Male War Bride is a terrible film. I have mixed feelings about director Howard Hawks' fondness for the war of the sexes; of course it can be sexy as hell, and friction is what it’s all about. Sex, I mean. And I don’t just mean frontage; it’s all about difference, fighting, if you have no difference of opinion with your partner and you are ‘as one’ you are in love but are probably not ‘in sex.’ Even those two lesbians you see — overweight, matching bad hairdos, matching parkas —they find some difference somewhere; maybe one of them has a gigantic clit or something. So yes; in principle when men and women fight they also usually want to screw, which is why spousal abuse can be sexy for some women (I’m not saying it should be, but that it sometimes is). But what we have in I Was a Male War Bride is fake sex antagonism; it’s difficult to believe Ann Sheridan and Cary Grant are attracted to each other. She’s a bit tougher than he is, and, seems actually physically bigger than him in some scenes. It's only when he ages that the gay Cary Grant is totally convincing as a heterosexual leading man. I buy him as a sexy straight guy in Charade (Audrey Hepburn was also very good at adoring him and probably did). There’s a lot of slapstick in I Was a Male War Bride -- it just makes me nervous. I’m always thinking — can’t they fix that chair before it breaks? Hawks tries for fine comic moments, but they often don’t work (like clowns; I hate clowns). In the last half hour it’s all suddenly interesting because the book that inspired this film is apparently based on the real story of a French soldier who married an American WAC, and had to sign forms saying he was a ‘bride’ in order to accompany her to America. Cary Grant is hilariously droll as he looks directly into the eyes of a surly sailor and sanctimoniously intones: “Yes, I am a female bride." This has a certain relevance today. It’s certainly a finger in the eye to all those who aspire to be taken seriously as real women when they don’t have a vagina, never had one, and/or never plan on having one. If you ‘claim’ you are a woman, sans vagina, you may end up looking as ridiculous as Cary Grant after Sheridan sticks the horse hair on his head (“Couldn’t you at least cut if off the mane?” he inquires, plaintively). Listen to me before you run to Facebook, I said ‘you may end up’ — some trans women may be perfectly lovely looking, but if you don’t have a vagina and never will, I’m afraid you know nothing about what it means to be a woman; it is misogynistic and oppressive to women for you to pretend you do. That’s all I have to say about that. My favourite moment in I Was a Male War Bride (stolen in Some Like it Hot) is this: Grant’s in drag, and a sailor glances at his retreating gams and says “Well, she does have nice legs!” This all could have been a code, a game, on Hawks' part, he undoubtedly knew Grant was gay. Speaking of writing in code: why is there so much discussion of ‘lying’ in these blogs? I’ve tried to explain it before — doubtless to no avail. First, it's so I won’t be held responsible for anything I say; which is what writers must do these days, because we are being fired and cancelled, knocked off publisher’s lists -- willy nilly -- for speaking with candour about things that matter. But all rhetoric is a lie. And that includes facts. All facts are a lie. You can use certain facts to turn on your toaster and give yourself an enema (why did I chose that example?) But other than that, so-called ‘truth’ is mostly lies. So in these blogs you will find no truths in what seems intended as truth. In other words do not look for ‘truth' when I rant about politics, COVID-19, or particularly when I say 'this is the truth!’ (Watch out!) Apologies to my friend D -- out west, who is joining the Western Separatist party — I love you from afar, and you seem to like my rants; don’t discount them, but enjoy them for the fiction they are. But the truth lies in stories; and in some memories (depending how made up they are — the more fictional, the better) and of course, in all the sheer fiction you find here. Truth is in fable, allegory, myth, that you feel or understand, but sometimes can’t articulate. Thomas Nashe -- who was a drinking buddy of Shakespeare’s -- believed this. Shakespeare was Edward de Vere, by the way. We know this because he told us this in code in the sonnets: “That every word doth almost tell my name” Get it? A ‘vere word’ doth tell my name. He wrote in code also because -- it was even scarier back then than it is today (nowadays you don’t get torn apart by horses, just Facebook). I am in Montreal now! Yes! I went out last night! It’s not fully open, but it was fun to share a drink with David whose stripper name was Scott (my ‘trick name’ is Scott so he and I share a fake name). He’s now 50 but doesn’t look a day over 35, and his sexuality is indescribable — which means real. He lived with a gay men once and said ‘It was great I could screw women and he could screw men.’ Dave/Scott bought me four shooters which were his specialty from his bartending days. Are you ready? Vodka shot. Then lick some sugar off your hand. Then suck a lemon. Tequila shots for babies! That drink charmed the panties off our 22 year-old waitress, so it works. I could tell he wanted coke or crack or something, so I let him be. I wandered off to the most notorious sex and drug park in the gay village, astounded to see — not only the usual crack addicts — but also a gang of young gay men who were gathered to chat (it seemed) rather than screw. This was disappointing. I heard the word ‘moisturizer’ bandied about. What is the gay world coming to? Is this what young gay men do now in parks, talk about moisturizer? But maybe I’m just old. And if I don’t get laid soon the only sexual encounters I narrate here will be baroque, embellished, impossible fantasy. Which they kinda were, anyway, to tell the truth.
