On the refusal of an actor, Zach something, to Come Out

A Facebook (and other varieties of) friend recently posted an interview from the NYTimes with an actor named Zachary Quinto who is appearing in the Off-Broadway revival of Angels in America. I’d never heard of the guy, evidently well known for TV and film work that I have not seen because, well, I’ve given up TV (no longer have one operational) and I never go to new (post 1970) Hollywood movies. Perhaps I miss a lot. You’d have to work hard to convince me.

Anyway, my friend linked to the interview because he is outraged (I tell you!), outraged that the actor, who is appearing in a gay play with ecstatic comments from the gay playwright, and who strongly supports gay marriage and the repeal of DADT and other blameless causes, refuses to say a word about his own private life. I mean, it’s obvious, but he won’t say so. And my friend heaves a hissy fit on the grounds that kids are killing themselves and need a model of happy gay people (happy actors? There are happy actors?) to distract them.

And I respectfully disagree, but I didn’t want to say so on his Facebook page, which is not the place for lengthy and obstreperous debate, eh? And I didn’t want to shove my disagreement in his face, because … well, because. He may not want to read it. But I do want to have said it, to give him (and you) the option of reading it.

So I’m saying it here:

I’m glad you posted this because I’d never heard of him and he sounds interesting. I’ve always found the role of Leo (is that his name?) the most unconvincing part of the play - well, no, the angels are unconvincing too - because I knew a WHOLE LOT of couples where one guy had AIDS and IN NOT ONE CASE did the lover walk out, though they often said they "would have if they'd known" or "wished they could" or some such utterly human remark, and then they felt guilty for it. I tried to assure them they had NO reason to feel guilty for that feeling, since they hung on despite it. And sure enough NOT ONE OF THEM did walk out. So I think it's a myth, and Kushner is just playing with the idea of it to get us emotionally involved. Cheating.

I simply fail to see why Zach (another Zach! wherefore this monstrous regiment of Zachs? well, at least he's not a Justin or a Jason; I can forgive Zach though I’d prefer Zeke) owes us anything, e.g. coming out. He plays gay guys, which is a social indicator right there - before 1983 or so, actors were afeared to do so - and NO actors were Out, though now lots and lots are - was D. Daniels the first singer? now it's commonplace - so the times they are a-changin' and they do so at their own speed. Zach plays gay guys and he supports gay issues and is unafraid to be seen as a man of liberal conscience. What more does he owe us? He doesn't owe us that. He could keep quiet about all of it. It might be better for his career if he did, or it might not. The point is: It's his choice.

Recollection: Back in high school? I was a loner, but I wasn't bullied. Nobody even mentioned gay in my high school, and it wasn't on TV or in the big glossies either except for the occasional article by Stanley Kaufman or Midge Decter or somebody heartily deploring us. But the reason I wasn't bullied - loner though I was, anti-sports and anti-rock and unpopular and perceptibly a weakling - is that I refused to stand for it when anybody tried it. I fought back. I had the muhfuhs hauled to the principal’s office. And they respected me for that! They let me alone! They continued to bully others, but I didn’t report them for that – they were leaving me alone, that was all I wanted. We used to high-five. I want to scream at these suicidal kids: none of your self-indulgent cries for the world's pity! FIGHT back! Fight dirty. Make trouble for them. So they kick you out of school. (I couldn't have endured that, or so I thought at the time, but the question never came up.) I made so much trouble they let me alone and bullied others who wouldn't fight back. Whom I declined to help. Not my department.

I feel sorry for bullied kids, and yes I agree something ought to be done about it, but I don't glorify the suicides. They thrive on that glory. It suits their romantic fantasies and then they go and live them, die them. If it weren't romantic, maybe they'd fight back instead. Or find the other outcasts and hang out. The pagan community is filled with former high school outcasts; they found the other outcasts. They wore black and listened to ghastly music. They found friendly adults. It can be done. Even, I daresay, in Kansas.

I grew up in a family with no religion at all. I found my own religion, and it was one that traditionally was very pro-gay. Didn't matter. I didn't want to be gay, and I gave myself HELL over it, and flirted with suicide over it (yes; of course I did). But I knew the world had better stuff than that in it. I stuck it out and eventually came out. It wasn't easy. None of my straight friends turned against me over it. None of my family blinked an eye. The only problems I had were with gay guys who thought I wasn't doing it openly or quickly enough. I did it at my own pace, thank you. The only SERIOUS homophobe I ever had to deal with was myself, and I had to fight back against HIS bullying and beat him up a few times before he got it. Which I did. At my own pace. True, I had no public position.

Is this Quinto dude really famous famous? I mean, would it make a difference to anyone if he were Out? (I'd never heard of him before now.) If a kid is the kind who would hang himself because he's 14 and takes things like teasing much too seriously, I don't think just another actor in L.A. coming out would mean a damn thing. Plenty of them are already out. It's his own strength this kid has to find. I passionately support his finding it, and anyone reaching out to help him do so is blessed (in my book). But I don't support condemning an actor who does not choose to come out. I fail to see the relevance.

Homophobic politicians and ministers and generals, yes: out them out them out them with extreme prejudice! (and then don't screw them, even when they beg for it) But why nag the ones who are on our side but want to remain private?

So I can't say "I like" your rantlet.

I shouldn't send this to you, should I? I should put it on my blog. That's what a blog is FOR. Yes.

What World Cup Futbol has taught me

For the first time in my (long) life: A televised stadium sport that entertains me! I find all the others crashing, except maybe Olympic gymnastics.

I've been going to restaurants and spending too much money to sit in air conditioning with other rowdy types and watch World Cup soccer, and it's been great fun, some very exciting matches of very well-matched teams. Sorry Ghana got gypped out of play. Glad the Germans lost, though they played damned well. I think I'm for Spain in the final, but not necessarily.

Things I've learned from this Cup:

What soccer is about is: Allowing Real Men to show pain. We all feel it, but in our macho society, men are not given (unspoken) permission to display it. In soccer, that rule is suspended, notably on the following occasions:

1) Lying on your back, knee to your chest, clutching your ankle and howling voicelessly. This appears to be the prime soccer tactical move, in which all players are trained except maybe goalkeepers, who are expected to take three times the punishment and display no emotion at all.

2) Expression of anguish on your face as the certain goal you just kicked is either deflected by an unnoticed opponent or else goes wide of the net or, most painful of all, is neatly caught by the goalkeeper and tossed three-quarters of the field away.

3) Expression of anguish (usually a roll of the eyes) as you realize the microphone in your face has picked up your voice, demonstrating to the entire world and ALL the folks back home that you cannot sing the national anthem on anything like proper pitch.

It all makes me very sad that no one played soccer when I was in junior high or high school. It was all American football or baseball, both of which I detested. The only sports I was ever remotely good at were kickball (in elementary school) and dodgeball -- I couldn't hit them, but no one could hit me, for the same reason -- atavistic terror -- that I could never catch a ball either. In soccer, these skills might have had some application.

Let men feel! Play more soccer! Lie on the ground clutching your ankle screaming! (I just know my technique would have been fab at that last.)

Gays playing straight on (gasp) Broadway?

Idly wondering if that guy, Seedy Ramin whosis, at Newsweek has any problems when Nathan Lane plays hetero leads in Guys and Dolls or The Producers or Forum, or when Ian McKellen or Derek Jacobi play Richard III, or when Tom Cruise and John Travolta (yes yes yes they're totally straight I know) play het leads in a film, or when David Daniels (or Mariusz Kwiecien) makes love to a woman in an opera (and women in the audience swoon, though they all know he's gay), and when everybody will grow up (not holding my breath).

In fact we've come a long way since straight actors didn't dare play gay, which was true until the late 70s IIRC. (I think Buck Henry was the first, in The Man Who Fell to Earth.)

And I saw that episode of Glee and didn't know Jonathan Groff was gay and never suspected it even once. And Nathan Lane is a lot prissier than Sean Hayes.

The point is, they're actors, either they can play the role or they can't.

A Goddess Appears

To celebrate what would have been my mother's eighty-ninth birthday last night (had she not died on February 4), went to a play. She'd certainly have approved.

The best new play I’ve seen in years: Venus in Fur. (by David Ives, a witty man.) A playwright (Wes Bentley) has made a play out of Sacher-Masoch’s 1870 novel, the eponym of Sado-Masochism (which novel everyone knows about but no one seems to have read – anyway, I sure haven’t), and he’s annoyed with all the actresses who have auditioned, and at the last minute one more shows up (the divine Nina Arianda), apparently a typical ditzy New York/L.A. brainless blonde, screaming, “Fuck!” when things go wrong, wearing inappropriate (for the era) fetish clothes, not understanding his allusions.

She nonetheless insists he let her read for him, “You don’t have to tell me about sado-masochism; I work in the theater.” And she puts on a Victorian dress and suddenly, like a light-switch, she’s a self-possessed aristocratic Austro-Hungarian of the 1870s with an entirely different accent (more or less British) and entirely different manner and movements, and he falls under her spell, and then every now and then she snaps out of it, is a ditz again (with no pause, it’s hilarious just to hear her do it, the moment you hear her whiny American accent the illusion shatters and we’re back in the rehearsal room), and she leaves him utterly bewildered and gradually demolishes him, exploiting the sado-masochistic feelings he’s always denied - and turns out (possibly) to be the goddess Aphrodite come to punish him for his self-suppression and his male condescension to women - and by the end she has him eagerly playing a girl whom she, as a man, exploits and crushes - most amazing (and funniest) performance I’ve seen on any stage in years - and probably the best staging of the central confrontation of the Bacchae, though using hardly any lines from that play. A major pagan event. Absolutely riveting.

At the end, my date, Nika, said, “Did you notice?” (I hadn’t.) “While we were doubled over laughing, most of the people in the audience didn’t get it at all; they had no idea what it was about.”

One could spend a night, many nights, just watching emotions play on Arianda's by no means conventionally beautiful face. Wonderful, wonderful.

Exposing Myself

I want to expose myself but I don't want anyone to look.
No; I want everyone to look, but I don't want anyone to see.
Or perhaps peek through their fingers and then forget all about it.
Or not realize it was me, unless they think about it later. Much later.
Or I want to expose myself completely but veiled.
Or a photograph, but only the negative, so obviously not with a digital camera.
Or just from the side that doesn't look like me.
Or that people would only realize was me much later when it was too late and they weren't really sure and anyway I was gone.

A bird's a bird for a' that

We dinna hunt, we dinna trap,
A bird’s a bird, for a’ that!
Still turkey fills the honest lap –
The stomach growls for a’ that!
For a’ that, an a’ that,
Sweet potatoes, pie and a’ that,
Till the hour be late, let them pile me plate,
And I’m well content and a’ that.

Oh a quail sae wee, or a rich confit,
Of a goose or a duck or a’ that,
Or a fine roast hen – satisfying, when
Ye daily dine, for a’ that.
For a’ that, an a’ that,
It’s the middleman an a’ that,
Twixt the veg and grain and your belly’s main –
A bird’s a bird for a’ that.

Ravenna Recollected

Roma was the emperor’s cock –
His favorite bird.
A fighter (my guess).
When the servants came crying, “Roma is fallen!”
The emperor (in Ravenna) trembled.
What relief to learn they meant merely the city,
Captured by Goths.
The rooster crowed and flapped, strutted and preened,
Jutting its beak out-in-out-in on the march,
Proud and erect as any centurion of any (defeated) legion.
A Praetorian cock!
What emperor lives in Rome? I ask you?
Honorius didn’t.
That crowded, fetid, overbuilt city
Where they’d been known to murder their emperors
– persecuted in a Palatine ghetto.
He dwelt enmarshed in ramparted Ravenna
And when a Goth carried off his sister
Graciously allowed the yob to wed her.

I remember with pride the fearless day
My sixteenth year
No word of Italian
No map in my hand
I went to Ravenna, a pilgrim, alone.
I’d heard of mosaics.
I remember the buses lined up in the square
And no way to figure which one took me back.
Alone and giddy
As floating on top of the nervous wave
I found San Vitale, saw the empress and emperor
I found Dante’s tomb the body absent – risen –
(as can only be proper for Italy’s god)
I found Sant’ Apollinare Nuovo
The saints in togas, faces glum as child’s play
The palatium (thus) with its curtains gathered in arched windows
I found nothing else in that city revealed – and reviled –
And the telephones defied me
And at last I took a taxi (with the last of my lire) back.

Ah Italy!
The first step in your streets, unreeled like bolts of salable silk
The piazzas of herbs of duomos of men-at-arms
The language uncertain but half-familiar (shouldn’t this all be sung?)
The sweet ice tea in the sour cafés
The limitless vistas of aching houses gelato-colored
Swaying with history’s breezes,
And each corner turned brought (devout was my faith)
Some new angle of beauty
Some new sip some new bite some intolerant ripeness
Some mingling of senses, the ancient and modern,
Like the finer cheeses, the airier salads,
The artichoke in hot aioli.
Was it young? Or was I? (In my thirty-first year)
My shouldrs, my feet – they never complained –
My belly, my cock – insatiable both –
My eye, my nose, my tongue – who had guessed
That all this lay in wait
Attempting to sate me?

Ravenna was once the capital of the world:
Impregnable in ramparts of sea and swamp.
Rome fell – but well – there were more where that came from.
In Ravenna: mosaics!
You can see the progression from Galla’s Greek keys
To Apollinare’s toga’d saints
To the Arian baptistery, John in the dome,
The watery pattern distorts the bare body,
To Classe’s apse, the sheep and the shepherd,
To the banker’s house, where a new style entrances
To the court ablaze in San Vitale:
Justinian conquers – the toga is banished –
The story of Isaac prefigures the Other,
Then decadence sets in in San Severo –
The Exarchs were poor – the Lombards without –
And then they marched in – and the sea marched off –
Without swamps it was only a poor seaside village.
The city fell. The Franks donated. The tyrants ruled.
A chunk of Crusader mosaic thus:
No skill, no art, no elegance survives.
The city has fallen … off.

When at last I returned (it was just forty years)
Nothing returned to my memory there.
I might be an exarch – an emperor – a Goth –
For all the recall of that teenage discovery.
I walked and I walked and I walked – but my feet hurt –
Took the bus down to Classe – and back – for the train.
And Italy forgot –
The wonder – the place without limits – had limits –
It’s beauties accessible, impudent, knowing.

I no longer get lost in sweet Italy now.
I have reached that age: I no longer get lost.
I walk into a town and it’s all familiar –
Though I’ve never seen it I know every byway.
(Well: try Naples before you put money on that one.)

Even Rome is comprehensible now
When no one has eyes for all of its treasures
I no longer have feet for the treasures I knew
And the churches as distant as comets are set
In a knowable matrix.
They have ceased to have children, and soon
They’ll lack ancestors too.
Each piazza belongs to the others – from boot toe to heel –
Each new dom, each palazzo, fits into the pale
And that giddiness, novelty, no more avails
Through the water I clearly perceive the bottom
On which I could walk if I were but taller.

Where is the land in whose beauty I drowned,
The land where mosaics were music?
The water’s dried up –
The coming tsunami
Will sweep me away.
Could I live now in Rome – imperially –
I would sit on a balcony –
With a hen called Ravenna –
Awaiting the Goths.