Jelly donuts: the price of being black and gay in Hollywood

“Diets don't work. It's those jelly donuts. They call to me in the middle of the night. Hollywood, Hollywood, come and get me Hollywooood.” Meshach Taylor bemoaned operatically, hitting notes only Leontyne Price could hope for and looking an awful lot like her while doing it. So rose the sassy star employee of department store window dresser, Hollywood Montrose, in 1987’s movie Mannequin. Taylor’s gay black character was sissifying his way into stealing the movie right out from under star Andrew McCarthy with one-line zingers and sequined likability. Scorching and burning the scenery like a roided-out version of André Leon Talley with his big shoulder-padded, über-fashionable caricature and looking fabulous in radiant eyewear, Hollywood Montrose brought homosexuality to a national audience and made it palatable. Note, I said homosexuality and not homo sex—There is a difference. Though his boyfriend, Albert, was often mentioned (as in “Albert left me! That bitch!”), he was never seen making you wonder how much ‘wood’ Hollywood was actually getting.

If you haven’t seen the fantastic documentary The Celluloid Closet (1995) and had grown up in my generation—i.e., the pre-Will & Grace, pre-Queer Eye, pre-Equal Marriage-Prop 8, pre- flamboyant hair battles, pre-Birkin bag-toting gay best friend in 5-inch pumps generation—you probably would not have seen very many openly gay characters on television or on film. Of course, there were varying shades of purple stretching back to the beginnings of cinema: there ranged faint hues of pink like the sexually flirtatious relationship between would-be murderers Guy Haines (Farley Granger) and Bruno Antony (Robert Walker) in Alfred Hitchcock’s classic Strangers on a Train (1951), to deeper, more saturated lavender as in the infamous (and once banned/ deleted) “snails and oysters” scene where an elder General Crassus (Sir Lawrence Olivier) tried to seduce the younger doe-eyed, pouty-lipped Antoninus (Tony Curtis) in Stanley Kubrick’s Spartacus (1960). Not until movies like Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967)—where Army major Marlon Brando falls in love with a recruit, and Suddenly, Last Summer (1959)—the story of a mother wanting to lobotomize her niece for telling the truth about how her gay son was murdered trying to pick up men—did the notion of man-on-man sex materialize. This film, directed by Joseph L. Mankiewicz (All About Eve and Cleopatra), written for the screen by Gore Vidal, based on a play by Tennessee Williams, and starring Elizabeth Taylor, Katharine Hepburn and Montgomery Clift, was so queerly pedigreed it became a cathedral of gay iconography like no other movie in Hollywood history. Although films of that time that dealt with gays typically ended in the tragic death of said homosexual (suicide in the former Reflections; murder in the latter Summer), at least their stories were beginning to be told. But just as I challenged in my previous blog about black women’s sexuality in Hollywood, so too will I ask the question now: where were the black gay characters? And if they did appear were they just pretty asexual dolls to be played as camp effect or shame then summarily discarded?

“The Sissy made everyone feel more manly or more womanly by occupying the space in between. He didn't seemed to have a sexuality, so Hollywood allowed him to thrive.”—The Celluloid Closet.

Some may think thriving is a contradiction to the tragic endings I spoke about. But the characterization of the fem man was allowed to live on in film after film. As long as the gay man was a dandy and a fool, he could survive. But once he threatened the status quo of gender rules death was very near. So the sashaying, jelly donut-eating Hollywood Montrose, despite presumably pounding snails and licking oysters, was acceptable because he was a sissy.

Interestingly, a recent study by psychologists at the University of Toronto revealed that when compared side-by-side, men (both gay and straight, both black and white) were assessed for their likability by women and a small group of other men. It was determined that black gay men are the most ‘likable’ and, therefore, most approachable of them all. Read this great post by Prince-Toddy English as he deconstructs the shadows this survey casts. He suggests that straight black men sexuality conjures Birth of a Nation fears in the women participating in the survey. But because gay black men don’t want vagina they’re perceived safe to play with. So, if finding viable films with a fair and balanced account of black male sexuality is a challenge, finding one with queer-identified black men is like trying to get the cast members of Jersey Shore to believe Chekhov's The Seagull is not a bar on the strip in Seaside Heights, NJ.

The first time I saw a gay black man on television I was sixteen watching a Saturday afternoon movie. I had just come in from mowing the lawn and was waiting for Star Trek when I came across a rerun of the 1976 movie Norman, is That You? Based on the Broadway play (the characters were originally Jewish), I was both mesmerized and shocked at the two men—one black, one white—lying in bed together. It was a vehicle for Redd Foxx and Pearl Bailey about a divorcing couple dealing with their son (Michael Warren) who was not only coming out, but was also in love with a white man. Think Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? but with an extra side of sausage. I was slapped back to reality when my stepfather, the Good Deacon, decried when he looked up from his newspaper “They ain’t faggots is they?” Maybe he wouldn’t have been so harsh if, instead of leather harnesses, they were wearing feather boas.

Ironically, in 1989, just two short years after Mr. Taylor’s Hollywood's screaming Mimi propelled a mediocre movie into box office gold, the British director, Isaac Julien, released Looking for Langston, a 42-minute short film combining archival footage of the Harlem Renaissance and scripted scenes with black actors Ben Ellison and Matthew Baidoo. The visuals of two black men entwined in passionate heat was viscerally explosive to me, helping to make the Harlem Renaissance, with its seeds of sexual unrest and free thought, the most brilliantly actualized time period for African American culture ever. That same year Emmy award-winning director Marlon T. Riggs released his seminal work Tongues Untied. Then came the often lauded but later maligned (and always controversial) Paris is Burning. Though powerful pieces on the unique experiences of gay black culture, these were still semi-documentary in nature. Where was the fictional fire white gays had expressed on film for years as in such movies as Boys in the Band and Making Love? Hell, even Al Pacino had a piece, albeit trannified, of manflesh in Dog Day Afternoon.

Then came Punks in 2000. Patrik-Ian Polk’s groundbreaking and well-received debut film followed the lives of four friends navigating the harsh waters of the gay Los Angeles social scene. With one night stands gone wrong, hot boyfriends, cheeky dialogue and steamy boy-to-boy action, this movie unfurled the reality of gay black men as something other than comedic props. Now, some may have a problem digesting the notion of effeminate or soft men being submissive bottoms or the whole gay-man-in-love-with-a-straight-man thing, but at the very least there were naked black men on screen and no triple-X rating to be found anywhere. The Harlem Renaissance was revisited in 2004 in Rodney Evans’ film Brother to Brother (with early film work by Anthony Mackie and Daniel Sunjata). And in 2006, African filmmaker Adaora Nwandu brought the beautiful love story of Raymond and Tagbo (Daniel Parsons and Adedamola Adelaja) to the screen in her movie Rag Tag. This small poignant film built a powerful story of taboo love in the context of homophobic West Indian and Nigerian cultures in London while also including the complexities of modern day class warfare (one young man was rich, the other poor). The film presented a star-crossed love story of Shakespearean proportions.

Since those times, being young and gay has blossomed, to a certain extent, on the small screen, setting aside the apparent white washing of Queer as Folk (read my post on that here). For a few years now, cable television has begun to showcase stories of gay black sexuality, from the series Noah’s Arc to the DL Chronicles; the movie Ski Trip to characters Omar Little on The Wire and Omar on Single Ladies; and independent shorts like Slow by Darius Clark Monroe. Now there is always a need for more representation. In comparison to the more established white gay community there is tons more work needing to be offered but with the Internet there a greater opportunity such as the web series Drama Queenz to take hold. And, yes, Hollywood Montrose is still alive (but not eating jelly donuts; think of the all those carbs), in the form of Lafayette Reynolds on the hit HBO series True Blood. With Covergirl eyelashes and a tongue so sharp it can cut steel, Lafayette (Nelsan Ellis) cuts a mighty figure as Bon Temps local Satyr. He is in full command of his sexuality. Giving off a humidity that viewers can feel, he has become the show's most popular character and thank God he (nor the writers/ creators/ producers of the show) are afraid of sex. In season 4 of the series he even gets a loving boyfriend. And though Lafayette stabed poor Jesus to death while possessed by Harry Potter's demented aunt in the season 4 finale; we still have hope that there'll be another cute boy for Mr. Reynolds' enjoyment next season. Being a medium Lafayette can maybe channel the ghosts of Barca and Pietros—the gay gladiatorial beast and his companion who died in Spartcus: Blood and Sand. Thankfully this time around none of their deaths had anything to do with their life-styles. Which gives us some optimism that one day soon, black gay men will never have to hear another jelly donut call his name.

127 Hours is 5 days of torturous bliss

To be honest other than the sensational nature of the material I wasn't interested in a movie where the money shot was a man cutting off his own arm after being trapped for 5 days under a boulder. But the combination of Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, Slum Dog Millionaire) and James Franco (Spider-man 1-3 & Rise of the Planet of the Apes) was a frenetic alchemy that meshed flashback, recorded video and staggeringly quick edits into a visceral cinematic experience. Based on a true event, Mr. Franco plays Aron Ralston, a folksy dude who loves outdoor adventure. After briefly meeting and helping two lost female hikers find an underground lake its established that Ralston is a fun-loving person whose passion for hiking, skiing, mountain climbing is infectious. Promising to meet them later at a party he goes off alone to his doom. He falls down a steep narrow crevice were he ends up standing with his arm crushed between a huge rock and the wall of the ravine.

With only a days worth of water and a small utility knife, he realizes the dire straits upon him. He never looses his composure or humor even joking about being cheap and not spending extra money on a "real" Swiss Army Knife. There was one shot were he looks up through the thin opening of the ravine and see's a jet flying thousands of feet up over him. It gave you such a sense of perspective on how small and trapped he really was I was chilled thinking of what I would do in his position. Most directors and actors would now be stymied as to how to keep the momentum going. From here on out you know as a viewer it was 5 days of torture, tedium, delirium and drinking one's own urine. But Boyle and Franco expressed the lapsing of time with such grace, like Franco lifting his bare foot so that he could get just a tiny bit of sunlight or of him rewinding his vid-cam to long for his parents to keep him going was touching and soulful. And when that final moment arrived you cheered grotesquely with every bitter cut not because you wanted him to escape (that's a given) but because deep down inside you know you could not have made that horrific choice.

At 90 minutes the movie was both compact and jarring. The ultimate story of man facing himself and coming away better for it. Seeing the real Ralston swimming with his stub, snowboarding and playing with his newborn baby at the end of the film proved that he may have lost an arm but he gained and entire life.

Due Date passed it's point of freshness

Due Date passed it's point of freshness due in part to me unfairly comparing it to Planes, Trains & Automobiles the quintessential buddy/ disaster film. Robert Downey Jr. as the angry pensive straight man came across as wholly unlikable, not because he was upstaged by Zach Galifianakis' misanthropic retread of his weirdo character from The Hangover movies, but because Downey seemed to have dialed in his haughty-jerk-put-upon everyman. His "I just wanna get home." mantra seemed more boorish than haggard as was in the case of sorrowful Neal Page (Steve Martin) who was foiled at every turn by the brilliant oafishness of Del Griffith (John Candy). The set-up was ridiculous. After crashing into each other at an airport a series of ludicrous events (including using terrorism as a gag--I know groundbreaking) forced Peter the stuck up go-go architect and Ethan the unyielding buffoon to have to share a rental car cross country so that Peter wouldn't miss his first child's birth. What ensued was puerile jokes on masturbation, drinking the ashes of a dead person thinking it was coffee, crossing the border into Mexico while high on medical marijuana, and stale racial jokes about the possible paternity of the arriving baby to be that of Jamie Foxx. Instead of genuine sympathy for Ethan after his father's death our emotions were tweaked by director Todd Phillips (The Hangover) with soft piano music and tight close up of a teary Ethan. Those scenes felt forced and manufactured. The only truly funny moment was when our hapless adventurers stopped off at the Grand Canyon for Ethan to spread his father's ashes to the wind and he said "Dad, it's like you've been a father to me." There were a few funny cameos but Due Date veered too far off the road and totally missed the exit to comedy. Next time I'll take the detour.

Guest Blogger: Review of A Wrinkle in Time by Anthony L. Carter

Recently, I watched a very telling discussion with my favorite writer, bell hooks.

In this very powerful and straightforward interaction she shared the brilliant truth that the “work of ending domination “ is the “work of love”.

This point was brought to my attention again during the rereading of this wonderful book. A Wrinkle in Time is primary concerned with the ending of domination.

It is clear throughout this book that the only way that the Murry’s will survive and help others in the process is recommitting on a deeper level to the care of one another.

The brilliance of this book is the significance that is given to what many perceive as “faults”. It is their quirkiness, their difference, which will allow for love and redemption. At one point Mrs. Whatsit states: “Meg, I give you your faults.” (p.145). These faults, anger, impatience and stubbornness, allow the protagonist to survive, at a most crucial moment, and save her family as a result.

Unlike typical tales of heroes and their quests, Meg is never alone.

Through parental love and acceptance, she like her brothers, have been taught that they are more than enough. It is this nurturing upbringing that allows each of the children to take on the unthinkable.

The seemingly ubiquitous IT.

The introduction of this seductive and seemingly innocuous being is exhibited by happy children and their families smiling and enjoying life. Like a number of things that appear wonderful and yet turn out the complete opposite later, the smiles and joy hide a deeper and more sinister reality.

What is so frightening about this concept is that it is seductive to both the reader as well as the characters who encounter it.

However, as a result of being granted the gift of healthy emotional resources, the young protagonists are not so easily tricked. The children are taught to see with not only their eyes but with their minds, intellect and emotions.

They will not be duped.

My move reviews: The Help

This movie is not a social commentary on the horrors of American apartheid in the early 1960s. It's basically a chick flick wrapped in the demagoguery of preaching against racism and the downtrodden black maids, and the bad treatment they receive at the hands of skinny white debutantes. That being said I liked the movie. Sure it was filled with archetypes: Skeeter (Emma Stone) as the plucky, liberal I can see what nobody else can see main character, Aibileen (Viola Davis) as the steadfast dignified servant, Hilly (Bryce Dallas Howard) as the whining spoiled racist and Minny (Octavia Spencer) as the sassy with a dark-side side-kick; but overall it was a solid film. Marketed as a drama I think its funnier moments were the best played. Viola Davis hums when on screen giving a layered performance that demands for her to be given bigger roles. She brings her anger and emotions almost to a boil then blanches them off making you want to lash out against the people that harm her. I enjoyed the chemistry between Minny and her hapless boss Celia Foote (played with some breadth by Jessica Chastain). They created a touching comic duo: Celia-"They [the debs] don't like me because of what they think I did." Minny- "They don't like you 'cause they think you white trash!" The few men in this movie are nothing more than set pieces used to propel the story forward by their dastardliness. One thing I must say...can we please stop violating pies. Over all this was a good movie.

Is Ben Affleck my Soulmate?

When Ben Affleck's character, Doug MacRay, reads in voice over that it's never too late to start your life over in the surprisingly good movie "The Town" (read my review here) it got me wondering. Can there be do-overs in life? And if not--at least second chances? Novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald depressingly said "There are no second acts in American lives." But what if that wasn't true? As you know (because you've been reading my blogs), I have recently been wrestling with this very notion of trying to reinvent myself after years of toiling in worker bee pods in cubicle-covered fields of Mister Charlie's Corporate America. Each day I enter that giant glass phallus of greed, I feel globs of my soul ooze away, right there in the four-story marble lobby next to the company's $10,000,000 giant mural. I disguise my disgust at this gilded cage by doing my work well and collecting a paycheck. But my creative side that has yearned to be free since my first attempted manuscript at age 8—the story of a dinosaur who lost its way, which was my first foray into existential narration—feels as shriveled and as vulnerable as Korob and Sylvia's true stick bug-like forms that die without the use of their powerful transmuter at the end of Catspaw--one of my favorite Star Trek: TOS episodes. I remember being struck by their ultimate loneliness and smallness. It still makes me sad. I don't want to end up smoldering away into oblivion with the world's eyes averted.

When I released my first book I sent out an email blast to hundreds of people to build interest in Solstice. I received many well wishes and congratulations, but curiously, an author friend sent me an interesting reply. He offered his input on my thirst for success: "...Here is a telling statistic: there are only about 300 full time authors in America." He went on to say that even by selling 10,000 books I would only stave off poverty and reality for about a year. "The present set-up of the book market is not really conducive to success for the first-time author." Of course it wasn't all discouraging. He ended the email with: "However, hopefully you will be the exception."

My writing is not a vanity project (well, to a certain extent at least). I think all creative people have an inner desire to be praised for their work. But like Affleck and his gang of toughs learned in the movie "The Town," life has a way of drawing you back in. During the last several years I sometimes felt like Kali, the massive asteroid from Arthur C. Clarke's Hammer of God, was threatening to fall upon me. Looming in my horizon were the issues of dementia with my aging mother and financial calamity. I eloquently bellyached about it here. But this predicament almost seemed premeditated; an entrapment of sorts. With every joy and elation came a damnation. I was beginning to think I was cursed. I had been writing about witchcraft for almost 5 years afterall. I heard friends and celebrities toss around words like "passion" and "calling" which were abstract concepts to be sure. If God could be so straightforward with Jada Pinkett-Smith and JK Rowling it seemed my calling was printed on an index card at the bottom of a tree in a dense wood behind a giant prehistoric fern that I was supposed to find in the midst of a downpour. Over the past several years I've seen friends start successful career-changing endeavors on nothing more that whimsy, and even though I am ecstatic for their good fortune, I oftentimes feel like Celie dogging that mailbox while asking Mister "Anything come for me?"

Twice this past week I've heard two young men tell me that they want to do something different in their lives although they habitually procrastinate. I said to them, "Do it before it gets too late; Look at me." But then later I thought: Why is it too late for me? Now, I don't want to keep ladling on the complaints so I must recognize my part of the equation. I feel that I am in a renaissance of my life where I recently have reached a proliferation of work. I've written and created more in the last 6 years than I have in the previous 40. Maybe I'm a late bloomer. A second "careerer." Famed French director Robert Bresson, who was called the patron saint of film, didn't start filming until his mid 40s. Rodney Dangerfield sold aluminum siding for 15 years before getting back into show business at 45. Colonel Sanders didn't franchise his 11 herbs and spices until he was 65 after many years of failed ventures. And my personal favorite (and yes because he's a writer and, yes, because he's the author of one of my all-time favorite books), Richard Adams, didn't publish Watership Down until he was almost 53. So maybe I should shake the detritus of dispair from my shoes and forge ahead like a good rabbit should.

But one thing I've learned in this ordeal of life is to pray. Pray not for the material but the circumstance to better myself and the world I live in. Now, when I say prayer I don't mean the "Lord gonna bless me with a man and some money 'cause I sure done worked hard" kinda prayer. What I mean is a prayer for an inner peace that would lead you in the direction you must go, remembering along the way to stop and remember what you're working for. To pray and be thankful that you can work and work hard toward your goal. To say that you are grateful to get this second chance in a infamously unforgiving world. My hardships and trials will only serve as more coal for the engine of my creativity. I must learn to savor these times because many people only have mediocrity ahead of them and no clue how to end it. Maybe that's the point: To get out into your own life. Maybe it's not one index card but many index cards. Bad romantic comedies have taught us that there is ONLY ONE true love of your life. My ex said it best: "What are the odds that there is only one soulmate for you. With 6 billion people you probably have hundreds maybe thousands of soulmates. You've just got to find at least ONE of them."

And just like my old buddy Doug MacRay in "The Town" may not have found his soulmate, he did, however, find a way to try to get a second chance. And so can we all.