The Human Comedy (1943)
This vile, lazy, corrupt, garbage, this contemptible, heart-wrenching pile of bird-doo-doo, this unwatchable, tedious, touching, testament to man’s stupidity to man, this lacklustre, lubricious, lullaby to mediocrity, this festooned fullabaloo of fentimental muck. William Saroyan didn’t write it; I refuse to believe he did. They asked him to write it, then he demanded complete control of the film, but they wouldn’t give it to him, so he left it to a screenwriter who massacred it. Then Saroyan wrote a novel with the same name to redeem himself from this pungent pile of putridity. Yes, well — mother plays the harp, son with odd freckles and weirdly wide-side set eyes falls asleep on it. Van Johnson is off to war serenading earnest young soldiers on their way to death with sweet accordion melodies. Everyone is so nice. Too nice. Real people are not this nice. A crotchety old codger loves the boys who steal the apricots from his tree (yes, I’m afraid he appeared — to me — to be vaguely pederastical). This ancient fart loves the little thieves because they have ‘hope.’ The Human Comedy was nominated for several academy awards — including one for Mickey Rooney. But the critics recognised it as: “maudlin gobs of cinematic goo” (I am not the only one to be tempted to hyperbolic alliteration by this film). Speaking of that wholesome spark — young Mickey Rooney — that’s not ‘the whole truth and nothing but.’ He was playing a teenager at age 20; and was at the same time trapped in a fraught marriage with Ava Gardner that lasted less than a year. She said: ’“He was catnip to the ladies. He knew it, too. He probably banged most of the starlets. Lana Turner called him 'Andy Hard-on.'” And this fine fresh-faced boy once shyly remarked to Ava: “I figured you were a new piece of pussy for one of the executives. I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you.” (Sorry. After enduring this candy-floss concoction I needed a dose of reality.) Saroyan, like many great writers, barely survived Hollywood; it turned them ALL into bitter alcoholics. Speaking of alcoholics, the only character I identified with in The Human Comedy was the old drunk at the telegraph office (Frank Morgan -- yes, the wizard, in The Wizard of Oz) who is exactly my age, 67. He asks his young co-worker Mickey Rooney to douse him with cold water when he’s dead drunk — and then give him a cup of coffee. But if they meet on the street, Frank says if “you behold me lost in the embrace of alcohol, greet me as you pass, but make no reference to my condition, I prefer not to be the object of public solicitude.” (I believe William Saroyan wrote that line.) Another Frank Morgan gem:“I am a man with a memory of many wondrous worlds gone by.” I too have wondrous memories. Once there was a thing called ‘gay.’ And we would get dressed up in tight pants when we went out at night, and oh, mounting the stairs to the club. My friend Nick once described what it was like, being young and beautiful, his heart pounding, anticipating ‘making that entrance.’ My friend Christopher also used to speak of ‘when love mounts the stairs.’ We were mounting a lot in those days — well that was certainly part of it, but not all. We proudly identified as pansies, and girly boys, sashaying down the street, our asses to the stars, and we loved the dark alleys, and the bars were seedy because they were run by the mafia, but we didn’t care. And then we made our own neighbourhoods, where we could hide, and the straight people were afraid to go there, but that was fine by us. And the bars had dark sexy corners, and men would do things there, and sometimes women friends would watch, and they were called faghags — but they were simply the fiercest funniest women alive — and the only ones brave enough to be our friends. And we would laugh about poppers, and pop antibiotics when we felt ‘the clap’ coming on, and we took people’s contempt and wrapped it around ourselves like a shimmering shawl. Everyone knew what we were, and what we did, everyone whispered. And so many hated us, because they knew we were getting what they weren’t. And then ‘the disease’ came, and they told us it was our fault, and we should be ashamed, and it was better if we died. So we did. So many died. And then we pointed to our dressup games -- when we sometimes dressed as construction workers and leather men -- and we claimed we were more masculine than straight men. Anything not to be the wilted pansies that got ‘the disease.’ That didn’t work though, so we started going to church, and getting married, and adopting children, and speaking loudly of how much we loved the police. And then we all moved to the suburbs, and we didn’t like those gay streets anymore, and we decided it was better to be fat (because if you were fat you didn’t have ‘the disease,’ don’t you see?). So we stayed at home, and we were boring like everyone else, and watched soul-numbing movies like The Human Comedy. And then came Netflix, and COVID-19. And when COVID-19 came we had to be the very first to don the masks, for we loved our fellow human beings (especially the old folks!) much, much more than we loved ourselves. Because the lesson we had learned from ‘the disease’ was that if we were good citizens, and everyone loved us and respected us, then we would never ever, again get 'it.' But there was also GRINDR and SKRUFF, and even more drugs than ever before — because we hated ourselve even more, because of ‘the disease.' The disease, oh the disease. Well, those wondrous days are over now, and the gay streets are boarded up — due to COVID-19. And the bathhouses will never open again. (You know — germs! Immune systems! After all, we invented them!) And when we are very, very old we will say (as Frank Morgan says to Mickey Rooney) “Sing me a song, boy, protect me from the murder of age and time.” Ah. Where is that boy, and what is that song? But there is no defense against those things. Even Ava Gardner knew it — or else she wouldn’t have dumped that little ‘Andy Hard-on.’ Well there are those who will forget, and those like me who will remember, and perhaps I will travel back there, now and then— if I happen to find a young man who will sing me a song. But for the murder of age and time, there is alas, no defense at all.
