The Barkleys of Broadway (1949)
I’m going to trash Fred Astaire just a little bit here. It’s just —when you realize how truly good Ginger Rogers is, he pales somewhat in comparison. Gene Kelly has always been my favourite, and my mother was kinda in love with him. She used to force me to sit and watch Singin’ in the Rain with her (there wasn’t much forcing), but Kelly’s biceps, his blatant, adorable physical narcissism — and his general effortless masculinity have always bewitched me. Astaire, on the other hand, could be mistaken for unattractive and effete. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a stunning dancer and choreographer, but when he and Rogers dance 'They Can’t Take That Away From Me' (the only good song in this musical) he is simply coming on to her, while Rogers is playing a subtle game of parry and faint; subtly melting under his charm. She can do anything — and her comic timing is perfect. Then there is Oscar Levant — at this point his appearance in a movie doesn’t have to be explained: he’s always the wry, cynical womanising ‘Jew’ who stands outside things and quips. And because of the scriptwriters Betty Comden and Adolph Green, he has some gems: (to a dumb girlfriend) — “You know what I like about you, you’re free of the slavery of talent,” and when a magazine publicity spread gets cancelled — “You can fill it with 8 pages of an appendix operation in colour.” (This is eerily prescient, we know from COVID-19 that serious illnesses have endless entertainment value). This film, slight as it is, occasionally manages to enchant — due to Green, Comden and Rogers. But it’s about an eternal and reassuring reality; couples that remain together no matter how much they fight. When Rogers meets the charming French ‘legit’ playwright (played by Jacques Francois — what could be more French?) and is momentarily attracted, Astaire phones her and pretends to be Francois, wooing her by playing his arch rival. It’s all silliness, but we are intrigued by whatever it is that makes people able to argue like fiends and still love each other -- or even more strangely, by those whose knock-down-drag-outs seem key to their passion. It’s the ‘George and Martha’ syndrome -- many couples I know have it -- and it appears, to me, to represent the height of love. I know most would not agree — would in fact call such a thing a nightmare relationship. Well let me tell you it’s not about the makeup sex. It’s about how far you can stretch love before it breaks -- and some of us need to do that. But why am I pondering this craziness on a warm summer night in Montreal? Because it’s been fourth months! Four friggin’ months of friggin’ lockdown. Because I still officially live in Hamilton and the bars in Hamilton won’t open until July 25th, if we are to believe Fatty Ford (and why should we?). I can just hear you clucking “People are dying and he’s talking about bars opening.” Let’s make a pact, okay? I won’t judge you if you won’t judge me. Try this one on for size. Last night I was having sex with a stranger, and in the middle of it all, he had a coughing fit. Yup, I’m not kidding. Thank God he had the good manners to turn away and cough into a wall, but of course I had a sudden flash of ‘How suicidal am I? Letting a man who’s having a coughing fit continue fellating me after he’s done?’ Well first of all I want you to put this all in context. I lived through AIDS. I lived through paralysing fear, it was like rats coming out of the sewers and dying during the plague, it was no game (Do you know anyone who died of COVID-19? I don’t). It was ‘look around you!’ — and ‘you might be next!’ And still — we didn't stop having sex. I’ve never had an AIDS test. And I’m 67 years old. (I thought at one point they would make it mandatory and they’d force me to). Why? Because I asked a doctor in 1990 or so — should I have the test— even if I have no symptoms, and I seem really healthy, and I practice safe sex? And he said that with my prodigious promiscuity, I was unlikely to get it if I hadn’t already. And, I didn’t want to go into the ‘AIDS Zone.’ What’s the ‘AIDS Zone’? It what’s we’re in now —only it’s the ‘COVID-19 Zone’ — it means being in perpetual fear of illness and unable to live your life. So you can judge me for being traumatised because bars have been closed for four months, but remember my whole sex life and a great deal of my social life revolved around bars. (Okay yeah, judge me, I know it makes you feel good, so why not?) But what I’m trying to say here is — let’s not judge each other — I’m just saying whatever part of your life was destroyed by this illness — and for some people, yes it was a loved one — but for most people it was something else — a relationship (do you know of any relationships that went under during COVID-19? I sure do) or a job, or worse yet a career — something you loved, hopes dreams, self-esteem — maybe a way of thinking about yourself — it's now gone. We’ve lost a lot but just like AIDS — this will never be dealt with. I guarantee it, because the fiction of this illness has taken over. By fiction I mean — all of the questions this disease pretends to answer (are you are a good person?, do you love your fellow man? do we live in a caring society?) — and all those beliefs this disease affirms (how important ‘family’ is, and most of all how much better it is to stay at home and gaze at your computer than go outside). These myths will dwarf reality. I know my trauma doesn’t seem traumatic to you, and I apologize for that. You remind me of the sadistic doctor I had once who was so intent on me having an AIDS test that when I asked him about a swollen blood vessel in my thigh he said ‘that’s a swollen lymph node — I haven’t said anything about it because I know you don’t want to worry about HIV’ Okay, so why after four months, am I still analysing a silly fictional love affair between Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire in The Barkleys of Broadway? Because it’s been four damn months. Four damn months dammit. And it’s not the scars — I’m not worried about them. No, a scar would be a good thing. Because a scar means the wound has healed.
