Young Man with a Horn (1950)
I thought this was supposed to be a lesbian film. But there was only one moment, really, for those 50’s dykes to savour. An attractive young woman is talking to Lauren Bacall — a disaffected, caustic, psychiatry student (she uses big words like ‘alter ego’) — and the young woman says to Bacall: “We’ll have dinner out, and then go back to my place.” Can you imagine being a desperate lesbian and having this pitiful crumb thrown at you? But we queers back then cherished each titillating tidbit. I don’t mean to ignore Bacall’s droopy-lidded performance, there’s a lot of fun to be had there -- like when she speaks of her mother committing suicide: “Four storeys — but it did the trick!” And when she meets Kirk Douglas — the horny young man of the title — she leans in with a sly smile: “You can call me Amy.” And he quips — “I bet I could.” And she replies — “Only if I want you to, Mr. Martin — and for that long.” (So the closeted lesbian giveth; but she also taketh away.) I looked up the source novel for Young Man with a Horn, and author Dorothy Baker seems not to have been a lesbian. I say that not because she was married but because Young Man with a Horn is not about sexuality as much as it is about psychoanalysis. This kind of novel was popular 100 years ago; all the characters are hopelessly 'neurotic' and the writer simply psychoanalyses them — as when Kirk Douglas scolds Lauren Bacall: “Only people who can respect themselves can ever love truly — freely!” Well Kirk, you may be right, but please stop preaching. Doris Day plays the nice, sweet girl singer. (This makes sense. My mother speaking disdainfully of my father, once said: “Can you imagine? Your father’s favourite singer is Doris Day!’) Bacall cannily observes ”she’s so terribly normal.” Day’s idea of helping the young man with a horn is naive, to say the least: “You’ve got to have another interest, or you’ll go off your rocker. Like….collecting stamps or something?” Which reminds me very much of my father and my stepmother. My father retired when he was 60 and went to the grocery store for the next 30 years. I just didn’t get that. My stepmother had grey hair like a helmet, and I think was also closet lesbian (speaking of them). Her favourite pastime seemed to be raining on my parade — except when she was drunk — when she momentarily became fun (it happened every day about 5 pm). We used to drink ‘Manhattans.’ My father took great joy in preparing them — until I asked for a second one, which he would mix with gnawing disapproval. Anyway, in the introduction to one of my plays, I happened to mention my emotionally distressed teen years. I gave my father a copy because I hoped he might be able to handle it. (I was in a Hollywood movie once — a very bad one — called The Face the Evil— I had a very small part - but I couldn’t get my father and stepmother to watch it because of the ‘language.’) My father was upset by my introduction. He said: “Why didn’t you tell us you were disturbed as a teenager? You’re stepmother and I would have helped!” Remember, this is the man who — after I came out, forbid me to say the word ‘gay’ in his house. Anyway, how can I do justice to the vast, vulgar, vestigial, vacuity of my father’s bourgey boringness? I could only talk to him for about an hour — because after that I had exhausted all approved topics (which means, my 'achievements'). Oh yes, the sex talk he had with me when I was thirteen: “Have you ever had a wet dream?” I said: "Yes.” He said. “That’s alright you know.” I must be fair, he tried to be kind, and he was a good soul — much like Doris Day in Young Man with a Horn. However, Kirk Douglas and me are both so obsessed with horns that a little stamp collecting is just not going to do the trick. My therapist tells me that my father was so normal, and my mother was so abnormal that I make a fetish of abnormality. But my objection to the phrase ‘new normal’ is that I’ve never known what it means to be friggin’ normal. I'm a very odd mixture of both of my parents: part stalactite and part cinnamon bun. A very evil old queen once called me ‘Daddy Light’ — which was supposed to be an insult. He meant I look like a 'Daddy' — but I ultimately disappoint. Although I will say, nowadays I welcome the ‘Daddy’ moniker (it’s really all I have). Did I tell you about the young man I had sex with in Montreal, and in the middle of it he asked: ‘How old are you? “ And I replied —”You don’t want to know!” and he pressed me: “Oh yes I do, I really do!” and I said— “I’m very, very old.” And I girded my loins — at my age, no easy task — and finally admitted: “I’m 67.” He pounced on me, greedily, like I was a plate of poutine, yelling —“Grandaddy!!!” This is the kind of anecdote I love to tell — but these days it would get me kicked out of most parties, and it’s certainly not one I could have told my father when he was alive. I must tell you though, that when I first tried to tell my Father I was gay, it was at Toronto’s Union Station (he was visiting from Buffalo) and we were walking down a stairway, and he the first thing he said was: “I know what you’re going to say— just don’t say it!” and I thought: how did you know? Why? Was it just because I could never, ever catch that baseball? And then he quickly changed topic (or maybe not) and queried me, in a rather academic way: “Can you tell me — do you find yourself playing the active, or the passive role?” No. I’m serious. That was the second thing he said to me after I came out to him. So my father’s normalcy was rooted in a twisted screwed-upedness which only a dreary, evil, self-hating lesbian therapist like Lauren Bacall might be able to cure. ( I know, you’re dying for me to answer my father’s question. I said: “Well Dad, I find myself playing both roles.”) And yes, due to my dueling parents — Mr Normal and Mrs. Abnormal — I’ve been in therapy for years. And I really do think my years in therapy have made me much less 'neurotic.' Which I know, is a terrifying thought.
