The Truth is Bad Enough: What Became of the Happy Hustler? (12 page)
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Authors: Michael Kearns
More than four decades later, Carley remembers: “I first became aware of you when I saw you playing the sheriff in
Robin Hood
—I thought you were very handsome and excellent in the role. You really made me laugh. However, I don’t remember ever actually meeting you until we were cast in
Birdbath
together.
“You were so friendly and outgoing that I immediately felt at ease with you. It also didn’t take me long to develop a crush on you even though I’m pretty sure I knew you were gay. You made me laugh more than anyone ever had. I’m not really sure why I felt so close to you quickly, but I did, and I always knew that I could trust you.”
Carley played Velma Sparrow, a troubled young woman who killed her mother, and I played her new beau, a dark poet-dishwasher who worked at the same restaurant where the fragile Velma worked as a waitress.
The bond that resulted from their shared sense of isolation mirrored our offstage relationship. At one climactic moment in the one-act play, Frankie and Velma slow dance to the romantic song “I Only Have Eyes for You.” While we both knew there was a sexual energy between us, even if only onstage, we also knew that it would be impossible to replicate that plotline in real life. But we became, and remain, the closest of friends.
I would unavoidably discover that the dynamic of a gay man and a straight woman engaging in a sexless love affair was fairly common, although most ended in predictable unhappiness. Carley was the exception because even at that point in her life, it was pretty much predestined that she would marry her high school sweetheart, David Preston. I attended their wedding.
But not before Carley and I, with a gaggle of Goodman’s gay boys, attended the first-night showing of
Boys in the Band
. Seeing the big-screen version of Mart Crowley’s play, featuring the original cast directed by William Friedkin, was a revelation. Not only did I see aspects of myself reflected in the characters; these were roles I could play with force and conviction. Like practically every other young gay man who saw the movie, I was particularly smitten with the appealing actor who played Donald, the most beckoning of the cast of misfits: Frederick Combs.
By the time we both began our final year at Goodman, my marriage to Thom would foreshadow that a
Boys in the Band
ending might be difficult for me to escape. We had decidedly segued from Marilyn and Arthur into George and Martha territory. I was a lush; he was obsessed with pornography. At parties, I would attempt to seduce any male with a pulse while he observed from the sidelines. When we got home, the real drama began. The violent nature of the relationship began insidiously and could even be rationalized as playful on some occasions: boys-will-be-boys behavior—a shove here, a push there—but, as with most physical abuse, it escalated. The sexual dynamic, in which I was consistently cast as the aggressor and Thom as the passive partner, would provide the template for what was to come.
While the sex play did not fall into the realm of sadomasochism, it was certainly underscored with a love/hate subtext. Thom loved/hated the physical me; I loved/hated the seemingly intelligent him; a war was waged and sometimes seemed to be staged, between The Beauty and The Brains. The sex reflected our animosity toward each other as well as our genuine affection. Fucking would be a thrill-seeking ride that mixed danger and fear with an adrenaline rush of passion. Add boozing to the equation (me, not him) and the scene could get out of control, man versus man instead of boys-will-be-boys.
More often than not, the inciting incident involved my repeatedly proving to my lover how much more sexually desirable I was than he. This plot required only one other character—a male, gay or straight, whom I could seduce—if not physically, then emotionally—as Thom simmered on the sidelines. This was far more exciting if there was an audience, increasing Thom’s humiliation and reinforcing what I thought was my appeal.
Parties, where liquor flowed and flawed men fumbled, provided the ideal circumstances in which to play out this unhealthy sport we’d devised. I say “we” because, even though I appeared to play the leading role, he was equally responsible for “writing the script.”
On the way home from one particular festive gathering in which I’d managed to spend a good hour or so holed up in a bedroom with some het hunk—probably snuggling and discussing the theories of Stanislavski—Thom unleashed the usual barrage of recriminations and accusations. He would scream, “Whore.” And I’d bray back, “Fuck you.” With my trained vocal instrument, I usually managed to achieve the highest volume.
But the fight didn’t end in the car. It merely changed locations, to the bedroom of our apartment, where I became so agitated that I began hitting him—this time, for real. Punching him, pummeling him, drawing blood. He attempted to fight back, albeit lamely, since being the victim of my maleness was what he wanted on some level. And he got it.
Thom had cast me as Sherlock Holmes (against the desires of Bella Itkin, who insisted on Bruce Boxleitner) in a Children’s Theatre show at Goodman that would run through the summer. The writer-director and star arrived the morning after for rehearsal, to be closely scrutinized by the cast and crew, many of whom had been at the same party the night before. They didn’t buy Thom’s “I bumped into a wall” story as an explanation for his bruised eye and swollen nose, knowing that I’d likely done the damage in a drunken rage. They were right. Even though it was clear that I had a serious drinking problem that Thom was symbiotically enabling, the histrionic machinations of our teaming would endure several more Albee-esque acts.
“Darling,” my director said, pulling me aside for a private consultation. “You need to lose about ten pounds of baby fat before we open.”
This bit of direction, delivered by Off-Broadway wunderkind Tom Eyen, was one of the many details that would distinguish
The Dirtiest Show in Town
from my previous theatrical outings. For starters, it was the first time a director called me “darling.”
With his superior intellect and severe sense of humor, Eyen was an oddball whose sophistication was tempered by a pervasive sweetness. “Darling,” he would say, referencing a bygone time when starlets were discovered at soda fountains, “you’re my discovery.”
After a grueling rehearsal schedule that included thousands upon thousands of sit-ups, I made my L.A. stage debut in the West Coast premiere of
Dirtiest Show
, written and directed by Eyen.
The “baby fat” he referred to was bloat, the result of guzzling gallons of white wine during my first eight months in L.A.. It was the autumn of Hollywood 1971 and Rock Hudson was starring in
McMillan & Wife
, Dick Sargent was playing Darrin Stephens opposite Elizabeth Montgomery on
Bewitched
and Robert Reed was playing the dad on
The Brady Bunch
: three gay men who were playing husbands. Paul Lynde was camping it up on
Hollywood Squares
and Alan Sues often appeared in drag on
Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-In
. Little did I realize then that I would eventually meet all of them.
My connection to the entertainment capital of the world was the reluctant Best Actress-nominated Carrie Snodgress (
Diary of a Mad Housewife
), a Goodman alumna and Thom’s friend. Carrie introduced Thom to her agent, the powerful Stan Kamen of the William Morris Agency. Thom, in turn, set up a meeting for me with Kamen a few days after I arrived in L.A.
In anticipation of my meeting, the advice I received was confusing: “Butch it up but wear tight jeans” seemed to be the general tip. I took direction well. Within minutes of meeting the handsome, no-nonsense Kamen, he was on the phone to Monique James, head of casting at Universal. During the final days of the old studio system, Universal was the only remaining studio where one could be hired as a contract player, the best possible scenario for a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of acting school.
“Monique,” Kamen cooed, oozing high-voltage Hollywood charm, surveying me from head to toe. “I’ve got a handsome kid here who just graduated from Goodman. Can you see him?”
A few weeks later, I performed a scene for James, playing a young Will Shakespeare. She immediately sent me to Reuben Cannon, who was casting a part I was “right for” on an upcoming episode of
Ironside
. The word got back to Kamen that my work was “too theatrical,” but James wanted to see me do another scene. While “theatrical” was probably an accurate description, considering I’d just completed three years at a school that taught stage acting, I also think it euphemistically carried a whiff of homophobia. James, a lesbian, certainly knew that being sent by Kamen was a clue to my probable gayness.
When Thom dropped me off at the Ivar Theater in the heart of Hollywood (if Hollywood has a heart) on the opening night of
Dirtiest Show
, ten pounds lighter, I was greeted with the explosion of flashbulbs shooting from the paparazzi’s cameras. It was all at once shocking, seductive and disconcerting. I hadn’t even stepped onstage and they were clamoring to get a photo.
The opening-night audience included Cass Elliot of the Mamas and the Papas, manager extraordinaire Alan Carr, transsexual author Christine Jorgenson, poet Rod McKuen and a host of agents, casting directors and press people. Carr introduced himself and insisted that we “go to lunch.” He was impressed with my knowledge of Ann-Margret, his star client, whose career he had resurrected.
While certainly tame by today’s standards,
The Dirtiest Show in Town
was decidedly an edgy piece of theater in 1972. Not only did the cast appear sans costumes throughout the evening, but the sketch material celebrated sexuality of every stripe while condemning pollution and war. Perhaps not Brechtian in breadth, but the show had some bite.
As an actor, I had never felt so free or authentic. Forget three years of sense-memory exercises and Shakespeare classes; at long last I was given permission to use myself, including my gay self, onstage. While we certainly camped it up in the Goodman Children’s Theater, we were essentially employing the stereotypical clown routine (the gay version of Uncle Tom). In
Dirtiest Show
, we were employing ourselves, including our bodies: “This is me, motherfuckers, like it or not.” Heightening the exhilaration was the instant celebrity status the performers were awarded. The truth, of course, was that the young and sexed-up cast members were being sought as much for their fuckability as for their thespian abilities.
I followed up with Carr, and he did invite me to lunch at the Green Café. A magnet for industry types, many of whom were screamingly gay, the Green Café was legendary, in no small part because of Carr’s largess. Carr’s flamboyance endeared him to the Hollywood community; probably because he was overweight and not conventionally attractive, his uncompromising gayness played well and he knew it. On and off the screen, queers were allowed to be court jesters as long as they never showed their balls.
Holding court, Carr introduced me to his all-male table of cohorts. “I’d like you to meet Michael Kearns,” he said in a voice that could be heard above the considerable buzz of the outdoor patio and the traffic sounds of San Vicente Boulevard. “A
tall
David Cassidy.”
It was a reference to my mane of shoulder-length hair, something Ann-Margret herself commented on when I met her a few weeks later at Carr’s birthday party, also held at the trendy Green Café. “I love your hair,” the sex kitten purred. It was the beginning of an enduring friendship with a Hollywood goddess who is also a complex and caring woman.
While I was acknowledged for my onstage abilities as a performer, my offstage reputation as a hard-drinking and sexually available party boy was gaining considerably more momentum. Non stop parties, held in the Hollywood Hills digs of the gay, rich and famous, inevitably led to a growing list of sexual conquests. In many instances, the real party action took place in various secret rooms, away from the main event.
At one of these orgies masquerading as a party, I found myself smoking dope with a Sixties television heartthrob whose career had been derailed after more than one public sex arrest. He was wearing a bright red caftan (popularized by the zaftig Carr), which conveniently provided easy access, especially since he’d apparently left his underpants at home.
I would later have a private assignation with the notoriously well-hung hunk who was one of the first “stars” to take it all off for
Playgirl.
Well, almost all. The jet-black hairpiece remained firmly attached.
Our sex date took place in an art studio on his estate. In the midst of easels and mundane artwork, there was a cot, strategically placed below a wall adorned with the nude shots from
Playgirl
. Multiple images of his big schlong, presumably intended to reinforce the real thing, proved more comedic than erotic. This would not be the only time I’d have trouble getting it up with a Big (in more ways than one) Star.
While fucking me, he was looking at his images on the wall, oblivious to my degree of hardness or softness. After he came, which was punctuated by the obligatory grunts and groans of a less-than-nuanced television actor, he hopped up and headed for the bathroom.
“How was it?” he asked, cocksure, as he strode across the room.
“Uh, okay,” I said, telling the truth.
I’ll never forget the sight of his back stiffening, almost as if he’d been shot from behind. He couldn’t wait to get me out of his “art studio.”
The ongoing challenges in my relationship with Thom were exacerbated by my moment in the sun. Even though he was making more money than I was (book advances, screenplay treatments) and remained the breadwinner, my career appeared to be in higher gear. The competitiveness that characterized our teaming was accelerated, including comparisons of our sexual escapades. In spite of this, we were symbiotically bound to each other.
Perhaps more than anyone, Thom knew the extent of my increasing alcoholism, witnessing the hangovers, the necessary afternoon naps after a drunken lunch, and the excessive amounts of booze it took for me to get to sleep in the wee hours of the morning. Did he enable me (a concept that didn’t even exist then)? Probably, but I was also blessed/cursed with Mommy’s boozy genetics.
