Armistead sent me the following to share with the readers. His first and former editor, Harvey Ginsberg, passed away in January, Armistead wrote the following for the memorial.
Harvey Ginsberg (1930-2008)
I owe my career as a novelist to Harvey Ginsberg. It was Harvey who, on a trip to California in 1977, spotted my fictional serial in The San Francisco Chronicle and wrote me to suggest that there might be a novel there. This was the sweetest sort of windfall, since I’d already approached my newspaper’s own publishing arm, Chronicle Books, and been told that “Tales of the City” was too parochial for a national audience.
At Harvey’s request I sent him Xerox copies of my first two years of work, and we were off and running. (My $5000 advance was the largest amount of money I had ever received at one time.) Harvey didn’t micro-edit me, but he offered a suggestion that probably rescued me from oblivion: He urged me to remove the murder mystery subplot that I’d invented out of fear that my daily readers might lose interest in the serial. “If you leave it in,” Harvey told me, “the book will be reviewed as a mystery novel and not a comedy of manners, and I don’t think that’s what you want.” He was dead right, of course.
Harvey initially wanted to bind “Tales of the City” with a metal spiral – a stunt that had just worked successfully for Cyra McFadden’s “The Serial,” a compilation of her own storytelling for the Pacific Sun. To my huge relief, the spiral proved too costly for Harper & Row, so I was spared the embarrassment of looking imitative. We ended up with one of the first new oversized trade paperbacks. The cover was whimsical map of San Francisco by Sausalito cartoonist Phil Frank; the back offered a key to most of the major locales in the novel. There was nothing to describe the contents, so the novel sometimes got shelved in the travel section of bookstores. It stills amuses me to think how many horses that may have frightened out there in the streets of middle America.
I may have frightened some of Harvey’s horses as well. He was a buttoned-down old-school kind of guy with highbrow inclinations, and as much as he championed my work I think my particular brand of breezy California faggotry was just too much for him sometimes. I remember his dry-as-tinder response to the photograph I submitted to Harper & Row for publicity purposes: “We’re still recuperating from it, Armistead.” As I recall, my longish blond hair was parted down the middle and I was wearing a tweed sports coat without a shirt of any kind. (C’mon, it was the seventies -- or maybe I’d just been overly influenced by Truman Capote’s debut jacket photo.) On another occasion I suggested to Harvey that perhaps we should let the public know that there were elements of “Tales of the City” that might be – ahem – of interest to the homosexual population. Harvey just sighed deeply and said: “Toujour gai, Armistead. Toujour gai.”
As his obituary made clear, Harvey was a private man, but there are some things about him I can tell you for sure. He was an editor who loved words and language and the process of guiding a young writer to the best possible version of himself. He was blessed with taste and intelligence and fierce loyalty to his writers. “Tales of the City” was hardly an overnight success – we took 25 thousand returns, if I remember correctly – but Harvey was wonderfully gentle about it, assuring me that a good story will eventually find its audience as he ordered me to get back to work. Thirty years and nine novels later I still remember his no-nonsense encouragement. And I’ll be remembering next year, I hope, when a musical version of “Tales of the City” is slated to open on Broadway.
So thank you, Harvey, for sending me off on this great adventure.
And bon voyage yourself.
The following is Harvey's obituary from Publishers Weekly 1/8/09
Harvey Ginsberg, a veteran editor who worked in publishing for more than 40 years, died on December 30 after losing his battle with Parkinson’s. He was 78. Ginsberg worked at G.P. Putnam's Sons, Harper, and William Morrow & Co., among other companies, and edited such authors as John Irving, Saul Bellow, Rita Mae Brown, Thomas Harris, Caleb Carr and Armistead Maupin. A graduate of Harvard, where he was president of the Harvard Advocate, Ginsberg won the Roger Klein Award for Lifetime Editorial Achievement in 1988.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Merry Christmas
Christmas Eve, 32 years ago tonight, Mrs. Madrigal held a Christmas Eve party with all of her Children. Michael gave Brian "an ornament" to hang on his tree. Mona showed up at the last minute after a disastrous "White Christmas" with D'Orthea. Mary Ann arrived a little disastrous after losing track of the time. Norman Neal Williams was never seen again.
I hope everyone has a great holiday!
Cheers,
Richard
I hope everyone has a great holiday!
Cheers,
Richard
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Suddenly Home
The following is from Armistead Maupin's old website. (www.armisteadmaupin.com)
Armistead wrote this short story in 1990 for a musical called "Hearts Desire." The show was based on stories by four American authors writing about love in four American cities. "It was an interesting process," Armistead says, "informed by many sources. I wrote the story for the musical, and then it was adapted by the composer, Glen Roven, who put in all the songs. Then it was polished on stage by actors, Peter Gallagher was one of them, and I began to rewrite to make the dialogue work better. In the end I rewrote the story to make it conform with what had worked on stage. And I changed the name from ` Land's End' to `Suddenly Home,' the name of one of Glen's songs."
"Hearts Desire" was workshopped in several places before landing at the Cleveland Playhouse. It opened and closed in Cleveland. Mary Ann's revenge?
"Suddenly Home" could be considered a sort of prequel to The Night Listener since Will and Jamie are characters in Gabriel's fictional radio show, "Noone at Night," and they are loosely based on Gabriel and Jess, who are loosely based on . . . yeah, we're confused, too. Here's an excerpt from The Night Listener that might clear things up. Or not.
Suddenly Home
by Armistead Maupin
Tess felt bloated and jumpy, unbelievably PM-essy, when she spotted her brother in the waiting throng at the United terminal. To make matters worse, Will's other half was nowhere in sight. She hadn't expected a welcoming party as such, but she'd counted on Jamie being there to keep things civil, since she knew from experience that Will didn't nag as much when Jamie was around.
Her brother stepped forward with a sleepy, lop-sided grin, hugged her clumsily and reached for her carry-on. He looked tanner than the last time, maybe a little grayer, annoyingly content. "How was your flight?"
"Not bad." Already expecting the worst, she fixed her eyes on the distance and strode toward the moving walkway. "The flight attendant slipped me his phone number." Will looked amazed. "Really?"
She nodded.
"A straight flight attendant?"
She shot him a nasty glance. "Yes, a straight flight attendant. Where's Jamie? He said he was coming with you."
"He's at Nordstrom's."
"Shopping?" She couldn't help but sound cranky about this.
Will shook his head, apparently amused by her reaction. "They fired a clerk with HIV. There's a big demonstration this morning and . . . You know Jamie."
She felt a tiny pinprick of anxiety. Outside of the call arranging his visit she hadn't talked to Jamie for at least a month. "He's OK, isn't he?"
"Fine." Will looked believably nonchalant. "His T-cells are way up."
"Great."
He glanced at her sideways, narrowing his eyes. "So, what's going on?"
No way, she thought. Not until we're home and Jamie's with us and you've had at least a couple of joints. "Hey," she said, feigning jovial indignation, "Do I require an invitation?"
"No. But this is awful sudden."
"Well, I do things suddenly."
"Uh-huh."
"Look," she told him, "I'm going right back to Charleston."
"Stop. Why are you so edgy?"
"I'm not edgy. You're just in one of your picky moods." She led the way on to the moving walkway. They cruised past big Lucite boxes, like upright coffins, each displaying a different piece of California "chair art". A chair made of Coke bottles, a chair made of cow bones, a Styrofoam chair . . .
"So," said Will, "how's the shithead?"
How like him to take the offensive. "His name is Alec, Will."
"You called him that first."
"Once," she said. "After a fight. You're the one who made it official."
"Why didn't you bring him along?"
She studied his face for traces of snideness and decided the question was in earnest. Maybe, she thought, Will and Alec would learn to like each other if they spent some time together. "He's been on business in Philadelphia. I'm meeting him tomorrow, though. In Maui."
Her brother's face clouded over. "So this is just a stopover."
She rolled her eyes. "We'll have a whole day. I thought we could go to the beach or something, have a nice long talk. In person, for a change."
"About what?"
"Does it have to be about something?"
"No, but . . ."
"God, the men in this city! Look at the arms on that guy."
This was a cheap diversionary tactic, but it worked. Her brother's gaze swerved and locked on the beauty in question: an off-duty marine, she guessed, with ivory biceps and a shrimp colored T-shirt that said SHIT HAPPENS.
"Big deal," said Will.
"Well, excuse me, Mr. Married Man."
He looked at the marine again. "He has a tattoo, for God's sake!"
"Really? Is it misspelt? I love it when they're misspelt."
She hooked her arm through his as they headed toward baggage claim. He was wearing one of his favorite shirts tonight, a pale blue baggy-sleeved thing which he probably thought made him look like Lord Byron. Trini Lopez was more like it.
Gazing up at him, she counted the grey hairs in his moustache, and noticed with affection that his jaw stored fat in the same place as hers.
Will and Jamie's house on Twenty-first Street was not quite the way she'd remembered it. There were two or three new parchment-shaded lamps and they'd put up team siding - or something meant to look like it - on one wall of the living-room. Over the past decade or so she had watched Will's taste shimmy from rustic to Deco to high tech to rustic again.
When they arrived, Jamie was perched on a stepladder in the living-room, wielding a paintbrush. "Well," she said, "home from the wars, huh?"
"Hi, Tess! God, you guys missed something! Three hundred of us took over the escalator at Nordstrom's - this incredible spiral thing that goes on for ever. It was like Tiananmen Square meets Busby Berkeley!"
Will chuckled.
"Really," said Jamie, "it was amazing. A whole store full of us chanting, "We're here, we're queer, and we're not going shopping.""
She laughed and held out her arms. "Can I please have a hug?" Jamie scooted down the stepladder and embraced her, his fingers climbing her spine until they found the knots at the base of her neck. "Hey," he said. "Tough flight, huh?"
Will said: "The flight attendant had major hots for her."
"A straight flight attendant?"
Will shook his head at Jamie. "Don't."
Jamie released her. "I'll give you a good shoulder rub. Soon as I clean up."
She peered up at the ladder and noticed for the first time that the ceiling above their heads looked dangerously damaged. "What were you doing up there?"
"Just painting."
"Shouldn't you fix that huge crack first?"
Jamie seemed proud as a new parent. "I painted that huge crack."
"C'mon."
He shrugged. "We didn't get any good ones during the earthquake, so we're painting our own. How long can you stay?"
"Till tomorrow."
Jamie looked crushed. "Stay till Valentine's Day, at least. It's our second anniversary."
"She has to be in Maui," Will announced sullenly. "For some reason."
She ignored him, keeping her eyes on Jamie. "You met on Valentine's Day? You never told me that!"
Jamie smiled sheepishly.
Will said: "He was passing out condoms at the ACT-UP booth on Twenty-fourth Street."
"How romantic."
"Well . . ." Her brother looked affronted again. "The condoms were heart-shaped."
She had one hell of a time picturing this. "The wrappers were heart-shaped," Jamie explained.
"Thank you," she said.
Jamie laughed with her, and something about the tilt of his head, the tenor of his laughter, reminded her exactly of Will. He was five years younger than her brother -- thinner, blonder and already balder -- but on the phone she found it increasingly harder to tell them apart. They claimed not to notice this, of course, pretending to be horrified by what it suggested, but any fool could see what had happened.
Will fixed iced tea, which the three of them sipped on the deck. The air was warm and lemony with a neighbor's verbena, and half-a-dozen seagulls were making languid loops above the little valley. For Tess the scene felt oddly like a homecoming.
"How's the travel agency?" asked Jamie.
"Fine."
"And Alec?"
Will shot his lover a look.
"He's great," she said, determined to get on with it. "He sent you both his best."
Will grunted, but Jamie ignored him, remaining pleasant. "Are you guys still . . . together?"
"Oh, yeah. Three or four nights a week." She smiled at him, grateful for his interest. "He's still got his own place, but he's not in it much."
"Awright," said Jamie.
"Of course," she added wryly. "Daddy says I'm a slut."
"Why?"
"Oh . . . you know, because we aren't married. And Barton and all."
"Fuck him," said Will. "Barton is fifteen years old."
"Thank you. I know."
"It isn't any of Daddy's goddamned business whether you're married or not."
"We live in the same town, Will. I can't just dose the door like that. He's Barton's grandfather. He isn't gonna be around much longer."
"Fuck that. He's been saying that for ever. He was saying that before Mama died." He fumed silently for a moment. "When did he call you a slut?"
"It doesn't matter."
"When, Tess?"
"At Barton's confirmation."
"At church?"
"No." She smiled at that. "Afterwards at the party. It was more like a brunch, really."
"Great. He called you a slut at brunch. Was the shithead there? What did he even . . . ?"
"Will . . ." Jamie was pissed now. "Stop interrogating her."
She gave him an appreciative glance before continuing. "Everybody was full of wine and making these dumb toasts. Daddy didn't mean it. It's just that he likes Alec so much."
"Figures," muttered Will.
"He's right, actually. Not about the slut part, but . . . I've been dodging the issue way too long."
"What issue?"
She shrugged. "We're getting married."
The silence seemed interminable. It was Jamie who broke it, reddening noticeably. "Well . . . that's great, Tess. Congratulations."
"When?" asked Will.
"Tomorrow. Well . . . day after tomorrow, really."
"In Maui?" asked Jamie.
"Aloha."
Will wrote in the air with his finger. "Mr. and Mrs. Alec T. Shithead.
" Jamie frowned. "Will . . ."
"Believe me," she said, "I've thought about this long and hard." Her brother threw up his hands. "Fine. Great. Terrific. What do you need us for?"
"I don't know. I thought your blessing might be nice."
Will sighed histrionically. "This isn't Lourdes, Tess."
"Tess . . ." Jamie proceeded carefully, measuring his words. "Do you think you might be . . .?"
"She's obviously made up her mind."
"You're right," she said quietly, looking at her brother. "I have." "Fine," he said, picking up his drink again. "Go for it."
She showered off the grime of her flight while Will and Jamie packed a picnic lunch in the kitchen. She could hear their voices dimly through the wall and for a moment tormented herself with what they must be saying. When she returned, though, they were chipper and smiling, absorbed - or pretending to be, at least- in Jamie's bogus earthquake crack.
At Will's suggestion they drove out to Land's End in the VW. They parked in a dust-choked lot above Seal Rocks and, toting their lunches, set off on foot through the gnarled cypresses. A sudden shiver of deja vu made her realize why Will had chosen this spot. He was trying to tweak her memory, to make her nostalgic for the halcyon days of her bachelorhood.
"I know what you're up to," she told him.
"What?" asked Jamie.
"He brought me here years ago," she explained. "After I signed my divorce papers. I was as free as I'd ever been. And I was so . . . intense."
Will smirked at her. "More like in heat."
She smiled at him. "We came here after the Gay Games. You'd just won a gold medal in something terribly butch."
"Badminton," he said.
Jamie hooted.
"We met this guy out here with a pigtail and the cutest butt and Will swore to me he was gay."
"Was he?"
"Now wait a minute . . ." Will instantly went on the defensive. "The guy was from LA. It threw me off."
She and Jamie both got a kick out of this. "Right," said Jamie.
"She was shameless," muttered Will.
Tess remembered every detail of it except the man's name: his baby-blue briefs, his Vangelis tapes, the rust-stained ceiling of his geodesic dome. "He was so . . . flexible," she murmured. "He was an importer."
"He was a coke dealer," said Will. "She disappeared for three whole days. You think I rated so much as a phone call?"
She batted her eyes demurely. "I was busy."
As usual, the guys loved this.
They left the noonday twilight of the cypress trees and hiked along a broad, sandy ledge above the sea. The path was hyphenated here and there with makeshift footbridges, and she could see for some distance, watch the picnickers as they made their way back and forth from the parking lot. They were all in pairs, she realized, every last one of them.
"Damn," said Will. "I forgot the blanket."
"Forget about it."
"We have to have the blanket, Tess. The ground is murder up there."
"Him and his blanket," said Jamie.
"You should've seen him when he was three," she said.
"He had a blanket then?"
"With a name no less."
"Tess!" snapped Will.
She smirked at him and fumed back to Jamie. "Flipper."
"Flipper?" Jamie was enjoying this as much as she was.
"Daddy wouldn't let him have a dolphin."
Will had had enough. "I'm getting the blanket," he said. "You'll be glad when you have it."
They found a bench and sat down, awaiting Will's return. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" she asked.
Jamie hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "That's not for me to say."
For a moment she pictured Alec in Maui, checking into some amorphous highrise, some soul-deadening place with a Benihana in the lobby and a volcano that goes off on the hour. He'd insisted on booking this one himself, on surprising her, which had seemed romantic as hell at the time, the closest a travel agent could come to being carried over the threshold. Now she wasn't so sure. For all she knew, she was about to be married by a Don Ho impersonator. Alec would think that was funny.
She raked her wind-tangled hair with her fingers. "He's not such a bad guy, you know. He's always been there for me. And he's pretty nice in the sack."
Jamie smiled. "Nothing wrong with that."
"He's not the world's best conversationalist, but I can always call you."
He gave her a look of disarming intimacy. "You'd better."
Embarrassed, she peered out at the flickering, blue flame of the sea, roughly in the direction of Maui. After a long silence she said: "I'm scared, Jamie."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I'm thirty-three and time is running out."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me about it."
She realized her blunder instantly. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry."
"Hey . . ." He waved it off.
"You look wonderful, by the way." She hoped this didn't sound forced or patronizing, because he did look wonderful.
He snatched a pebble off the ground and hurled it down the slope. "Ever thought about moving?"
"Moving?"
"Sure."
"Here, you mean?"
"Why not?"
"For starters," she replied, "I have this weird thing for straight guys."
"We have straight guys," he said, twinkling. "Especially weird ones."
She gave him a rueful nod. "I've noticed."
Jamie's eyes widened excitedly. "We could get arrested together. And gang up on Will."
"Right." This was much more of a proposal than she had ever received from Alec. For a moment, she was sure she felt herself blushing.
"He's just like your father," Jamie added. "Every bit as pigheaded."
"Noticed that, huh?" She threw him a quick sideways glance. "Don't tell me the honeymoon's over?"
He chuckled. "Let's just say the marriage has begun."
"Oh, dear."
"No. We're fine, really."
She brushed back her hair again and returned her gaze to the water. "Sure looks that way," she said.
Another phalanx of couples was plodding toward them up the hill. The ones in the lead were white-haired and ruddy-checked, puffed up like a pair of shore birds in purple-quilted polyester.
"These people," she said.
"What about them?"
"Two-by-two all over the place. You'd think they were headed for the goddamn ark."
He shrugged. "Lots of them are just friends."
No, she thought. They've all go that look. She couldn't quite pin it down, but lived-with was how she thought of it. Will and Jamie had it, too, of course.
Jamie slid his arm across her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, apparently reading her mind.
She mustered a lame smile. "It's stupid to be jealous, isn't it?"
"Jealous?" Jamie's brow furrowed. "Of who?"
She abandoned her confession on the spot, uttering a labored sigh. "I don't know . . . these people . . . everybody."
The white-haired couple came to a full stop in front of their bench. The woman was beaming moronically. "Helloo," she crooned. Tess just wanted them to go away, to leave her the fuck alone.
"Hi," said Jamie.
"You look so sweet."
"Excuse me?"
"The two of you," explained the woman. "You make such a lovely sight up here."
Jamie's lip flickered, but otherwise he didn't betray a thing. "Thanks."
"I'm psychic, you know."
"Really?"
"She is," said the old man.
"I noticed your aura all the way up here. There's just one, you know. The two of you have one aura."
Tess cast a quick, sardonic glance at Jamie. Were people here still doing this shit?
"That's nice," said Jamie.
"You'll have a long life together."
Jamie gave her a guileless smile. "Even better," he said. "How long?"
"Jamie . . ." Tess realized what he was up to and it made her hideously uncomfortable.
"Now I've embarrassed her," the old woman said.
"Not really," said Tess.
"I just thought, maybe you could give me a rough figure." High on his own private joke, Jamie was milking it for all it was worth.
"Oh," said the old woman. "Four or five decades, at least."
"Hey. Awright."
"Jamie . . ." Tess rose, brushing off the seat of her jeans. "We've gotta meet Will, remember?"
He gave her a smile of surrender, abandoning the game. "Poor thing," he said, when they were finally out of earshot. "Not exactly batting a thousand, is she?"
Her depression escalated as the afternoon wore on. By the time they had trekked back to the house, wind-burned and empty-hampered, she was determined to get on with it. Showering again, she changed into dean sweats, then phoned the airline and changed her ticket to a night flight.
Will was a total jerk about it, pacing the room sullenly while she him about that.
"Look . . . all right . . . I know he's not perfect, but . . ."
"You sound just like Mama. Is that what you want? A lifetime of making excuses?"
She groaned. "I want to be married, Will. That doesn't make me a doormat."
"I understand that."
"Then why won't you say it's OK?"
The look he gave her was infuriating. "Because I'm not going to be one more man giving you permission."
She glared at him in glacial silence for a moment, then slapped the bag shut and began snapping the straps. "Don't flatter yourself."
"You're not going to marry him anyway," he said. "You wouldn't have come here if you were. Why can't you just deal with it? Why does it have to be a man's decision? Why can't it be you for once? I haven't got time for this petty shit."
She dragged the suit bag off the bed. "Right," she said. "I'll remember that. My life is petty."
"I didn't mean that." Suddenly enraged, she flung the suit bag into the hallway. "Then, what the fuck did you mean?"
Will regarded the fallen luggage for a moment, then sighed. "I meant . . . " He shrugged and turned away from her, gazing out the window. The fog had begun to spill into the valley, tumbling past the Monopoly-board houses, blurring their lights and softening their edges. "Last week," he said at last, "I went out and bought myself a suit just for funerals."
She sank to the edge of the bed, filled with dread and drained of all energy. It wasn't until she saw her brother's tears that she began to come apart. "Will, please . . ."
"You keep acting like Jamie and I have some sort of . . . happily-ever-after." He swiped at his eyes. "All we have is right now."
"I didn't . . ."
"That's all anybody's got, Tess. The future doesn't count for shit."
She picked at a loose thread on the comforter.
"You can't plan for happiness ever. You've got to figure out what makes you happy now."
Her faint, bloodless response seemed to come from somewhere else. "What if nothing does?"
He sat down next to her on the bed. "Something will, sweetie."
When she began to cry, he laid his hand gently on the back of her neck. She curled into his chest, feeling eight years old again, spilling big, ridiculous tears down the front of that ridiculous shirt.
Jamie came loping into the room with a plastic bag. "Hi guys . . . Oh. . . sorry."
"No problem," she said, yanking a Kleenex from the bedside table. "Come on in." She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose noisily, cast a quick glance at Will. "Whatcha got?" she asked Jamie.
"Lethal Weapon One."
"Ugh."
"I know," said Jamie "but we can always put it on hold and look at Mel Gibson's butt."
She laughed extravagantly, aglow with relief, giddy from the sudden, miraculous lifting of a terrible weight. "What's for dinner? Shall I make my lasagna?"
Jamie looked confused. "Will said you were leaving."
"He was wrong," she said.
Will just shrugged at his lover. "I was wrong."
After dinner, while Will and Jamie changed into their nightshirts, she skulked off to the bedroom, where she flopped on the bed, kicked off her shoes and phoned the number in Maui Alec had given her. Predictably enough, it turned out to be the Hyatt Regency, another atrium from hell with fiberglass waterfalls and resident flamingos.
There was no answer when they rang his room. She envisaged him down by one of the pools, ordering a Scorpion, hustling the cocktail waitress, bragging to anyone who'd listen about the major deal he'd just closed in Philadelphia. She left a message for him to call her in San Francisco as soon as possible, almost certain he'd know what that meant. For the first time in weeks she felt a little sorry for him.
END OF STORY, almost.
Armistead's sister Jane, the real-life inspiration for Tess, didn't marry The Shithead either. She married a nice guy named Joe, and a few years later they bought Terry and Armistead's house in New Zealand where they now raise llamas and run an amazing getaway: Kahikatea: A Country Retreat. There's no better place on earth to unwind. Check out their Web Site at www.kahikatea.com
Copyright 1991-2001 Literary Bent LLC. All rights reserved. This tale is also included in The Faber Book of Gay Short Fiction.
Armistead wrote this short story in 1990 for a musical called "Hearts Desire." The show was based on stories by four American authors writing about love in four American cities. "It was an interesting process," Armistead says, "informed by many sources. I wrote the story for the musical, and then it was adapted by the composer, Glen Roven, who put in all the songs. Then it was polished on stage by actors, Peter Gallagher was one of them, and I began to rewrite to make the dialogue work better. In the end I rewrote the story to make it conform with what had worked on stage. And I changed the name from ` Land's End' to `Suddenly Home,' the name of one of Glen's songs."
"Hearts Desire" was workshopped in several places before landing at the Cleveland Playhouse. It opened and closed in Cleveland. Mary Ann's revenge?
"Suddenly Home" could be considered a sort of prequel to The Night Listener since Will and Jamie are characters in Gabriel's fictional radio show, "Noone at Night," and they are loosely based on Gabriel and Jess, who are loosely based on . . . yeah, we're confused, too. Here's an excerpt from The Night Listener that might clear things up. Or not.
Suddenly Home
by Armistead Maupin
Tess felt bloated and jumpy, unbelievably PM-essy, when she spotted her brother in the waiting throng at the United terminal. To make matters worse, Will's other half was nowhere in sight. She hadn't expected a welcoming party as such, but she'd counted on Jamie being there to keep things civil, since she knew from experience that Will didn't nag as much when Jamie was around.
Her brother stepped forward with a sleepy, lop-sided grin, hugged her clumsily and reached for her carry-on. He looked tanner than the last time, maybe a little grayer, annoyingly content. "How was your flight?"
"Not bad." Already expecting the worst, she fixed her eyes on the distance and strode toward the moving walkway. "The flight attendant slipped me his phone number." Will looked amazed. "Really?"
She nodded.
"A straight flight attendant?"
She shot him a nasty glance. "Yes, a straight flight attendant. Where's Jamie? He said he was coming with you."
"He's at Nordstrom's."
"Shopping?" She couldn't help but sound cranky about this.
Will shook his head, apparently amused by her reaction. "They fired a clerk with HIV. There's a big demonstration this morning and . . . You know Jamie."
She felt a tiny pinprick of anxiety. Outside of the call arranging his visit she hadn't talked to Jamie for at least a month. "He's OK, isn't he?"
"Fine." Will looked believably nonchalant. "His T-cells are way up."
"Great."
He glanced at her sideways, narrowing his eyes. "So, what's going on?"
No way, she thought. Not until we're home and Jamie's with us and you've had at least a couple of joints. "Hey," she said, feigning jovial indignation, "Do I require an invitation?"
"No. But this is awful sudden."
"Well, I do things suddenly."
"Uh-huh."
"Look," she told him, "I'm going right back to Charleston."
"Stop. Why are you so edgy?"
"I'm not edgy. You're just in one of your picky moods." She led the way on to the moving walkway. They cruised past big Lucite boxes, like upright coffins, each displaying a different piece of California "chair art". A chair made of Coke bottles, a chair made of cow bones, a Styrofoam chair . . .
"So," said Will, "how's the shithead?"
How like him to take the offensive. "His name is Alec, Will."
"You called him that first."
"Once," she said. "After a fight. You're the one who made it official."
"Why didn't you bring him along?"
She studied his face for traces of snideness and decided the question was in earnest. Maybe, she thought, Will and Alec would learn to like each other if they spent some time together. "He's been on business in Philadelphia. I'm meeting him tomorrow, though. In Maui."
Her brother's face clouded over. "So this is just a stopover."
She rolled her eyes. "We'll have a whole day. I thought we could go to the beach or something, have a nice long talk. In person, for a change."
"About what?"
"Does it have to be about something?"
"No, but . . ."
"God, the men in this city! Look at the arms on that guy."
This was a cheap diversionary tactic, but it worked. Her brother's gaze swerved and locked on the beauty in question: an off-duty marine, she guessed, with ivory biceps and a shrimp colored T-shirt that said SHIT HAPPENS.
"Big deal," said Will.
"Well, excuse me, Mr. Married Man."
He looked at the marine again. "He has a tattoo, for God's sake!"
"Really? Is it misspelt? I love it when they're misspelt."
She hooked her arm through his as they headed toward baggage claim. He was wearing one of his favorite shirts tonight, a pale blue baggy-sleeved thing which he probably thought made him look like Lord Byron. Trini Lopez was more like it.
Gazing up at him, she counted the grey hairs in his moustache, and noticed with affection that his jaw stored fat in the same place as hers.
Will and Jamie's house on Twenty-first Street was not quite the way she'd remembered it. There were two or three new parchment-shaded lamps and they'd put up team siding - or something meant to look like it - on one wall of the living-room. Over the past decade or so she had watched Will's taste shimmy from rustic to Deco to high tech to rustic again.
When they arrived, Jamie was perched on a stepladder in the living-room, wielding a paintbrush. "Well," she said, "home from the wars, huh?"
"Hi, Tess! God, you guys missed something! Three hundred of us took over the escalator at Nordstrom's - this incredible spiral thing that goes on for ever. It was like Tiananmen Square meets Busby Berkeley!"
Will chuckled.
"Really," said Jamie, "it was amazing. A whole store full of us chanting, "We're here, we're queer, and we're not going shopping.""
She laughed and held out her arms. "Can I please have a hug?" Jamie scooted down the stepladder and embraced her, his fingers climbing her spine until they found the knots at the base of her neck. "Hey," he said. "Tough flight, huh?"
Will said: "The flight attendant had major hots for her."
"A straight flight attendant?"
Will shook his head at Jamie. "Don't."
Jamie released her. "I'll give you a good shoulder rub. Soon as I clean up."
She peered up at the ladder and noticed for the first time that the ceiling above their heads looked dangerously damaged. "What were you doing up there?"
"Just painting."
"Shouldn't you fix that huge crack first?"
Jamie seemed proud as a new parent. "I painted that huge crack."
"C'mon."
He shrugged. "We didn't get any good ones during the earthquake, so we're painting our own. How long can you stay?"
"Till tomorrow."
Jamie looked crushed. "Stay till Valentine's Day, at least. It's our second anniversary."
"She has to be in Maui," Will announced sullenly. "For some reason."
She ignored him, keeping her eyes on Jamie. "You met on Valentine's Day? You never told me that!"
Jamie smiled sheepishly.
Will said: "He was passing out condoms at the ACT-UP booth on Twenty-fourth Street."
"How romantic."
"Well . . ." Her brother looked affronted again. "The condoms were heart-shaped."
She had one hell of a time picturing this. "The wrappers were heart-shaped," Jamie explained.
"Thank you," she said.
Jamie laughed with her, and something about the tilt of his head, the tenor of his laughter, reminded her exactly of Will. He was five years younger than her brother -- thinner, blonder and already balder -- but on the phone she found it increasingly harder to tell them apart. They claimed not to notice this, of course, pretending to be horrified by what it suggested, but any fool could see what had happened.
Will fixed iced tea, which the three of them sipped on the deck. The air was warm and lemony with a neighbor's verbena, and half-a-dozen seagulls were making languid loops above the little valley. For Tess the scene felt oddly like a homecoming.
"How's the travel agency?" asked Jamie.
"Fine."
"And Alec?"
Will shot his lover a look.
"He's great," she said, determined to get on with it. "He sent you both his best."
Will grunted, but Jamie ignored him, remaining pleasant. "Are you guys still . . . together?"
"Oh, yeah. Three or four nights a week." She smiled at him, grateful for his interest. "He's still got his own place, but he's not in it much."
"Awright," said Jamie.
"Of course," she added wryly. "Daddy says I'm a slut."
"Why?"
"Oh . . . you know, because we aren't married. And Barton and all."
"Fuck him," said Will. "Barton is fifteen years old."
"Thank you. I know."
"It isn't any of Daddy's goddamned business whether you're married or not."
"We live in the same town, Will. I can't just dose the door like that. He's Barton's grandfather. He isn't gonna be around much longer."
"Fuck that. He's been saying that for ever. He was saying that before Mama died." He fumed silently for a moment. "When did he call you a slut?"
"It doesn't matter."
"When, Tess?"
"At Barton's confirmation."
"At church?"
"No." She smiled at that. "Afterwards at the party. It was more like a brunch, really."
"Great. He called you a slut at brunch. Was the shithead there? What did he even . . . ?"
"Will . . ." Jamie was pissed now. "Stop interrogating her."
She gave him an appreciative glance before continuing. "Everybody was full of wine and making these dumb toasts. Daddy didn't mean it. It's just that he likes Alec so much."
"Figures," muttered Will.
"He's right, actually. Not about the slut part, but . . . I've been dodging the issue way too long."
"What issue?"
She shrugged. "We're getting married."
The silence seemed interminable. It was Jamie who broke it, reddening noticeably. "Well . . . that's great, Tess. Congratulations."
"When?" asked Will.
"Tomorrow. Well . . . day after tomorrow, really."
"In Maui?" asked Jamie.
"Aloha."
Will wrote in the air with his finger. "Mr. and Mrs. Alec T. Shithead.
" Jamie frowned. "Will . . ."
"Believe me," she said, "I've thought about this long and hard." Her brother threw up his hands. "Fine. Great. Terrific. What do you need us for?"
"I don't know. I thought your blessing might be nice."
Will sighed histrionically. "This isn't Lourdes, Tess."
"Tess . . ." Jamie proceeded carefully, measuring his words. "Do you think you might be . . .?"
"She's obviously made up her mind."
"You're right," she said quietly, looking at her brother. "I have." "Fine," he said, picking up his drink again. "Go for it."
She showered off the grime of her flight while Will and Jamie packed a picnic lunch in the kitchen. She could hear their voices dimly through the wall and for a moment tormented herself with what they must be saying. When she returned, though, they were chipper and smiling, absorbed - or pretending to be, at least- in Jamie's bogus earthquake crack.
At Will's suggestion they drove out to Land's End in the VW. They parked in a dust-choked lot above Seal Rocks and, toting their lunches, set off on foot through the gnarled cypresses. A sudden shiver of deja vu made her realize why Will had chosen this spot. He was trying to tweak her memory, to make her nostalgic for the halcyon days of her bachelorhood.
"I know what you're up to," she told him.
"What?" asked Jamie.
"He brought me here years ago," she explained. "After I signed my divorce papers. I was as free as I'd ever been. And I was so . . . intense."
Will smirked at her. "More like in heat."
She smiled at him. "We came here after the Gay Games. You'd just won a gold medal in something terribly butch."
"Badminton," he said.
Jamie hooted.
"We met this guy out here with a pigtail and the cutest butt and Will swore to me he was gay."
"Was he?"
"Now wait a minute . . ." Will instantly went on the defensive. "The guy was from LA. It threw me off."
She and Jamie both got a kick out of this. "Right," said Jamie.
"She was shameless," muttered Will.
Tess remembered every detail of it except the man's name: his baby-blue briefs, his Vangelis tapes, the rust-stained ceiling of his geodesic dome. "He was so . . . flexible," she murmured. "He was an importer."
"He was a coke dealer," said Will. "She disappeared for three whole days. You think I rated so much as a phone call?"
She batted her eyes demurely. "I was busy."
As usual, the guys loved this.
They left the noonday twilight of the cypress trees and hiked along a broad, sandy ledge above the sea. The path was hyphenated here and there with makeshift footbridges, and she could see for some distance, watch the picnickers as they made their way back and forth from the parking lot. They were all in pairs, she realized, every last one of them.
"Damn," said Will. "I forgot the blanket."
"Forget about it."
"We have to have the blanket, Tess. The ground is murder up there."
"Him and his blanket," said Jamie.
"You should've seen him when he was three," she said.
"He had a blanket then?"
"With a name no less."
"Tess!" snapped Will.
She smirked at him and fumed back to Jamie. "Flipper."
"Flipper?" Jamie was enjoying this as much as she was.
"Daddy wouldn't let him have a dolphin."
Will had had enough. "I'm getting the blanket," he said. "You'll be glad when you have it."
They found a bench and sat down, awaiting Will's return. "Do you think I'm making a mistake?" she asked.
Jamie hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. "That's not for me to say."
For a moment she pictured Alec in Maui, checking into some amorphous highrise, some soul-deadening place with a Benihana in the lobby and a volcano that goes off on the hour. He'd insisted on booking this one himself, on surprising her, which had seemed romantic as hell at the time, the closest a travel agent could come to being carried over the threshold. Now she wasn't so sure. For all she knew, she was about to be married by a Don Ho impersonator. Alec would think that was funny.
She raked her wind-tangled hair with her fingers. "He's not such a bad guy, you know. He's always been there for me. And he's pretty nice in the sack."
Jamie smiled. "Nothing wrong with that."
"He's not the world's best conversationalist, but I can always call you."
He gave her a look of disarming intimacy. "You'd better."
Embarrassed, she peered out at the flickering, blue flame of the sea, roughly in the direction of Maui. After a long silence she said: "I'm scared, Jamie."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I'm thirty-three and time is running out."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me about it."
She realized her blunder instantly. "Oh, shit. I'm sorry."
"Hey . . ." He waved it off.
"You look wonderful, by the way." She hoped this didn't sound forced or patronizing, because he did look wonderful.
He snatched a pebble off the ground and hurled it down the slope. "Ever thought about moving?"
"Moving?"
"Sure."
"Here, you mean?"
"Why not?"
"For starters," she replied, "I have this weird thing for straight guys."
"We have straight guys," he said, twinkling. "Especially weird ones."
She gave him a rueful nod. "I've noticed."
Jamie's eyes widened excitedly. "We could get arrested together. And gang up on Will."
"Right." This was much more of a proposal than she had ever received from Alec. For a moment, she was sure she felt herself blushing.
"He's just like your father," Jamie added. "Every bit as pigheaded."
"Noticed that, huh?" She threw him a quick sideways glance. "Don't tell me the honeymoon's over?"
He chuckled. "Let's just say the marriage has begun."
"Oh, dear."
"No. We're fine, really."
She brushed back her hair again and returned her gaze to the water. "Sure looks that way," she said.
Another phalanx of couples was plodding toward them up the hill. The ones in the lead were white-haired and ruddy-checked, puffed up like a pair of shore birds in purple-quilted polyester.
"These people," she said.
"What about them?"
"Two-by-two all over the place. You'd think they were headed for the goddamn ark."
He shrugged. "Lots of them are just friends."
No, she thought. They've all go that look. She couldn't quite pin it down, but lived-with was how she thought of it. Will and Jamie had it, too, of course.
Jamie slid his arm across her shoulder and gave her a gentle shake, apparently reading her mind.
She mustered a lame smile. "It's stupid to be jealous, isn't it?"
"Jealous?" Jamie's brow furrowed. "Of who?"
She abandoned her confession on the spot, uttering a labored sigh. "I don't know . . . these people . . . everybody."
The white-haired couple came to a full stop in front of their bench. The woman was beaming moronically. "Helloo," she crooned. Tess just wanted them to go away, to leave her the fuck alone.
"Hi," said Jamie.
"You look so sweet."
"Excuse me?"
"The two of you," explained the woman. "You make such a lovely sight up here."
Jamie's lip flickered, but otherwise he didn't betray a thing. "Thanks."
"I'm psychic, you know."
"Really?"
"She is," said the old man.
"I noticed your aura all the way up here. There's just one, you know. The two of you have one aura."
Tess cast a quick, sardonic glance at Jamie. Were people here still doing this shit?
"That's nice," said Jamie.
"You'll have a long life together."
Jamie gave her a guileless smile. "Even better," he said. "How long?"
"Jamie . . ." Tess realized what he was up to and it made her hideously uncomfortable.
"Now I've embarrassed her," the old woman said.
"Not really," said Tess.
"I just thought, maybe you could give me a rough figure." High on his own private joke, Jamie was milking it for all it was worth.
"Oh," said the old woman. "Four or five decades, at least."
"Hey. Awright."
"Jamie . . ." Tess rose, brushing off the seat of her jeans. "We've gotta meet Will, remember?"
He gave her a smile of surrender, abandoning the game. "Poor thing," he said, when they were finally out of earshot. "Not exactly batting a thousand, is she?"
Her depression escalated as the afternoon wore on. By the time they had trekked back to the house, wind-burned and empty-hampered, she was determined to get on with it. Showering again, she changed into dean sweats, then phoned the airline and changed her ticket to a night flight.
Will was a total jerk about it, pacing the room sullenly while she him about that.
"Look . . . all right . . . I know he's not perfect, but . . ."
"You sound just like Mama. Is that what you want? A lifetime of making excuses?"
She groaned. "I want to be married, Will. That doesn't make me a doormat."
"I understand that."
"Then why won't you say it's OK?"
The look he gave her was infuriating. "Because I'm not going to be one more man giving you permission."
She glared at him in glacial silence for a moment, then slapped the bag shut and began snapping the straps. "Don't flatter yourself."
"You're not going to marry him anyway," he said. "You wouldn't have come here if you were. Why can't you just deal with it? Why does it have to be a man's decision? Why can't it be you for once? I haven't got time for this petty shit."
She dragged the suit bag off the bed. "Right," she said. "I'll remember that. My life is petty."
"I didn't mean that." Suddenly enraged, she flung the suit bag into the hallway. "Then, what the fuck did you mean?"
Will regarded the fallen luggage for a moment, then sighed. "I meant . . . " He shrugged and turned away from her, gazing out the window. The fog had begun to spill into the valley, tumbling past the Monopoly-board houses, blurring their lights and softening their edges. "Last week," he said at last, "I went out and bought myself a suit just for funerals."
She sank to the edge of the bed, filled with dread and drained of all energy. It wasn't until she saw her brother's tears that she began to come apart. "Will, please . . ."
"You keep acting like Jamie and I have some sort of . . . happily-ever-after." He swiped at his eyes. "All we have is right now."
"I didn't . . ."
"That's all anybody's got, Tess. The future doesn't count for shit."
She picked at a loose thread on the comforter.
"You can't plan for happiness ever. You've got to figure out what makes you happy now."
Her faint, bloodless response seemed to come from somewhere else. "What if nothing does?"
He sat down next to her on the bed. "Something will, sweetie."
When she began to cry, he laid his hand gently on the back of her neck. She curled into his chest, feeling eight years old again, spilling big, ridiculous tears down the front of that ridiculous shirt.
Jamie came loping into the room with a plastic bag. "Hi guys . . . Oh. . . sorry."
"No problem," she said, yanking a Kleenex from the bedside table. "Come on in." She dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose noisily, cast a quick glance at Will. "Whatcha got?" she asked Jamie.
"Lethal Weapon One."
"Ugh."
"I know," said Jamie "but we can always put it on hold and look at Mel Gibson's butt."
She laughed extravagantly, aglow with relief, giddy from the sudden, miraculous lifting of a terrible weight. "What's for dinner? Shall I make my lasagna?"
Jamie looked confused. "Will said you were leaving."
"He was wrong," she said.
Will just shrugged at his lover. "I was wrong."
After dinner, while Will and Jamie changed into their nightshirts, she skulked off to the bedroom, where she flopped on the bed, kicked off her shoes and phoned the number in Maui Alec had given her. Predictably enough, it turned out to be the Hyatt Regency, another atrium from hell with fiberglass waterfalls and resident flamingos.
There was no answer when they rang his room. She envisaged him down by one of the pools, ordering a Scorpion, hustling the cocktail waitress, bragging to anyone who'd listen about the major deal he'd just closed in Philadelphia. She left a message for him to call her in San Francisco as soon as possible, almost certain he'd know what that meant. For the first time in weeks she felt a little sorry for him.
END OF STORY, almost.
Armistead's sister Jane, the real-life inspiration for Tess, didn't marry The Shithead either. She married a nice guy named Joe, and a few years later they bought Terry and Armistead's house in New Zealand where they now raise llamas and run an amazing getaway: Kahikatea: A Country Retreat. There's no better place on earth to unwind. Check out their Web Site at www.kahikatea.com
Copyright 1991-2001 Literary Bent LLC. All rights reserved. This tale is also included in The Faber Book of Gay Short Fiction.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
More "Tales" DVD Liner Notes - Alan Poul
PRODUCTION NOTES By Alan Poul
I WAS PRODUCING a Rock the Vote election-year special for Propaganda Films in fall 1992 when I was approached by that company's head of television, Matt Loze, about producing Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City. I think I said yes before the words were out of his mouth. Like all gay men who came of age in the 1970s, I had read Armistead's books as a rite of passage, their characters and references having entered the subcultural vernacular of the day.
Already on board were Armistead and his partner Terry Anderson; producer Antony Root of Working Title Television, the UK company that owned the books' TV rights and was co-producing the film with Propaganda; and screenwriter Richard Kramer, who had just created the groundbreaking gay storylines on the series thirtysomething. Supervising everything was the UK's Channel Four, chiefly in the person of Peter Ansorge, editor of drama series for the innovative network.
The role Channel Four played in creating Tales cannot be overstated. Initially, the plan was to do a 13-hour adaptation that would be funded half by Channel Four and half by an American broadcaster. The American side failed to materialize - no network or cable channel would touch the material. Instead of backing out, Channel Four committed to fully financing a six-hour adaptation, even with no guaranteed American sale.
Channel Four shaped Tales not only with its bankroll, but also with its approach. Ansorge et al. were interested in a televised novel - not a liberally adapted reinterpretation for TV. This basic (but hardly American) principle of respect for a literary text was as significant as any other factor in making Tales such an original piece of entertainment.
Channel Four's one stipulation was that we hire a British director. We watched the work of many contenders, but the one film that stood out was Alastair Reid's Traffik. That this six-hour miniseries is now known chiefly as the basis for Steven Soderbergh's feature is an injustice. The way the series intertwined great scope and complex storylines while maintaining an almost painful sense of intimacy was indelible. After meeting Alastair and learning of his passion for Armistead's book, his fascination with magical realism, and his all-embracing love of the characters, we knew we had our director.
The other major contributor to the pre-production process was John Lyons. At that time, John was one of the best casting directors in features, whose work included all of the Coen Brothers' films since Raising Arizona. Our first major decision was the casting of Olympia Dukakis as Anna Madrigal, a unanimous choice. But with his roots in the New York theater world, John was also able to bring us actors we had never heard of, like Laura Linney, Thomas Gibson, Paul Gross, and Barbara Garrick, with the confidence that they would deliver. John has gone on to a successful producing career (Boogie Nights, Austin Powers in Goldmember), but his foresight and instinct were major factors in pulling together the Tales ensemble.
Casting was the first area where we had to grapple with degrees of literal faithfulness in visualizing the text. Though the book frequently describes Mary Ann as a brunette and De De as a blonde, we decided, after considerable hand-wringing, not to force Laura Linney and Barbara Garrick to change hair color. Similarly, until we found Billy Campbell, we had been searching only for a light-haired Jon because the book describes him as "blond." Our initial priority was to be faithful to the readers' collective imagination, but when it came to choosing performance over cosmetic detail, Armistead readily agreed that talent wins out.
The production was based in Los Angeles with exteriors to be shot in San Francisco. On our- first San Francisco scouting trip with Alastair and production designer Victoria Paul, we set out to locate the mythical Barbary Lane. We had assumed 28 Barbary Lane would be shot on small sets representing interior rooms and bits of staircase, with a real San Francisco exterior- to shoot for entrances and exits. But when Armistead took us to Napier Lane, one of the real-life walkways that had inspired him, we found apartment houses with exterior staircases leading up to landings outside each door. Alastair was struck on the spot with the inspiration to turn Anna Madrigal's house inside out and put the skeleton on the outside. Vicki completed the drawings as soon as we returned to L.A., and the three-story Barbary Lane courtyard set was born. This set is so closely identified with the series that it is hard to imagine now it was ever conceived differently.
Alastair survived a brutal shooting schedule with the aid of his meticulously notated script, in which he had drawn a few simple storyboard frames for each scene. This was his editing master plan, from which he could imagine each scene's place in the finished six hours, and thereby reduce shots. The actors returned Alastair's generosity and goodwill with a deep and implicit trust. Near the end of the L.A. shoot, we were filming a San Francisco bathhouse we had erected in the kitchen of the old Ambassador Hotel (on the site where Robert F. Kennedy was shot).There was a problem with the scene where Jon Fielding (Billy Campbell) enters the cubicle of Beauchamp Day (Thomas Gibson). We couldn't show Beauchamp's face, since his identity isn't revealed until a subsequent scene, and yet we had to make it absolutely clear that Jon was about to have sex. Billy Campbell didn't have a nudity clause in his contract, so we couldn't ask him to remove his towel before stepping in the room, even though that would make the scene work. Sensing the frustration, Billy finally turned to Alastair on the set and said simply, "Alastair, do you want my butt!" Alastair replied, "Yes, dear boy," and the scene (and the towel) came off without incident.
We scheduled the San Francisco location shoot at the end, meaning that by the time we were shooting exteriors, most of the matching interior sequences had already been filmed. That meant that had we encountered a lot of fog or rain, we would have had major continuity problems on our hands. We went to great lengths to secure weather insurance for the 12 days of location shooting, an expensive proposition in San Francisco. As it turns out, our shoot in June 1993 consisted of 12 days of unbroken sunshine. Then, of course, we worried that we didn't have enough fog. But ultimately I think the preternatural sunshine enhances the show's depiction of a magically good-natured world.
As for the American broadcast, our rescue arrived in the form of Lindsay Law, who was then executive director of PBS's landmark American Playhouse series. Even though we were well into production when the sale went through, Lindsay came on board with remarkable enthusiasm, and his efforts went a long way toward making the American premiere the sensational event it turned out to be.
Armistead MauPin's Tales of the City debuted on PBS on January 10, 1994, and ran two hours a night for three consecutive nights, garnering the highest ratings for a drama program in recent PBS history. In San Francisco, the show even beat out the three commercial networks. But thinking back, I can remember clearly that until the moment of the broadcast, we were never sure if we had gotten it right
Alan Poul is currently executive producer of the acclaimed HBO series Six Feet Under.
I WAS PRODUCING a Rock the Vote election-year special for Propaganda Films in fall 1992 when I was approached by that company's head of television, Matt Loze, about producing Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City. I think I said yes before the words were out of his mouth. Like all gay men who came of age in the 1970s, I had read Armistead's books as a rite of passage, their characters and references having entered the subcultural vernacular of the day.
Already on board were Armistead and his partner Terry Anderson; producer Antony Root of Working Title Television, the UK company that owned the books' TV rights and was co-producing the film with Propaganda; and screenwriter Richard Kramer, who had just created the groundbreaking gay storylines on the series thirtysomething. Supervising everything was the UK's Channel Four, chiefly in the person of Peter Ansorge, editor of drama series for the innovative network.
The role Channel Four played in creating Tales cannot be overstated. Initially, the plan was to do a 13-hour adaptation that would be funded half by Channel Four and half by an American broadcaster. The American side failed to materialize - no network or cable channel would touch the material. Instead of backing out, Channel Four committed to fully financing a six-hour adaptation, even with no guaranteed American sale.
Channel Four shaped Tales not only with its bankroll, but also with its approach. Ansorge et al. were interested in a televised novel - not a liberally adapted reinterpretation for TV. This basic (but hardly American) principle of respect for a literary text was as significant as any other factor in making Tales such an original piece of entertainment.
Channel Four's one stipulation was that we hire a British director. We watched the work of many contenders, but the one film that stood out was Alastair Reid's Traffik. That this six-hour miniseries is now known chiefly as the basis for Steven Soderbergh's feature is an injustice. The way the series intertwined great scope and complex storylines while maintaining an almost painful sense of intimacy was indelible. After meeting Alastair and learning of his passion for Armistead's book, his fascination with magical realism, and his all-embracing love of the characters, we knew we had our director.
The other major contributor to the pre-production process was John Lyons. At that time, John was one of the best casting directors in features, whose work included all of the Coen Brothers' films since Raising Arizona. Our first major decision was the casting of Olympia Dukakis as Anna Madrigal, a unanimous choice. But with his roots in the New York theater world, John was also able to bring us actors we had never heard of, like Laura Linney, Thomas Gibson, Paul Gross, and Barbara Garrick, with the confidence that they would deliver. John has gone on to a successful producing career (Boogie Nights, Austin Powers in Goldmember), but his foresight and instinct were major factors in pulling together the Tales ensemble.
Casting was the first area where we had to grapple with degrees of literal faithfulness in visualizing the text. Though the book frequently describes Mary Ann as a brunette and De De as a blonde, we decided, after considerable hand-wringing, not to force Laura Linney and Barbara Garrick to change hair color. Similarly, until we found Billy Campbell, we had been searching only for a light-haired Jon because the book describes him as "blond." Our initial priority was to be faithful to the readers' collective imagination, but when it came to choosing performance over cosmetic detail, Armistead readily agreed that talent wins out.
The production was based in Los Angeles with exteriors to be shot in San Francisco. On our- first San Francisco scouting trip with Alastair and production designer Victoria Paul, we set out to locate the mythical Barbary Lane. We had assumed 28 Barbary Lane would be shot on small sets representing interior rooms and bits of staircase, with a real San Francisco exterior- to shoot for entrances and exits. But when Armistead took us to Napier Lane, one of the real-life walkways that had inspired him, we found apartment houses with exterior staircases leading up to landings outside each door. Alastair was struck on the spot with the inspiration to turn Anna Madrigal's house inside out and put the skeleton on the outside. Vicki completed the drawings as soon as we returned to L.A., and the three-story Barbary Lane courtyard set was born. This set is so closely identified with the series that it is hard to imagine now it was ever conceived differently.
Alastair survived a brutal shooting schedule with the aid of his meticulously notated script, in which he had drawn a few simple storyboard frames for each scene. This was his editing master plan, from which he could imagine each scene's place in the finished six hours, and thereby reduce shots. The actors returned Alastair's generosity and goodwill with a deep and implicit trust. Near the end of the L.A. shoot, we were filming a San Francisco bathhouse we had erected in the kitchen of the old Ambassador Hotel (on the site where Robert F. Kennedy was shot).There was a problem with the scene where Jon Fielding (Billy Campbell) enters the cubicle of Beauchamp Day (Thomas Gibson). We couldn't show Beauchamp's face, since his identity isn't revealed until a subsequent scene, and yet we had to make it absolutely clear that Jon was about to have sex. Billy Campbell didn't have a nudity clause in his contract, so we couldn't ask him to remove his towel before stepping in the room, even though that would make the scene work. Sensing the frustration, Billy finally turned to Alastair on the set and said simply, "Alastair, do you want my butt!" Alastair replied, "Yes, dear boy," and the scene (and the towel) came off without incident.
We scheduled the San Francisco location shoot at the end, meaning that by the time we were shooting exteriors, most of the matching interior sequences had already been filmed. That meant that had we encountered a lot of fog or rain, we would have had major continuity problems on our hands. We went to great lengths to secure weather insurance for the 12 days of location shooting, an expensive proposition in San Francisco. As it turns out, our shoot in June 1993 consisted of 12 days of unbroken sunshine. Then, of course, we worried that we didn't have enough fog. But ultimately I think the preternatural sunshine enhances the show's depiction of a magically good-natured world.
As for the American broadcast, our rescue arrived in the form of Lindsay Law, who was then executive director of PBS's landmark American Playhouse series. Even though we were well into production when the sale went through, Lindsay came on board with remarkable enthusiasm, and his efforts went a long way toward making the American premiere the sensational event it turned out to be.
Armistead MauPin's Tales of the City debuted on PBS on January 10, 1994, and ran two hours a night for three consecutive nights, garnering the highest ratings for a drama program in recent PBS history. In San Francisco, the show even beat out the three commercial networks. But thinking back, I can remember clearly that until the moment of the broadcast, we were never sure if we had gotten it right
Alan Poul is currently executive producer of the acclaimed HBO series Six Feet Under.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
"Tales of the City" DVD Liner Notes
THE OUTRAGE "Tales of the City" provoked when it aired on PBS in 1994 seems almost quaint these days. Apoplectic over the sight of two men smooching in a convertible and the pot smoke wafting through 28 Barbary Lane - lawmakers in Georgia, Oklahoma, and South Carolina passed resolutions fiercely condemning the miniseries. In Chattanooga, Tennessee, there was even a bomb threat that emptied the local PBS affiliate the first night the show aired. The Reverend Donald Wildmon of the American Family Association sent members of Congress a 12-minute bootleg videotape featuring what he regarded as the dirty bits of "Tales of the City". Since this included a shot of Norman Neal Williams (Stanley DeSantis) scratching himself in Jockey shorts, the less said about the Reverend's thought processes the better. I do want to thank him for the noise he made, for without it - and the subsequent lurid reporting by "Entertainment Tonight" - my life's work might never have attracted such a widespread audience.
Contrary to right-wing claims, "Tales of the City" was not funded by "taxpayer dollars." It was entirely the product of Britain's innovative Channel Four and the determined efforts Working Title Films and Propaganda Films. PBS acquired it the way it acquires many British programs cheaply and without risk - only to receive unprecedented ratings, critical raves, and a Peabody Award. So it was all the more galling when the network caved in to conservative pressure and reneged on plans to broadcast "More Tales of the City". I suspect they regret that now, if only because of the small-screen revolution that followed. "Tales of the City" forever changed the landscape of television, paving the way for the domestic lesbians of "Ellen", the straight girl/gay boy antics of "Will & Grace", the unapologetic promiscuity of "Queer as Folk", and the omni-sexual, multi-generational humanism of "Six Feet Under". PBS left the party just as it was getting interesting.
Frankly, I'm used to this sort of nonsense. Back in 1976, when "Tales of the City" began life as a daily serial in the San Francisco Chronicle, I often fought with editors who underestimated the tolerance and intelligence of their readers. To make my point, I took a brief break after the first year; 40,000 San Franciscans wrote to ask what the hell had happened to Mrs. Madrigal and her tenants. Three years later, when Warner Brothers bought the rights to the first of the six Tales novels. I learned what nervous nellies Hollywood executives could be. "Love that gay gynecologist," one guy told me with a straight face. "but I think he should turn out to be a serial killer."
The culture has grown up a lot since then. Freed from the burden of manufactured hysteria, "Tales of the City" can now be appreciated as the benign fable it has always been, a story about people being kind to one another, even under the oddest of circumstances. Alastair Reid's stunningly atmospheric production has emerged as a sort of "American Graffiti" for television: a showcase for a number of "unknown" actors who went on to achieve considerable fame. It's rare that such talent converges for a single project, and I'm grateful to everyone, on both sides of the camera, who made the miracle happen.
Armistead Maupin
San Francisco, August 2002
Contrary to right-wing claims, "Tales of the City" was not funded by "taxpayer dollars." It was entirely the product of Britain's innovative Channel Four and the determined efforts Working Title Films and Propaganda Films. PBS acquired it the way it acquires many British programs cheaply and without risk - only to receive unprecedented ratings, critical raves, and a Peabody Award. So it was all the more galling when the network caved in to conservative pressure and reneged on plans to broadcast "More Tales of the City". I suspect they regret that now, if only because of the small-screen revolution that followed. "Tales of the City" forever changed the landscape of television, paving the way for the domestic lesbians of "Ellen", the straight girl/gay boy antics of "Will & Grace", the unapologetic promiscuity of "Queer as Folk", and the omni-sexual, multi-generational humanism of "Six Feet Under". PBS left the party just as it was getting interesting.
Frankly, I'm used to this sort of nonsense. Back in 1976, when "Tales of the City" began life as a daily serial in the San Francisco Chronicle, I often fought with editors who underestimated the tolerance and intelligence of their readers. To make my point, I took a brief break after the first year; 40,000 San Franciscans wrote to ask what the hell had happened to Mrs. Madrigal and her tenants. Three years later, when Warner Brothers bought the rights to the first of the six Tales novels. I learned what nervous nellies Hollywood executives could be. "Love that gay gynecologist," one guy told me with a straight face. "but I think he should turn out to be a serial killer."
The culture has grown up a lot since then. Freed from the burden of manufactured hysteria, "Tales of the City" can now be appreciated as the benign fable it has always been, a story about people being kind to one another, even under the oddest of circumstances. Alastair Reid's stunningly atmospheric production has emerged as a sort of "American Graffiti" for television: a showcase for a number of "unknown" actors who went on to achieve considerable fame. It's rare that such talent converges for a single project, and I'm grateful to everyone, on both sides of the camera, who made the miracle happen.
Armistead Maupin
San Francisco, August 2002
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Anita Bryant January 1977
Anita Bryant January 1977: the enactment of a gay rights law in Miami-Dade county mobilizes the ex-beauty queen's antigay campaign--as well as gays nationwide, including San Franciscan Armistead Maupin. (Gods & Monsters).
I actually read about Anita Bryant's Save Our Children campaign to overturn Miami's gay rights law directly from the news wires. It was quite clear to me that this campaign was going to have a galvanizing effect on the gay movement. There's really nothing like a good villain to start a revolution, and Anita filled the bill perfectly.
I know what the battle did for me: It forced me to confront my own residual self-loathing and stare it down once and for all by coming out.
I was writing Tales of the City as a serial in-house at the San Francisco Chronicle, and I was able to respond to news of Bryant's campaign in a matter of 24 hours, concocting a letter from [gay character] Michael's mother about their efforts to save Florida from the homosexuals. By the strangest serendipity, I had already established Michael as the son of Florida orange growers. Within a matter of weeks, Michael was writing a reply to his mother in which he comes out.
My parents were subscribing to the Chronicle in order to follow the series, and when they got to Michael's coming-out letter, they realized I was writing to them. And within a week they saw me described as a gay journalist in Newsweek when that magazine covered Anita Bryant.
About 10 years ago I was at an American Booksellers Association convention where Bryant was appearing, and she was still pissing and moaning about how the homosexuals had destroyed her career as spokesperson for Florida orange juice. The irony is, it wasn't the orange juice boycott that caused her to lose her job; it was the fact that she made herself forever associated with homosexuality. So in one way she was a victim of homophobia herself: Folks on the orange board didn't want people to think about queers when they bought orange juice.
Maupin, Armistead. "Anita Bryant January 1977: the enactment of a gay rights law in Miami-Dade county mobilizes the ex-beauty queen's antigay campaign--as well as gays nationwide, including San Franciscan Armistead Maupin. (Gods & Monsters)." The Advocate (The national gay & lesbiannewsmagazine). LPI Media. 2002.
I actually read about Anita Bryant's Save Our Children campaign to overturn Miami's gay rights law directly from the news wires. It was quite clear to me that this campaign was going to have a galvanizing effect on the gay movement. There's really nothing like a good villain to start a revolution, and Anita filled the bill perfectly.
I know what the battle did for me: It forced me to confront my own residual self-loathing and stare it down once and for all by coming out.
I was writing Tales of the City as a serial in-house at the San Francisco Chronicle, and I was able to respond to news of Bryant's campaign in a matter of 24 hours, concocting a letter from [gay character] Michael's mother about their efforts to save Florida from the homosexuals. By the strangest serendipity, I had already established Michael as the son of Florida orange growers. Within a matter of weeks, Michael was writing a reply to his mother in which he comes out.
My parents were subscribing to the Chronicle in order to follow the series, and when they got to Michael's coming-out letter, they realized I was writing to them. And within a week they saw me described as a gay journalist in Newsweek when that magazine covered Anita Bryant.
About 10 years ago I was at an American Booksellers Association convention where Bryant was appearing, and she was still pissing and moaning about how the homosexuals had destroyed her career as spokesperson for Florida orange juice. The irony is, it wasn't the orange juice boycott that caused her to lose her job; it was the fact that she made herself forever associated with homosexuality. So in one way she was a victim of homophobia herself: Folks on the orange board didn't want people to think about queers when they bought orange juice.
Maupin, Armistead. "Anita Bryant January 1977: the enactment of a gay rights law in Miami-Dade county mobilizes the ex-beauty queen's antigay campaign--as well as gays nationwide, including San Franciscan Armistead Maupin. (Gods & Monsters)." The Advocate (The national gay & lesbiannewsmagazine). LPI Media. 2002.
Monday, December 15, 2008
A staged reading of Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
CONTACT: Susan Harloe (415) 626-0453 x128
700 PM SOLD OUT! 915 PM PERFORMANCE ADDED!
THEATRE RHINOCEROS
and
WORD FOR WORD
(a program of THE Z SPACE STUDIO)
present
A staged reading of Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory*
Directed by JoAnne Winter
Monday, December 15, 2008
PERFORMANCE ADDED!: ADDED PERFORMANCE AT 915 PM ON MONDAY, DECEMBER 15
700 PM PERFORMANCE IS SOLD OUT!
Theatre Rhinoceros, 2926 16th Street (at South Van Ness, BART), San Francisco, CA 94103
Because the 7 PM show is completely sold out we are adding a second performance at 915 PM on Monday, December 15th. A reception will be held for both audiences in between the performances at approximately 815 PM.
In Truman Capote’s largely autobiographical story of seven-year-old Buddy and his much older cousin Sook, a trip to find fruitcake ingredients becomes a memorable adventure, told through the eyes of Capote’s seven-year-old self. A holiday offering for all ages!
THEATER RHINOCEROS (John Fisher, Executive Director), America’s longest running professional queer theatre, develops and produces works of theatre that enlighten, enrich, and explore both the ordinary and extraordinary aspects of our queer community.
WORD FOR WORD is the theatre company that transforms classic and contemporary fiction into great performance works for the stage. Word for Word believes in the power of the short story to provide solace, compassion, and insight into our daily lives.
THEATER RHINOCEROS and WORD FOR WORD will collaborate on a full production of short stories by Tennessee Williams, Gertrude Stein, and Armistead Maupin in May, 2009. This staged reading of “A Christmas Memory” is their first venture together.
WHEN: Monday, December 15, 2009: ONE NIGHT ONLY
WHERE: Theatre Rhinoceros, 2926 16th St. (at South Van Ness), San Francisco, CA 94103
TIME: 7 PM (sold out!) and 915 PM (Tickets available.)
TIX: (415) 861-5079, or www.TheRhino.org; Suggested Donation: $20 (Nobody will be turned away for lack of funds)
INFO: Susan Harloe at (415) 626-0453 x128 or sharloe@zspace.org
*This production is dedicated to the memory of Robert Coffman, a much loved Theatre Rhino actor and donor. Robert performed a reading of “A Christmas Memory” at The Rhino each holiday season for many years.
www.therhino.org/guests/ChristMemPRExten.doc
CONTACT: Susan Harloe (415) 626-0453 x128
700 PM SOLD OUT! 915 PM PERFORMANCE ADDED!
THEATRE RHINOCEROS
and
WORD FOR WORD
(a program of THE Z SPACE STUDIO)
present
A staged reading of Truman Capote’s A Christmas Memory*
Directed by JoAnne Winter
Monday, December 15, 2008
PERFORMANCE ADDED!: ADDED PERFORMANCE AT 915 PM ON MONDAY, DECEMBER 15
700 PM PERFORMANCE IS SOLD OUT!
Theatre Rhinoceros, 2926 16th Street (at South Van Ness, BART), San Francisco, CA 94103
Because the 7 PM show is completely sold out we are adding a second performance at 915 PM on Monday, December 15th. A reception will be held for both audiences in between the performances at approximately 815 PM.
In Truman Capote’s largely autobiographical story of seven-year-old Buddy and his much older cousin Sook, a trip to find fruitcake ingredients becomes a memorable adventure, told through the eyes of Capote’s seven-year-old self. A holiday offering for all ages!
THEATER RHINOCEROS (John Fisher, Executive Director), America’s longest running professional queer theatre, develops and produces works of theatre that enlighten, enrich, and explore both the ordinary and extraordinary aspects of our queer community.
WORD FOR WORD is the theatre company that transforms classic and contemporary fiction into great performance works for the stage. Word for Word believes in the power of the short story to provide solace, compassion, and insight into our daily lives.
THEATER RHINOCEROS and WORD FOR WORD will collaborate on a full production of short stories by Tennessee Williams, Gertrude Stein, and Armistead Maupin in May, 2009. This staged reading of “A Christmas Memory” is their first venture together.
WHEN: Monday, December 15, 2009: ONE NIGHT ONLY
WHERE: Theatre Rhinoceros, 2926 16th St. (at South Van Ness), San Francisco, CA 94103
TIME: 7 PM (sold out!) and 915 PM (Tickets available.)
TIX: (415) 861-5079, or www.TheRhino.org; Suggested Donation: $20 (Nobody will be turned away for lack of funds)
INFO: Susan Harloe at (415) 626-0453 x128 or sharloe@zspace.org
*This production is dedicated to the memory of Robert Coffman, a much loved Theatre Rhino actor and donor. Robert performed a reading of “A Christmas Memory” at The Rhino each holiday season for many years.
www.therhino.org/guests/ChristMemPRExten.doc
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