Invitation to a Gunfighter (1964)
It’s got all the right ideas, too bad they couldn’t make it into a movie. Richard Wilson, the director of this creaky mess, was apparently associated with Orson Welles, which doesn’t speak well for Orson Welles (who is overrated anyway). Invitation to a Gunfighter stars Yul Brynner and George Segal. Segal is the surprise as he is young and handsome, blonde and blue eyed, and a very convincing dramatic actor (I remember him as his older comic self in the 70s). Then there’s Yul Brynner — the only reason to watch this movie — if only for his smouldering sexuality alone. He just stands there and burns up the screen in tight black pants and a frilly shirt — talk about mastery, well he could master me anytime. By the way, he was discovered by Noel Coward, who saw him in some play — and recommended him for the part of the The King of Siam in The King and I, because they were having a hard time finding an Asian actor to star opposite Coward’s beloved friend Gertrude Lawrence. Brynner is not Asian, he is part Mongol/part Swiss — but Coward knew a young man bursting with talent when he saw one. Invitation to a Gunfighter is about racism, and again Brynner is asked to play a race other than his own -- in this case, Creole. And they darken is skin; he appears at times to be in blackface. He’s confronting racism in a southern town "full of old folks, cripples and Mexicans.” Brynner’s character is the prototype for many non-white characters in films, plays and movies — a character of the Sydney Poitier ilk — meaning perfect (except for the scars of racism). Brynner is more eloquent, handsome, well turned out, and musical (he plays harpsichord, and guitar, and sings) than any other dude in this one-donkey New Mexican town. He ends up wrecking the place — literally — it’s a Black Lives Matter moment, and remarkably prescient. If only it was watchable. Wilson has directed the tedious script tediously, all the actors act endlessly, every moment is milked for — I’m not sure what — it’s sure not maximum effect. What’s worse is Brynner’s character is not only good but wise, the keeper of the truth. Really, I never did this, ever. The most sympathetic protagonist in my plays (I hope) is drag queen Lana Lust, who while making a plea for the right to be ‘different’ also mentions that she has swallowed ‘busloads’ of male sperm. Brynner and Poitier never made any such admissions, and it’s insulting to insist minority characters must be perfect. Honestly, if you don’t believe me, I’ll say it now; most gay men are assholes — because most people are assholes — and gay men are people. But also, they are more damaged, because of homophobia which (unlike these screen paragons) leaves them truly screwed up. I rarely meet an older gay man I like or can talk to, because most of them have drug problems, or are just unfulfilled and unhappy, and even if they’ve got it together somewhat, often they never learned how to deal with their own sex lives and act out ‘inappropriately.’ (No this is not because gay men were born bad people, it’s because being trained to hate yourself screws you up.) With younger gay men it’s drugs and lack of self esteem. And if it’s not that — it’s the opposite — acting odiously perfect. (I’ve dealt with that kind of gay man all my life). James Joyce talked about it — it’s a disease gay men have (no not that one) — and the Irish had it too. The Irish were routinely ridiculed as drunken, lazy louts, and as a result there was a type of Irishman who Joyce named (but I can never find his reference to it, anyway) —super-respectable, pretentious, dreadfully overcompensating for the abuse hurled against him, acting holier-than-thou-I’m-better-than-you-and-my-asshole-doesn’t-smell. Now it’s true that most gay men’s assholes don’t smell. I know one gay man who over-douched to such a degree that he killed all the helpful bacteria in his gut. So when it comes down to it, we’re clean as a whistle back there, but there’s no reason to be proud of it. My point here, is that it doesn’t serve any minority (and I know being gay is not the same as being black) to try and appear over-sanctimonious and judgemental and virtuous (I say that because whenever anyone is evidently virtuous, they are pretending, they aren’t really being virtuous, if you are virtuous you just are, and you don’t tell anybody, and nobody really notices except quietly when it counts). But lets get back to aesthetics, because art is much more important than life, because life is very fake anyway, but we don’t admit it, we pretend it’s real, we pretend our experiences are the only truth, and the only experiences, and that everyone has the same ones, but they don’t. So it’s art that matters -- because it at least is (or should be) openly a lie that offers us alternatives and possibilities. I saw a play last summer (remember plays?) where the black protagonist was not a good man -- the author could get away with it, because the author was black -- and God it was good. There was a great scene in it where a Hispanic church lady came to visit him (he was a black cop) and redeem him and she ended up sucking him off , and he hadn’t had an erection in years. So it was a miracle. God it was beautiful. And this black man was a fallible character because he had accused a white man of racism -- a white man who was not racist. All I’m saying here is that if and when you see a movie or a play and any character is basically as good as Jesus Christ, you aren’t going to get much out of that play or movie. Christ is not an entertaining or morally uplifting character in a work of fiction (like, let’s say The Bible) — he’s just boring. In medieval morality plays the devil is the juicy part; I know I played him once -- I wore a giant codpiece that had a face on it, and I cackled like the Bad Witch of the West. I say to gay men, at least — because that’s the culture I know — If you’ve been through a lot of crap and you’re a mess, I personally find it’s best to just admit it. I’ve been through a lot of crap and I’m a mess, I’m lousy in bed, and selfish, and insensitive, and the only thing I’ve got going for me is this blog, so there you go, how sad is that? I can’t even come up with something profound to say at the end of this. Maybe I’ll just leave it dangling. There is something about dangling, though.
