen plus this gimmick might work. And I’d only be the consultant: Charles’s name would still be on the show.
I sat down to write an entertainment that was more of a Bugs Bunny feature than a traditional musical. I called it The Almost Totally Fictitious Hystery of Legs Diamond. There were chase scenes and getaways and magic acts…You bet I was going to make those special-effects folks work their asses off! Marvin Krauss called me. “You did it—you turned it around! Peter, Robert, and the producers all loved the script and want to put it into production. But you have to put your name on it.”
How do you like that? I saved the day. I knew I shouldn’t put my name on it, but Marvin said I’d saved the day. My ego will always win out over my sense. I agreed.
I went off to Toronto to make Tidy Endings and then proceeded to film Torch Song. When I returned to New York, Legs was already in full rehearsal. Surprisingly and unwisely, because the production was so unwieldy and impossible to transport, they had booked this thing with no out-of-town tryout or even a workshop. They went straight into production. I arrived at the studio, and as the cast worked on a dance number, I drifted over to look at the set model. I was confused.
“Like it?” Robert asked.
“What is this? Where are the black-light effects?”
“Oh, we did away with all of that. The lighting designer said it would never work, so…”
“But this whole show is conceived around those effects. Without them—”
“This whole show is conceived around Peter Allen, and he’s right over there,” Robert said. “Relax.”
I could go through the gory details of the great disaster of 1988, but why bother? Any Internet search will tell you that after Legs the Mark Hellinger Theatre became a church. Some prayers are answered with one-hundred-year leases. As tragedies go, Legs Diamond was at least entertaining for us. It was such a lost cause that you couldn’t do anything but shrug it off. I used to hide in the lobby during our endless preview period and eavesdrop as audiences left in confused disgust. My favorite remark was made by a woman who caught me lurking: “Oh, Harvey, no, no, no!”
And she was right. We worked on that thing daily, but no matter what we tried, it only got worse. We added songs, we added characters, we cut songs, we cut characters. In the entire show Peter had only one line he could get a laugh with. Act 1 finished with a long chase scene with lots of machine-gun fire (please remember this was supposed to be the black-light gimmick), at the end of which Legs is shot dead. Curtain. Intermission. Act 2 opened with his funeral, at the climax of which Peter jumps up from his coffin, still alive, and greets the mourners.
“You miss me?”
“But you’re dead!” says a mobster. “I shot you myself.”
To which Peter answered smugly: “I’m in show biz. Only a critic can kill me.”
The producers asked me to take it out, knowing that the critics would cling to it, but I argued that it would be one less laugh in a show that had four. One critic did quote the line and added: “Bang, bang, you’re dead.”
Peter eventually learned to milk the line until he’d get a full round of applause from the house.
I adored Peter; but truthfully, besides the show being a stupid idea, he was the main problem. He was way out of his element. No actor, he exuded a kind of flop sweat that audiences sense and reject. The undeniable proof was that he couldn’t get entrance applause from fans who’d paid premium prices to see him. How do you stage a show around that? The producers asked me to do something, no matter the cost. I devised a new first entrance for him. A gigantic electric sign spelling out “LEGS DIAMOND” would fly in with Peter riding on it. He even wrote a terrific new song to go along, “When I Get My Name in Lights.” They built the sign, we rehearsed the number, and we crossed our fingers.
We all crowded together in standing room to watch Peter enter atop this mammoth electric beast. It went off without a hitch…and still, dead silence. Charlene Nederlander, wife of our theater owner and lead producer, turned to me and shrugged. “I could have bought a bracelet.”
Another problem with the show was how many members of the company were ill. Intangible as that may be, how could an audience not pick up on that vibe? Charles Suppon was the only one we spoke of, but Peter himself had AIDS, as did the original choreographer. Joe Silver, our lead gangster, had cancer and was receiving chemo several times a week. I believe we lost seventeen members of that original cast. How could that not affect the mood of the cast no matter how hard they rallied to entertain? Even Peter’s standby, Larry Kert, the legendary star of West Side Story, was ill.
Speaking of Larry…One afternoon during our endless preview period, he was given a full rehearsal just in case he ever had to go on. Curious to hear the material in another voice, we all showed up to watch. Don’t get me wrong, the show was still awful, but in the hands of a pro like Larry Kert it came alive. He was sexy and charming and winning. The absurdity of a man becoming a gangster just to get a job in show biz read funny instead of desperate, as it did with Peter. If the script had just been a bit smarter it might have passed for satire. And satire, as everyone knows, delights the critics on Friday and closes on Saturday. Even as it was, with Larry singing Peter’s songs, the show was no longer an embarrassment. At intermission I started over to Jimmy Nederlander, who, before I could say a word, held up his hand: “No, Harvey. I only produced this show as a favor for Peter. I won’t take it away from him. I won’t. I can’t.”
During the years since, I’ve had many approaches for permission to resurrect the show and I’ve always declined. A great chef may be able to make a turned piece of chicken taste good, but it will still make you sick. Most of the songs were eventually cannibalized into Peter’s biographical show, The Boy from Oz. I think he’d be happy knowing he had a hit show after all. It only took casting the irresistible Hugh Jackman instead of Peter.
33
HANGING WITH MADONNA, HOLLY, AND BRUCE
1988–1992
The next few years were, at best, unfocused. After the exciting letdowns of the Torch Song movie and Legs Diamond and a less than stellar Off-Broadway production of Spookhouse I was feeling pretty cooked—not defeated, but teetering on the vertex of disheartened. Why was I working so hard if no one was enjoying the output? That’s one of those questions that separate show biz from art.
Holly Woodlawn sent me the galleys of her autobiography, A Low Life in High Heels, and asked me to call. “My diva daaah-ling, only you! Only you can turn my life into the Technicolor dream it was meant to be! Please, my daaah-ling, you must.”
Of the three legendary queens of Warhol, Holly was always my favorite. I could never catch what Candy Darling was talking about, and when I did, it wasn’t worth the effort. Jackie Curtis was a genius—absolutely—but she’d steal your lipstick, eat your sandwich, smoke your last cigarette, and get pissed that you didn’t have more to swipe. Jackie was a pain. I remember Harvey Tavel arranging for Halston to do a dress for her to wear in Amerika Cleopatra. The crazy queen set it on fire, put it out with a glass of white wine, dried it on a hot radiator before deeming it fit to wear. Holly, on the other hand, was genuinely fun, harmless and outrageous and ready to have a good time whenever. This book of hers wasn’t awful. It had a lot of gossipy details, and thinking about it, I could imagine the story of the three of them as a kind of insane, How to Marry a Millionaire. And Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side,” which mentions all three of them, was a built-in record deal. I sent the book over to Howard Rosenman, and he was on it!
“Madonna!” he said. It was 1991. “Madonna is looking for projects for her film company, Maverick. Do you think you could pitch this to her?”
“Wow! I can just imagine her playing Candy Darling. Right?”
Howard agreed and immediately booked a meeting.
We walked into Madonna’s Central Park West apartment and I was blown away to see that every white wall of the living room held a magnificent Tamara de Lempicka portrait of a woman. I was impressed. I couldn’t imagine many pop stars understanding the importance of this artist’s deliriously deco vision of the female persona as machine-age form.
Madonna came in, and after the usual chitchat I described the adventures of Holly, Candy, and Jackie, giving it all the energy I could. She asked what her role in the project would be. I said, “You’d play the gorgeous, glamorous, glorious Candy Darling herself! She was the most commercially successful of the three—she even had Tennessee Williams tailor a stage role for her. And she’s the one who gets the big dramatic tragic death scene.”
I was working it!
Madonna thought for a moment. “But do you really think I could play a drag queen?”
“Of course,” I said. “Everyone’s already seen your pussy. It’s time to show them your dick.”
The movie rights are still available.
Bruce and I were exploring our lives together. With an art education, his interests leaned toward creating abstract iron sculpture. Now, employed as a writer and editor for a movie magazine, Bruce was weighing options, keeping an open mind and searching for his calling. He’d survived two serious relationships. The first was with a married college professor, and his second was lost to AIDS. Much more outgoing and social than I, Bruce had a great fondness for arranging dinner parties and inviting guests up for the weekend. He forced me to accept travel invitations that I’d normally turn down. We went to Santa Fe, San Francisco, and even took a tour of Scandinavia. A gay cruise company offered me a week’s vacation in the Caribbean if I’d perform an hour-long nightclub act. I had no nightclub act, but they said they’d help put one together. Bruce wanted to go so badly. Again, ego over sense, I took the bait, we took the cruise, and predictably, the club act was simply awful. Still, they asked me back time and again. We cruised the islands, the Mexican Gold Coast, and even Alaska. We had the best vacations and met fabulous entertainers like Diane Schuur, Ann Hampton Callaway, Thelma Houston, and Jim Caruso who are friends to this day. Yes, when I allowed him to pull me out of my cocoon, Bruce and I were a fun couple, never without a cigarette or a drink in our hands, he with his vodka and me with my Southern Comfort.
One Friday evening, I picked Bruce up at the train from the city as usual. It was the day before my birthday and he seemed nervous. As soon as we got into the house he sat me down and began to cry. “I’m an alcoholic,” he said. “I’ve finally admitted it and I’ve joined AA.”
I had all kinds of thoughts, but the first thing I did was to tell him how proud I was of him and that he could count on me to help in any way I could.
While he went to wash up, I made a pitcher of lemonade and poured him a gigantic glassful, brimming with ice.
I can’t say I really understood what was so bad about Bruce’s drinking. I’d never seen him stumble or mush-mouthed or sloppy. He told me that every time he’d take my glass to the bar for a refill, he’d pour himself a drink, down it, and only then refill our glasses to bring back. Even then, I didn’t think he drank as much as I did, and I certainly wasn’t an alcoholic.
And so we settled into an altered life of sobriety. From the moment I picked Bruce up at the train on Friday night until I dropped him back at the station on Sunday, lemonade, iced tea, and Diet Coke filled our glasses. During the week, of course, I was free to tipple, but being the exemplary human I was, I kept my tippling to myself. It was Bruce’s problem, but my sacrifice made it all about me. Bruce created a wonderful support system through his Twelve Step meetings. I joined Al-Anon and began to shop for my booze in other towns. No one ever saw me drink again in public. At home, once my day was done, I’d pour myself a nice fat tumbler of SC over a stack of ice cubes and settle in for an evening of television. Sometimes, when there was nothing more to do, I’d have a cocktail before dinner. There were also days where I’d begin drinking in the afternoon, but as long as I waited for the Judge Judy show to come on the air at four it was fine. Obviously, if you can control your drinking like that, I told myself, you have no problem.
Bruce wrote for Premiere magazine, as I said; and newly sober and eager for change, he was looking to go beyond feature writing by developing a pseudonymous gossip column. I wasn’t crazy about the idea. I thought our personal relationships with celebrities would suffer if he was apt to publish something someone might say off the record. It turned out to be so. Several famous friends began to distance themselves. Bruce was of the Rex Reed school of journalism, often delivering a line he attributed to his hero: “If a celebrity picks his nose in front of me, I have the right to report it.”
Elsewhere in our world the AIDS crisis was raging, and many on the forefront had severe burnout. With an ever-growing need for fundraising and public awareness, they didn’t know who to turn to for help. Seeing closeted gay celebrities skating by with careers unscathed by AIDS panic, many of our community leaders turned on them with anger, calling for them to help the cause and thereby dragging them out of the closet. Outing became a community pastime. Interviewers began to brazenly ask if this or that one was gay. I wanted no part of that mess. Not that I approved of living in the closet.
Those people collected the big checks, leaving the struggle for our rights to others, and then cashed in their tales of seclusion and personal martyrdom when it was advantageous to come out. We took the beatings and they took the bows.
With love and understanding I say “Fuck you” to them all. But outing was not the answer. Bruce and I disagreed.
I shared this story once on PBS. I was at my local Stop & Shop buying Thanksgiving groceries when Diane, the checkout person, said, “So, you do the shopping and your wife does the cooking?”
“No, Diane. I do the cooking and the shopping. I’m gay.”
She laughed. “You are not no gay!”
“Yes, I am. I’m gay.”
“Stop. You are not no gay!” she insisted.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because,” she said, “if you were gay you would be too ashamed to say so.”
That’s when it struck me. Of course she would think that. At work she is surrounded by magazine covers blaring “Ellen Denies Being a Lesbian” and “Elton John Threatens to Sue over Gay Claim.” How could she not think that all gays are ashamed? All the gays she ever heard about were.
For the record: I used Ellen and Elton because they both know they are gay. Now.
I used to tell reporters that if they saw me with a celebrity, it was proof that that person was straight. No closeted gay actors wanted to be seen with me. Even sweet Rock Hudson insisted we meet either at a friend’s apartment or at a discreet neighborhood restaurant when he was in town. I nearly broke my mother’s heart when I told her he was gay. Straight people used to be totally blind to our existence. In any case, a resentful, embarrassed celebrity in denial was proof positive that there was something wrong with being gay.
Bruce’s sobriety rekindled his love of life. He was suddenly more energetic and adventurous than ever. I, on the other hand, already immobile and stagnant, only grew more so without my cocktails and quiet evenings. I was growing resentful. Sometimes I couldn’t wait for Bruce to catch the train back to the city so I could drink. Still, I had to work. With Lawrence Lane’s help, Eric Concklin and I mounted another revival of Robert Patrick’s The Haunted Host at La MaMa and then moved it Off-Broadway. It didn’t click.
Sadly, my relationship with Bruce was also failing. We saw one another three days a week, and I don’t think they were the best days for either of us. Bruce had been reborn. His mind was clearing and his goals were reforming. With his survival instincts kicking in, he knew it was time to get out.
He’d done the hard work of getting sober. Now it was time to reclaim his life.
With Bruce gone I was now free to drink ’round the clock if I wanted, and why wouldn’t I?
My boyfriend just left me.
34
ALL TALK AND NO…
Can we talk? As the most economical way to sell tickets, books, or careers, talk shows are an inescapable tool of the biz. Most are silly wastes of time. Hold up your tell-all—show a clip from your movie—deny the rumors of your death—and hope to escape with your dignity. The guest pays the host back with an item of gossip or a silly bit of nonsense. It’s entertainment to sprawl by. There’s no need to mention, let alone remember, most talk shows or their hosts; but there were some…
