Hollywood Gays (15 page)

Crisp called Liberace’s “an empty victory. He couldn’t have needed the money, and his image had in no way been tarnished, because his appeal never depended on his being heterosexual or even sexual. His audience treated him as though he were an expensive Persian cat wearing a
diamanté
collar—and purring.”

Of course, the Liberace jokes continued, and so did his occasional swipes at the media. In the late 1970s during an Emmy awards telecast, co-host Robert (Baretta) Blake made a poor-taste remark about Liberace. Immediately following the commercials, he contritely announced that Liberace’s attorneys had called the show’s producers, and he, Blake, was humbly apologizing to “Lee, I love ya” for any unintended malice.

Understandably, Liberace wanted his dignity. But he didn’t seem to realize that his role was court jester; not pillar or role model, and that majority “morality” wasn’t central to his success. Crisp opined, “Just as crowds went to the Cafe de Paris to stare at Miss Dietrich rather than to hear her sing, so they flocked to Radio City to
see
Mr. Liberace, rather than to appreciate his expertise. He was a stylist; that is, he graduated from the profession of doing—playing the piano—to the profession of being—Liberace.

“I did not follow his progress closely. In fact, I have learned more about him since his death than I ever knew while he was alive. He radiated a childlike glee at being popular. I think it is very unlikely that his gaudiness was just any old way of increasing his income. I think it was much more probable that, as his capacity for dealing with—or rather, winning—his audience increased, his self-assurance grew, and he became more like the bejeweled icon that he always longed to be. As he grew more artificial, he became more genuine.

“In later years, Mr. Liberace very wisely began to parody himself without the least hint of bitterness. Everything he couldn’t wear, he carried onto the stage and invited the audience to admire. He died at just the right moment: he was old enough to know that there was nothing more that he could achieve and young enough to avoid having been long forgotten.”

Asked his opinion of Liberace’s “absolutely fabulous showmanship” by Andy Warhol, movie actor and future AIDS victim Anthony Perkins stated, “He’s damn lucky he didn’t make it in film. I think Liberace did a movie or two, but he could never have gotten out of film the same gut-level, immediate response and approbation that he gets out of live performances. Actors can only envy what he does. I mean I’m not inordinately fond of the idea of getting up in front of swarms of Midwestern grannies and their descendants, but he obviously gets off on it.”

Though he made but five movie appearances, all virtually forgotten (save
The Loved One
), Liberace never entirely deserted Tinseltown. At one time he had a mansion above Sunset Boulevard, which he turned into a museum of himself. The neighbors complained, and he transferred it to Las Vegas and Midas-ized it until it became one of Nevada’s top three tourist attractions. And at the end, he still had a home in Malibu.

His lover/companions notwithstanding, the cruising never stopped completely, and Liberace occasionally “stepped out” on his steady with an escort or call boy or even a runaway.

As already noted, Liberace was often indiscreet. “He felt he could counter that,” said his ex-assistant, “by a balancing act of avoiding the press and periodic statements that his life was extremely private. He could come on strong sometimes, be aggressive when he felt threatened. He greeted most reporters with a notional rolling pin. He just didn’t ‘get’ that after the Swinging Sixties and the Stonewall riots, he could finally relax a little.

“Liberace only ever thought he could be ‘wild’ in his wardrobe. His excuse for his clothes was showmanship; but some of it wasn’t that far from drag.” Lee advised the
Ladies’ Home Journal
that “What people do in the privacy of their own bedrooms is nobody else’s business.” True, but reporter Ruth Batchelor countered, “Nobody wants to know what you’re doing in there, Lee, just the gender of who you’re doing it with....If we know that, say, Robert Redford’s bedroom partner or partners are female, are we somehow invading his privacy?” Liberace refused to continue
that
interview.

When pressed by foolish or phobic reporters about the women in his life—other than, of course, the beaming, bespectacled Frances—he would recite a litany of his three alleged “fiancées,” a showgirl, a fruit heiress, and the late skating star Sonja Henie.

The first nonfictional glimpse into Liberace’s wonderful private world came in 1982, when ex-lover Thorson sued him for $113 million in palimony for their seven years together (later he co-wrote a book titled
Behind the Candelabra: My Life With Liberace
, which substituted a burly football player from the Green Bay Packers for the incomparable older “Miss Bea Haven”).

The tabloids had a field day—or year. It was the first major gay “scandal” since the widely circulated rumors of Rock Hudson and Jim Nabors’s marriage. That story allegedly cost Nabors his TV variety series but apparently didn’t hurt the more butch and famous Hudson. Liberace eventually settled out of court with Thorson, meanwhile and afterward acting astounded by Thorson’s allegations and even his existence. He should have been heartened (or genuinely astounded) that the lawsuit and the blond’s revelations didn’t hurt his popularity. The “crass classic,” as he was sometimes dubbed, continued to play to capacity crowds.

He garnered $4 to $5 million annually, his hold on the Polident generation seemingly unbreakable. In 1985 he broke Radio City Music Hall’s 50-year record.
The Advocate
described a typical Music Hall performance: “He danced with Diane from New Jersey, and when they were done, he gave her gifts—a Liberace neck scarf, etc.—and went down into the audience to meet her husband Eugene. ‘Does Eugene like to dance?’ he asked Diane, who stood beside her husband sitting in a spotlight. ‘Oh, he
does?
Some other time, Eugene,’ he laughed, and everyone laughed with him.

“Then he wagged a finger. ‘I
heard
that, Eugene—why didn’t you get a ring or something? You gotta do more than
dance
for
that
, Eugene!’“

Despite such innuendos on stage, Lee remained as tightly closeted as ever. Unlike Rock Hudson, he was able to delay confirmation that he had AIDS until after his death. Early reports had him suffering from watermelon-induced anemia and weight loss. When the
Las Vegas Sun
broke the story that Liberace was dying of AIDS in his Palm Springs home, his physician, a Dr. Ghanem, asseverated, “The rumor of Liberace having AIDS is as ridiculous as Elvis having a drug problem!”(!).

Rock Hudson did not voluntarily come out, but his illness was used to help launch an AIDS foundation and awareness of the disease and indirectly helped boost funding to fight AIDS. But both men, “of a certain age” and a social and political disposition inimical to gay rights and any sense of community—each of whom left an estate worth many millions—left not one copper penny to benefit AIDS research or people living with AIDS.

Of course, the mainstream media didn’t care about or report this. The immodest Liberace had already been taking credit for paving the way for such unusual music stars as Elvis, Michael Jackson, and Boy George. But ABC-TV’s
Nightline
went so idiotically far as to suggest that Liberace had “inspired gay liberation.”

By contrast, fashion publisher James Brady asked, “What would candor have cost Liberace? Do you think the blue-haired ladies would have smashed their records and torn up their tickets to the Music Hall if, a few years ago, he’d talked openly? I doubt it. He wasn’t selling macho up there, you know.

“The man never committed reticence once in his life, yet as he lay dying, the people around him threatened lawsuits if anyone suggested he was gay or had AIDS. Sadder still that Liberace didn’t grab the opportunity for one final standing ovation, a last curtain speech, in which he told Middle America just what it was that was killing him and how they, and all of us, ought to be doing something about it.”

Or as the
New York Native
put it, “Yes, the beloved Liberace died a liar.”

* * *

By the mid-1980s, after I saw Liberace perform in Las Vegas, I frankly had less interest in interviewing him. For one thing, what could he possibly say that was new or sincere? And by then, few periodicals were interested in an unrevealing interview with what many considered a clichéd or overexposed—or embarrassing—celebrity (ageism also played its part in the disinterest).

Then I was contacted by Tom Clark, publicist and Rock Hudson’s close friend. He hoped I could help “Rock’s people” publicize his latest—and increasingly rare—feature film. He knew I knew Rock socially and had published a standard “fan interview” that omitted Hudson’s private life, save for citing the statistic of his one “marriage.” Tom joked about Rock’s current schedule being “busier than Liberace’s wardrobe.” So I brought up Rock’s admission of his ages-ago affair with “Lee.”

“Rock doesn’t usually talk about his star-fucking days....Have you interviewed Lee?” I explained the two telephone “chats” we’d had and which I’d enjoyed. “You’d probably enjoy him less in the flapping flesh,” said Tom harshly. “His face is so taut from facelifting, unlike his old neck, and I think it’s affected his brain.” He didn’t explain this and wasn’t really one to talk, as years later he co-wrote a “tribute” book to his late friend that unscrupulously avoided Rock’s and his own homosexuality (except for the unavoidable affair with Mark Christian—who sued Hudson’s estate and won—whom Clark characterized so negatively that he sued).

When
The Advocate
queried Clark why he’d been so closet-y on paper, he replied that he was afraid of what his elderly mother and “the other ladies” at the beauty shop might think!

“I can fix it for you to interview Lee, if you think anyone would publish it.” I said I doubted it, at least in the US. “If you help publicize Rock’s movie, I’ll get in touch with Lee’s publicist. Is a phone interview okay?” I said that by now, anything else might seem strange. “Smart. If you met him, the moment the publicist left the room, Lee’d be spluttering all over you.” Before the interview, I ascertained non-committed interest from
Cleo
, an Australian women’s magazine.

In mid-1985 I got the call (I wasn’t given
his
number, he was given mine, a more typical practice; I never did ask “Lee” which home he was calling from)....

* * *

A: Is this Boze Hadleigh?

Q: Speaking. This must be Liberace.

A:
”Lee!”

Q: How are you? Again.

A: I am
so
disappointed, Boze.

Q: Why?

A: Third-time lucky, and we’re
still
speaking on the telephone. I wanted to
meet
you.

Q: I did too, but...maybe someday.

A: (Sighs.) Oh, well. Now, this is for Australia? Only Australia?

Q:
Cleo
magazine.

A: A ladies’ magazine? How nice. I think Australians are my kind of people. They’re very loyal fans.

Q: They’re big on the Village People—the only place left that is.

A:
Oh
. Well, they’re fun, aren’t they?

Q: The Village People?

A: Yes. Fun to look at. But it’s not a
real
group. Only
one
guy sings, and he’s not so special. But they are fun to look at.

Q: What do you think of Boy George?

A: He seems sweet. I like his music or
their
music. I do think he could tone down his makeup a bit! (Chuckles.)

Q: Elvis was said to be a fan of yours.

A: He
was
.
Such
a tragedy, his dying so young.

Q: What did you think of him?

A: He was darling. Really. A very sweet, unspoiled boy. When he did what he did, he didn’t
know
he was being sexual.

Q: He didn’t?

A: He was, what’s that French word? A
naïf
.

Q: Gerry Mulligan (the saxophonist and composer/arranger) once said about you, if you don’t mind a quote...?

A: About
me?
Go right ahead. Quote him.

Q: He said you’re a very good pianist but that you’d rather play “Three Little Fishies” than Mozart or Chopin.

A:
Well!
I play Chopin all the time. He’s
Polish
. Who does he think he is? No one ever heard of...whatshisname, until he lived with Judy Holliday (both were bisexual or gay)....I’m not upset, it’s just a very uninformed quote. He’s clearly never seen me perform. I play what I like, which is mostly classical music, and what audiences seem to like. If I played only the classics, I suppose I’d be accused of being a snob. I’m
not
a snob. But perhaps that man only likes jazz and doesn’t
know
about anything else. At least jazz
is
a great American art form.

Q: Biographies of Judy Holliday have come out which reveal that she had a policewoman for a live-in lover.

A:
Really?
Oh, I love to dish the dirt!

Q: Well, this isn’t “dirt.”

A: No, no, of
course
not. I’m very open-minded. Judy Holliday...she was a great comedienne. Didn’t she win the Oscar?

Q: Yes. In her first major film.