I Shudder Read online

  My mother did have her revenge. After I’d left home, my parents moved from New Jersey to Philadelphia, where my mom went to work doing public relations for a dance company. One day she called me and asked if, since I was coming to Philly for a weekend visit, I could stop by a photographer’s studio in Manhattan and pick up an envelope filled with photographs of the company’s dancers. Then she just happened to mention, “I think that some of the pictures are nudes.”

  I picked up the large, packed manila envelope and I saw that it was sealed. Which meant that I had a two-hour train ride to either not look at the photos of hot, naked male dancers, or to try and figure out a way to open the envelope, look at the pictures, masturbate in public, and then somehow reseal the envelope. Or I could claim that the envelope was already open, and that the greasy fingerprints all over the pictures weren’t mine.

  Because I’m a hopeless coward, I did nothing and just sat on the train, cursing my mother, with the envelope on my lap. When I got to my parents’ house, my mom asked casually, “Did you look at the pictures? I bet they’re great.” “No, I didn’t look at the pictures,” I snapped. “I hate dance.”

  My favorite coming-out story was told to me by a friend who was one of four gay siblings. After his oldest brother came out, their parents took some time to adjust, and then insisted that they were fine with everything, and that they loved their gay son. Then my friend Larry, the second-oldest, came out, and the parents were shell-shocked, but eventually came around, imagining that their acceptance duties were now over. When Larry’s little sister came out, she took her even-younger brother, without consulting him, out with her, by blurting, “Mom and Dad, I’m gay, and so is Richard!” This was a variation on “Okay, so maybe I tried to flush a paperback down the toilet, but Richard stole a dollar from Grandma’s wallet!”

  While I was thinking about Scott’s idea, I wondered if maybe coming out could be treated as a useful comic device, the way divorce and adultery were mainstays of the screwball comedies of the 1930s. What if, rather than writing another saga of tremulous gay heartache, I could pay screwball tribute to Howard Brackett, a small-town high school English teacher who loves his job, his family, Shakespeare, and Barbra Streisand?

  And I know what you’re thinking—Barbra Streisand? Isn’t that a bit much, a trifle stereotypical, and not what the gay civil rights movement needs right now for the we’re-just-like-you-and-all-we-want-is-a-little-quiet-dignity pamphlet? That’s probably true, but I was once having a conversation with a beefy FedEx driver, and when I told him that he’d just delivered my ticket to see Barbra Streisand in her comeback tour, at Madison Square Garden, he melted instantly, asking, “Oh my God, do you think she’ll do any of the early stuff, from Color Me Barbra?” When I got to the concert, I was most impressed by the traveling gift shop, where fans could purchase not just T-shirts and CDs, but also, for several hundred dollars, a large, ivory-colored silk scarf printed with an impressionistic collage of Barbra in all of her greatest film roles. I began wondering where a devoted man or woman would wear such a thing, and then I thought, oh, of course, to a Barbra Streisand concert.

  The script went through countless drafts, as Scott and I tried to push Howard through as many comic hoops as possible. Scott encouraged me to invent Greenleaf, Indiana, the town that surrounds Howard, and to come up with a raft of characters who might have secrets of their own. A friend had once told me that limited minds sometimes think of sex as a matter of “in holes and out holes,” and they condemn gay people because gays keep trying to insert the wrong things into the wrong places; I knew that such a learned discussion should find a home in my script, which was eventually called In & Out. The studio that was producing the movie remained pleased but wary, and whenever the script was threatening to become too gay, I’d get notes claiming it was “repetitive,” until finally, at a studio meeting, I mentioned that, “some of us were born repetitive,” and those particular notes dwindled.

  Frank Oz agreed to direct and, like the fans who besieged him, I was in awe, because not only had he made such beloved films as What About Bob?, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, and Little Shop of Horrors, he was also one of the creators of the Muppets and the voice of Miss Piggy; if this wasn’t enough, he was also the voice of Yoda in the Star Wars movies. When starry-eyed strangers weren’t gushing about his movies, they were demanding that Frank “do Miss Piggy” or “be Yoda.” Being unnaturally decent, Frank would usually oblige, and the effect was mesmerizing. While technology and digital effects have transformed the movies, there’s still nothing like hearing a tall, genial, bearded man instantly become a vain, flouncing sow or a centuries-old, cosmically wise dwarf.

  Casting began, and Kevin Kline was set to play Howard Brackett. Kevin is the best sort of paradox, because he’s a romantic leading man who’s also a great classical actor and a baggy-pants burlesque clown. Kevin also proved to be the ideal choice because, as an actor, he’ll do a fantastic job and then immediately doubt himself; Kevin can make anxiety, indecision, and dithering wonderfully real and funny.

  Tom Selleck asked to read for the role of an openly gay journalist who comes to Greenleaf to report on the outing. Tom is one of the few stars who’s even taller and more absurdly handsome in person, and when he walked into the audition room, everyone, male and female, gay and straight, became a hopelessly gibbering, lovestruck schoolgirl. Even Kevin, who’s as straight as can be, got all dreamy-eyed and asked, “Tom, would you like some coffee?” And once we were shooting, my mom came to the set, and Tom kissed her, and, well, I just wanted to ask, “So who’s happy to have a gay son now?”

  Tom is also one of those actors who many gay men, especially online, like to claim as one of their own. I’d heard countless stories of someone who knew someone whose ex-boyfriend’s best friend had seen a Polaroid of Tom from twenty years earlier, in a Speedo, on someone’s refrigerator, in a gay neighborhood. But here’s what I always wonder: Why do these particular gossips never decide that any character actors are gay? Why don’t they ever declare, “I know this guy in L.A. whose roommate went out with a flight attendant who went out with Wilford Brimley?”

  Scott and Frank made sure that the entire cast of In & Out was first rate, and everyone fell in love with Joan Cusack, who played Emily, Howard’s confused fiancée. Emily was inspired by the photos in the New York Times social pages, where, I’m convinced, like the gossips I’ve just condemned, that I can always tell when an unknowing woman is marrying an obviously closeted gay man. In these doomed marriages, the groom is always too thrilled at having his picture taken, as if he imagines the couple is on a movie poster. Of course, now the Times prints the announcements for same-sex couples as well, and these pairings are very brave, because their photos will be instantly dissected in gay chat rooms. “Oh, please,” a typical comment will read, “the younger guy has horse teeth and the older guy should have his eyes done.”

  Before filming started, Scott and I gave Frank, who’s straight, a “Gay Kit,” filled with items like an original cast recording of Gypsy, some hardcore gay porn, a rainbow flag, and condoms. Frank was amused, because he insisted that the movie had to be, above all else, funny, because he wasn’t interested in making a do-goody, gays-are-people-too, liberal Hollywood tract. At the first read-through of the script, Debbie Reynolds, who was playing Howard’s wedding-obsessed mother, turned to me and said, “Paul, you’re funny, and you know why? Because you’re a Jew. Jews are funny, and I know, because I was married to a Jew.” During the long days and nights of shooting, Debbie could be found either twisted into unbelievably limber yoga poses in a corner, or entertaining crowds of delighted extras, who roared as Debbie performed chunks of her nightclub act. Debbie also had an inspiringly raunchy vocabulary. During a scene toward the end of the movie, Debbie, in a wedding gown, tosses her bouquet into a mob of eager female guests. This activity had to be repeated many times, and Debbie revived the crowd by shouting, “All right, ladies! This time let’s really feel it! Let’s feel it i
n our vaginas!”

  The filming of In & Out was a matter of creative substitution. Many of the movie’s early scenes take place at the Oscars, but the exterior, paparazzi-infested red carpet mêlée was all shot in Manhattan, at a disguised Lincoln Center. Matt Dillon played Cameron, the movie star who innocently outs Howard, and clips from Cameron’s Oscar-nominated role, as a gay war hero, were shown, and the bits set on a hellish, bomb-blasted Vietnam battlefield were shot on a beach in Brooklyn. Most of the film takes place in the idyllic Greenleaf, which was faked on locations all over the tristate area, from Pompton Lakes, New Jersey, a town that had just settled a toxic-waste dumping scandal, to Northport, Long Island, where the cameras had to avoid catching a glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. After we’d been shooting for months in a New Jersey high school, where real-life students were still attending classes, any glamour had dissipated, and a kid shouted, just before the cameras rolled, “MOVIES SUCK!”

  Then there was the kiss. This was a major moment, about midway through the film, when Howard, with his wedding still scheduled, is falling to pieces. Tom Selleck’s reporter tries to talk some sense into him, and coax him into coming out, and he finally just grabs Howard and kisses him. Howard succumbs and then freaks out even more. During the rehearsals for this scene, Kevin and Tom, in a room, held their scripts and marked the action—that is, when they arrived at the kiss, they both mumbled “kiss” and stayed a good few feet apart. The scene was shot days later, at a rural intersection in New Jersey, on a bucolic hillside surrounded by farmland and apple trees. Kevin and Tom began to kiss and, being smart actors, they really started to go for it, because the steamier the smooch, the more heartfelt and funny the scene became. The nearby roads had been closed for the day, but cars filled with onlookers kept circling, trying to see what was going on, and all I kept thinking was, if only they knew what Magnum, P.I., was up to.

  Once the filming was completed, the studio released a trailer that gave the film’s basic setup: a small-town teacher gets outed on the Oscars. Audiences were laughing, and as I watched this preview with an appreciative crowd, I could see that there was a titillation factor. Much of this audience, especially the straight guys, seemed to be assuming that the outing was a mistake, and that Howard was actually heterosexual. I began to wonder how audiences would react to a movie where the leading character was, in fact, gay, and by the end of the movie, quite happily so.

  I found out. Frank put together an early cut of the movie, and the first test screening was held at a theater in midtown Manhattan. The audience for this screening had been recruited from a wide demographic, and included gay and straight people, teenagers, older couples, and a racial mix. All this audience knew was that they’d be getting a sneak peek at a new comedy. Scott and I sat in the back of the theater, across the aisle from Frank. Such screenings, while sometimes useful, are scary and suspenseful because, for the first time, the creative team finds out if their movie makes any sense at all, whether an audience will follow and like the story, and just how much work still needs to be done, in terms of further editing, musical scoring, and possible reshoots.

  The movie was playing well, with the audience involved in the action, unsure of the outcome, and they were laughing. Then it happened: the kiss. The theater all but exploded: the audience began screaming and jabbering, and people stood up and talked back to the screen. The pandemonium didn’t let up for many more scenes, as audience members began to discuss their reactions with one another, at the top of their lungs. I was sitting behind a straight teenage couple, and the guy shoved drinking straws into his ears, so he wouldn’t have to hear another word of the movie. Scott and Frank and I stared at each other, because no one had anticipated this level of response. What was going on?

  On our way out of the screening, Scott and I tried to eavesdrop on the moviegoers. We didn’t have to strain, as everyone was still chattering away. As far as I could tell, some people, especially women, had enjoyed the movie. Some straight guys remained in shock. Scott and I stood behind two highly opinionated gay men on the escalator, who didn’t see us, but one of them said to the other, “Well, if Scott Rudin and Paul Rudnick think they can get away with this horseshit, they have another thing coming!”

  Frank and his editing team kept working on the movie, and there were more test screenings. Frank would take scenes that were unclear or too long or just not landing, he’d rework them, and suddenly they’d be funny. The screenings were now being held in suburban malls, and afterwards the audiences were asked to fill out questionnaires, to express their opinions. The favorable ratings kept rising, but there was one card that I cherished, and that I’ve kept to this day. In every category, this woman gave the movie the highest possible scores. She loved the actors and the story and the music, she thought the movie was the perfect length, and she couldn’t stop listing her favorite scenes. Then came a final question: “Would you recommend this movie to a friend?” The woman’s answer: “Absolutely not.” The card inquired, “If you wouldn’t recommend this movie, why not?” And the woman, who’d otherwise had the time of her life, had scribbled, “Against God’s law.”

  The movie opened and did well, despite plenty of criticism from all over the political map. Some gay people liked the movie, while others found it unrealistic, particularly in that Howard had remained closeted for so long—this was before half of the country’s married governors and senators were caught either propositioning undercover cops in public restrooms or appointing their secret boyfriends to government jobs. The reaction to the kiss held steady, as the crowds kept going haywire, with both applause and outrage. Making a mainstream gay movie is tricky, because what can seem tame in New York or Los Angeles can become incendiary in other parts of the country. The range of opinions was unnerving, but I was happy that people were laughing. Everyone loved Kevin, Joan got an Oscar nomination, and Scott and I told Frank that he was now officially gay. Politically, it was helpful that In & Out turned a profit, so the studios couldn’t claim that gay subject matter was bad box office.

  I’ve learned to almost relish the grand tradition of American hypocrisy. Americans will warmly embrace the Addamses, who are a family of murderers, graverobbers, and cannibals, but a guy-on-guy kiss can cause a near riot. After one of the Addams movies came out, a reporter from the Jewish Daily Forward asked me if the Addamses were Jewish. I answered, “Do you want them to be?” Even though there aren’t any gay characters in the Addams movies, there’s been online speculation about how the films have a gay sensibility. A gay reporter asked me why Howard Brackett loved Streisand, and I countered with, “Why don’t you ask me why he loves Shakespeare?” Of course, secretly I was thinking, if I had to choose between watching the Royal Shakespeare Company performing King Lear and catching Barbra on cable in Funny Lady, there’d really be no competition. Because, as everyone knows, Funny Lady is Barbra’s King Lear.

  I Shudder:

  An Excerpt from the Most Deeply Intimate and Personal Diary of One Elyot Vionnet

  Intimacy—Why?

  1.

  Some people assume that I’m a homosexual, because of my superlative taste, my ability to dismiss another human being on the basis of his or her ponytail, and because my name is Elyot Vionnet. Others imagine that I’m heterosexual, due to my overwhelming sense of entitlement, my belief that God speaks to me directly, and my kneejerk hatred of any French film where the fine-boned heroine stares at the camera, wordlessly.

  Everyone is wrong.

  Like most people, I had my first sexual experience at the age of fourteen, with a married couple who lived in my neighborhood. This was in Deerling, Connecticut, where I was making pocket money by offering my services as a teen psychic. I would knock on doors, wearing a pale gray seersucker suit, with a third eye painted on my forehead, as a form of advertising. When someone opened their door, I would ask if they wanted information on their future, or that of their family. If a wife answered, she would usually announce that I was “too cute for words,” and
she’d summon her husband and children, as if I were promising a puppet show, or a series of bumbling card tricks. Meanwhile, I’d take the moment to assess the family’s framed photos, furniture, and motor vehicles.

  I first tried this on the McCrackens, whose last name appeared on a wrought-iron plaque dangling beneath the wrought-iron carriage lamp which was mounted on a Victorian-style lamppost at the end of their asphalt driveway. Tom and Laura McCracken gathered in their living room, with their two young sons. I sat on a mustard-colored, corduroy-upholstered wing chair, which I tried not to let touch my skin. I shut my eyes, extended my arms, and spoke in a ghostly, echoing drone.

  “Tom and Laura McCracken! The Great Vionnini will see all and tell all! Tom, you will keep working at your family’s pool-supply store and over the years, you will build the business into ten branches across the tri-state area. But even once he retires, your father will still refuse to praise you, or give you an ounce of credit for your success. You will spiral into a clinical depression, which you will self-medicate with alcohol, and you will begin gambling at a nearby Native American-owned casino and resort, where you will hire transsexual prostitutes, until late one night your Jeep Wagoneer will flip over on the Connecticut Turnpike, where you will be trapped inside for over forty-eight hours with a six-foot-two-inch person with linebacker shoulders and breast implants named Lady Ambrosia. Your left leg will be amputated.”

  Tom was now staring at me and starting to ball up his fists. I went on:

  “Laura, you will continue to be a contented stay-at-home mom to your two boys, even as little Adam begins buying mushrooms from another boy in his third-grade class, and then starts selling even harder drugs, in order to buy himself the BMX bike which you promised him if he could maintain a C average and brush his teeth. Your other son, little Bradley, will seem to be perfect in every way, getting top grades and participating in every possible after-school activity, until during his freshman year at an Ivy League school he will decide to drop out and live in his van with his much older girlfriend, whose name is Sunrise and whose unshaven legs, high-pitched speaking voice, and nonironic use of the word ‘communication’ will make you physically ill.”