Macao (1954)
“You’re all wet.” “You better start getting used to me right out of the shower.” Macao is strangely lifeless. Wisecracks galore; Jane Russell says “Sometimes I just get so tired of remembering to keep my guard up” and then you realise why they always portrayed her as so tough — because if you looked like her and wore dresses like that in 1954 you’d have to be. It’s all very sad. Gloria Grahame has a very small part; and she’s such a wonderful actress. Her husband Nicholas Ray was called in to fix the final fight scene between Robert Mitchum and Brad Dexter. He didn’t. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Oh there’s Gimpy. Gimpy was the only character I identified with (I might be related to him, apparently the actor was a direct descendent of Robert. E. Lee). He’s a little guy, a piano player with a club foot, and when he gets introduced to Jane Russell as ‘Gimpy,” Russell asks “What’s your real name?” and he looks at her blankly, and says simply: “Gimpy.’ It’s the second best line in the film. The best is when Robert Mitchum with the sleepy eyes that you just want to fall into, is reclining in a sampan with Jane Russell’s tits (sorry, I meant to say Jane Russell). Trying to tell his fortune by reading his hand, she says: “I see that you’re lonely, and you’re worried about money, and there’s something you regret very much, and you’ve been looking for something for a long long time.” And when he asks her how she knows that, she says “Everybody’s lonely, and worried, and sorry, and everybody’s looking for something.” I can’t go on with this anymore. It’s one of those nights when — it’s been almost a month, and it’s April 13th; the same day everything changed. I was out at a gay bar on the 13th, having a good time, and people were beginning to say very scary things about COVID-19, and then — we all remember it — two days later everything just stopped. It’s a little bit like a death sentence; like going to the doctor and being told you have two months to live. I mean it happened so suddenly, and all you can think of is how innocent you were before. It’s good preparation I guess for the loneliness that they keep telling you awaits you when you get COVID-19. Apparently it’s like AIDS used to be — apparently no one will want to touch you — except for the odd brave heroic nurse (will she be like all those nurses in those AIDS movies, kinda funny lookin’ with a sense of humour? The last human being who will talk to you?). But as one of my friends said, it doesn’t really matter, because we all die alone. But we all live alone when it comes down to it. One of the things that happens in this kind of isolation is that no one is ever enough; everyone seems inadequate, and the things that used to bring you joy about the people that you see every day all the time are no longer joyful, and the people that you love, well, you just want to get away from them. Donald Trump was very angry today — like out of control angry — and I’m afraid that I identified with him more than I do than the falsely unsmiling Doug Ford, or the falsely smiling Justin Trudeau, or Canada’s Chief Public Health Officer Dr. Theresa Tam who is constitutionally somewhere in between. I don’t regret anything; but yes I am sad about it. The whole thing that happened with me at Buddies. In case you don’t know I recently had to separate myself from the theatre I founded so many years ago because I wrote a poem and the present artistic director didn’t like it, add she tried to destroy me, and so I just had to get out. That was a lot like social distancing, come to think of it, even though I’ve always been ‘controversial,’ there I was suddenly and thoroughly abandoned by a lot of people who I thought were my friends. But who am I kidding? I’ve been social distancing since I was 12 years old and first started saying things that other people didn’t like. When we were first struggling to get 12 Alexander Street as a home for Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, we were competing with some weird ‘dance consortium — I think that’s what they called themselves. The head of the ‘consortium,’ Christopher Wooten hated me, as only, it appears, I can be hated, stating: "Sky Gilbert is dangerous because he doesn’t have anything to lose.” I thought it was an ingenious compendium of insult and praise. But he was right. All I have is this. And even if they censor me I’ll just write it for myself. Because nobody’s going to read this anyway, and if they do, they’ll just say that I’m self-indulgent and privileged, which I am, and who cares, and this is ANOTHER BLOG THAT NOBODY READS. If I were you, I would stop reading this now. It only gets messier. What’s missing right now in our lives is what separates people from machines. We have all the machines we want — and that’s why they keep asking “What are you complaining about?” But a computer is never actually going to surprise you. What about porn, or the 'dark web,' or murder videos, whatever — sure, but it’s not spontaneous in the same way. It’s not like having sex with two guys in a dark room who say 'Do you like to role play?' And you say ‘Yeah sure,’ and then you start playing the roles that they are two daddies -- and you are the son. And then suddenly it’s terribly clear that one or both of them has actually been abused, and they are acting it out with you. I mean whatever you want to say about that — it is actually surprising. And I’m so crazy that I’d actually rather be surprised like that than spend my life shopping. (God, I hate shopping.) Because it’s only people that surprise you, because you never know what they’re going to do, unless you do, and the problem with social distancing is that you begin to think you know what everyone is going to do — since you are with the same people all the time — and much worse you know what YOU are going to do, and that’s a nightmare. I’m beginning to have fantasies about running down the street screaming, naked. I dreamed that Anderson Cooper and I were having a chat the other day; he seemed to understand. After all we’re both just spoiled entitled rich boys who think the world owes them adoration. (I’ll never forget what my mother once said about Anderson Cooper “Can a man be too good-looking?” And scrunched up into that comment like a smelly spitball was all her homophobia, all of her resentment against every cute boyfriend I had ever been in love with, everything. She always surprised me!) And recently I had the only real urge I’ve ever had to jump in front of a train. And I practically begged a friend to lend me his poppers. And I have also been begging friends just to see me, how pitiful is that? (‘Sorry but now we’re just taking care of ourselves, washing our hands, I hope you take care of yourself too!’ Ugh.). I have to tell you what I did a couple of days after all this happened (on Friday the 13th by the way) I started phoning every single person I barely knew who I thought was even remotely capable of running a speakeasy. I said to them, ‘Hey this would be.a great time to start a speak — after all you have a great space, and you could lock the door and…” Well, no one was interested. And it’s not because I’m an alcoholic —- believe it or not it’s because…well at least we know now, that there has to be something more than our homes and our possessions and our computers and our husbands and our wives and our children. There has to be something more. Like what? Like — wondering what might happen tomorrow.
