Hollywood Gays (26 page)

A: Where he didn’t have to kiss any leading ladies! (Grins.) I heard him sing. He was very good. As the kids say nowadays, “He gives good throat.” (Rolls eyes.) No finesse! The story I heard, from a friend in Mexico City, was that Jose’s mother
knew
, and under duress he promised to join a brotherhood—he was already
in
the brotherhood, but...and I wondered what kind of fanatical mother he had? Thank heavens my mother wasn’t like that. Maybe because she was a singer, that had something to do with it.

Q: With relatives, it’s a matter of luck. But what sort of “duress” would obligate Mojica to honor such a needless promise? Unless he genuinely wanted to be a priest. Or he felt guilty....

A: In which case his mother did her work well. Or, perhaps he was washed up in the movies.

Q: Who knows—
quién sabe?

A: You know what bugs the hell out of me? You should’ve put this in your book. When you have to fill out some application or government document, and it asks are you Hispanic or white? “
Or
white”! They have no idea. Can’t they see? Haven’t they ever seen a Cuban, a Puerto Rican, Colombian, Argentinian, etc., etc.?

Q: I think they assume from the average Mexican immigrant, who’s typically of Indian blood—”Indian,” meaning pre-Columbian.

A: But even with Mexicans, they’re not all brown.

Q: Most are
mestizo
(a mixture of Native and Spanish). And obviously the more wealthy or powerful Mexicans don’t usually emigrate.

A: And they’re white. So what’s this “Hispanic or white” business? It pisses me off. Not because I’m any kind of racist, but because it’s stupid and incorrect.

Q: I know what you mean. But at least they’re recognizing Latins and Hispanics. Gays and lesbians aren’t included in any census or application. Whenever it says “single or married,” that doesn’t signify. I, for one, have not been “single” since October 5, 1975.

A: So what do you put on an application?

Q: Depends on what it’s for, but usually I mark “doesn’t apply” or leave it blank. I seldom fill in what they legally pretend is “single.” Or contractually “married.” The one I never fill in is “divorced,” which will never apply.

A: You’re lucky to know your own mind.

Q: Who else’s?

A: What else surprises me is there hasn’t been any book on Ramon Navarro. They come out with all these books on everybody. I even saw one on Audie Murphy a few weeks ago! And Ramon was a big star...if anything, I would think the story of his murder would make a book about him more commercial. (A few Novarro biographies have since been published.)

Q: You know what happens? Because of his death, he winds up as a chapter in books about Hollywood murders or stars who died young. Usually written from a biased, judgmental point of view. You know, like his “lifestyle” helped end his life, or maybe he “provoked” his own death.

A: You think because Ramon was gay there won’t be a biography? A whole book?

Q: Eventually. Maybe from a smaller press. But being gay is part of it. There’s been no biography of Sal Mineo, who was murdered not because he picked up hustlers, but because there happened to be a robber, an ex-con, in his carport, who stabbed him to death. Sal’s also featured in those “true crime” books, mostly by male rednecks.

A: You knew Sal. Couldn’t you do a book on him?

Q: I was interested, and my agent proposed it. But the responses from most editors, including the gay ones, were, yes, there’s a cult, or yes, he was a star in his day, but there’s never been a book about him. (Sal Mineo biographies have since appeared.)

A: What an excuse! I can see there’s no hope for a book on me.

Q: There was only a trashy, biased
novel
about Sal—about his death. When they publish biographies of gay or bisexual actors, they prefer them to have had a wife or wives. Like Cary Grant or Valentino.

A: I once heard Cary Grant, at a party, say he was Jewish on his mother’s side. Then someone who knew him well said Cary would say he was Jewish on his father’s side. And in one interview he said he wasn’t Jewish at all! Strange man.

Q: In various ways, he couldn’t decide who he was or “should” be.

A: Very confused. But I repeat:
Audie Murphy?

Q: He was bi, you know.

A: Yes, I heard often enough.

Q: But not in the book. It’s by some military buddy. Again, all a celebrity needs is one contractual marriage and/or child, and they’re officially heterosexual.

A: Not even that, Boze. All they have to say is, “I’m not gay,” and they’re officially heterosexual.

Q: Biographers can and do leave out a subject’s bisexuality very easily. Which makes the book incomplete and misrepresentative.

A: Some people say that it’s just one aspect of a person and not the most important one.

Q: In men, sexuality is certainly very important. And yes, sexuality—and
love
—are just aspects of a person.
But
...how come biographers never leave out a subject’s sexuality when the person is heterosexual?

A:
Touché
.

Q: Likewise.

A: It’s true, though. One of the stars who’s had a lot of books pinning him to the page is Marlon Brando. And as we know, he’s admitted to being bisexual—they used to say “double-gaited.” I haven’t looked inside the books about him to see if they mention it, but I didn’t imagine they’d leave it out. After all,
he
said it—and good for him. But I was at a friend’s house, and there was some new book about him, by that (Charles) Higham guy—I almost read his book on Errol Flynn. Now, don’t hold me to this, but I’ve heard he
might
be gay. I don’t know. But this book, I looked all through it—the index too—there was lots of time, and it had
nothing
about Brando being bi. Not even his own statement. (Higham has since come out.)

Q: Quite an omission.

A: So I guess they don’t always put that in. But it seems to me, if a fellow voluntarily says he’s gay or bisexual, and someone else is doing a whole book describing the fellow and his life, they should put it in. For the truth, and so it could even help.

Q: Exactly—the terrible statistic that more than three times as many gay and lesbian teens commit suicide because of the homophobia they face at every level. The distortions that make gay kids feel freakish, and the omissions that make them feel lonely.

A: That’s important. It should have gotten more publicity, when they found that out.

Q: Ha! It almost had to be leaked. That statistic was the unexpected result of a study during the Bush administration, and then the Republicans tried to suppress it. They don’t give a damn about reality or suffering.

A: And yet some of them have gay kids.

Q: As many as anyone else does. What people often forget is that gays and lesbians are America’s kids too.

A: It’s depressing...the cruelty. And indifference.

Q: And the indifference to cruelty.

A: A young associate was telling me how most of the gay-bashings and murders don’t even make the news.

Q: Or the homophobia that caused them is omitted from the reporting. Which does nothing to make such bigotry less acceptable.

A: And yet they talk so much about “family values.” (Shakes head.)

Q: Code words; it usually means “heterosexuals only.” Actually, a friend of mine came up with an excellent slogan for a bumper sticker—she’s also urging people to write it on those postpaid postcards one finds in magazines. It says, “Family Valued: We Love Our Gay Son Too.”

A: (Beams.) Tell her to get me a bumper sticker like that. Tell her I’ll order some from her....

* * *

Cesar Romero died peacefully at 86 on January 1, 1994.

PAUL LYNDE

(1926-1982)

First I met Richard Deacon, a non-rival comedian and grudging fan of Paul Lynde.

Then Deacon helped me to meet Paul Lynde, once I got an editor interested in a profile of “the new Paul Lynde”—as if the old one weren’t up to snuff!

Years after Paul Lynde’s passing, in the final months of his own life, I met Wayland Flowers, of
Wayland and Madame
fame. Flowers had been Lynde’s colleague, friend, and confidant.

* * *

Richard Deacon was always the straight man, comedically speaking. He appeared in hundreds of TV shows and films and is best remembered as the dour, bespectacled Mel Cooley of
The Dick Van Dyke Show
. But let him describe himself:

“I was born in Philadelphia, a good place to begin a career in comedy, don’t ask me why. I acted in college and began in Hollywood in the early 1950s. I did a lot of uncredited appearances, my roles have been small, and nearly everything I’ve done reflects the physical me. I’m tall, I’m bald, I wear glasses, I’m seen as either dignified or pompous. But I’m not threatening enough to be a villain, so I often get cast as supercilious types. Like on
Dick Van Dyke
.

‘‘I’ve done over 50 movies.
The Solid Gold Cadillac
with Judy Holliday,
Lover, Come Back
with Rock Hudson,
Touch of Mink
with Cary Grant, Hitchcock’s
The Birds
,
Critics’ Choice
with Lucille Ball—I also did her program; I was Tallulah Bankhead’s butler in one of them—and Walt Disney things like
That Darn Cat
, movies with Shirley MacLaine, and so on.

“Loads of television, to the point where I couldn’t count it all. I’ve done everything from
Leave It to Beaver
to
The Mothers-in-Law
, which Desi Arnaz produced. I replaced Roger C. Carmel on that, as Kaye Ballard’s husband. Roger wanted more money, Arnaz wouldn’t pay it, so I came aboard when Roger left. On Broadway, I was in
Hello, Dolly!
with Phyllis Diller.

‘‘I’m a great cook, cooking’s my hobby and the only thing I’m allowed to brag about. I’m a cookbook author; I also collect rocks, and love art, mostly painting and sculpture. I’m pretty private, but not a hermit. I have a few friends, mostly women. Don’t talk about my personal life, even if I’m asked. They never do. Same with Mel on
Dick Van Dyke
—people guessed his personal life was as dull as he was, so no one inquired. It was stated he had a wife, and that was that.”

Unlike Cooley, Deacon hadn’t a wife.

I met him at Pioneer Chicken one night on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, in the late ‘70s. I was in town on business, and after a movie stopped off for some drumsticks. I recognized Deacon as soon as he stepped out of his old white Cadillac. An elderly man was also staring at him, probably trying to assign the familiar face a sitcom’s name.

We placed our orders, Deacon, then me, and as we waited, I sidled up to him. He looked glum, and might have been intimidating, if one didn’t know that’s how he always appeared. I told him how much I’d enjoyed his work, and that a month or so ago I’d seen him (in a fleeting performance) in
John Goldfarb, Please Come Home
.

“Did you like it?” he asked with little enthusiasm and no smile as yet. “You were good in it.” He stared. “It’s a funny movie.” I paused. “Shirley MacLaine’s great in it.”

A semi-smile. “I liked her too.” He was that rare bird, a performer who declined praise under false circumstances. Sadly, Deacon rarely got a chance to shine. As Paul Lynde put it, “Richard has the kind of career nobody plans on. It just turned out that way.”

It was a balmy night. We ate on an outdoor table. “You can call me Richard” eventually thawed, from frostily polite to politely chummy, smiles occasionally indicated at the corners of his thin mouth or in his beady eyes.

It struck me as funny-odd that this man, associated solely with comedy, had so little funny-ha-ha about him. Rather, he existed on big and little screens only to contrast with funnier personalities, e.g., Lucy, Tallulah, Dick, Carl Reiner....

“As a straight man,” he later explained, ‘‘I’m hired for my buttoned-down quality. I’m nearly always an executive of some sort, in suit and tie, and somebody always pricks my bubble of dignity. I’ve been called every adjective—smug, lugubrious, unctuous, bland, you name it.

“My character always represents the Establishment. I’m never an individualist. Not at all flamboyant...,” the only time I ever heard anyone say it with regret. It was a key to his personality. Paul Lynde later said, “Richard’s a
nice
enough person. Bit on the dry side, not overly exciting as a performer. Or anything else.”

One got the impression he was somewhat uncomfortable among heterosexual men, yet not quite at home—because of his stolid rigidity?—among gay men. Particularly among gay comedians of a certain age, like Lynde—or Flowers or Billy De Wolfe, etc.—given to camping it up on screen and especially off.

That first night, it was Deacon who made the comparison: ‘‘I’m nearly the exact opposite of a Paul Lynde.”

When I noted I was a fan of Lynde and hoped to meet him, Richard offered, “I know him. I can introduce you, if it’s a matter of an interview. We’re not close, socially—he’s very private.” In an atypical tone mixing envy and disapproval, he added, “Of course, he has a lot to be private about.”