Was Mickey Rooney Gay?

Published in: March-April 2016 issue.

A mere hour before my scheduled appearance, I was astounded to discover on my calendar a reading group at the Huntington Library, San Marino, commemorating the centennial of writer Christopher Isherwood's birth (1904). I'd completely forgotten. His widower, Don Bachardy, had requested my participation months prior, prompting me to rediscover and highlight a poignant passage in Mr. Norris Changes Trains (1937), situated within Hitler's Germany, where a homosexual nobleman reminisced about the liberated days of Berlin's vibrant gay scene. Upon arrival, the auditorium buzzed, filled to capacity with movie and television crews. An usher directed me to the front row, allowing me to settle into my book and catch my breath after the hectic rush and commotion surrounding the event.

Suddenly, a familiar elbow jabbed me. 'Hey, kid, do you know where the restroom is?' inquired a voice, instantly recognizable. It was actor Mickey Rooney. Seated beside him was his spouse (the eighth?)—an imposing figure almost twice his size, resembling a composed Morticia Addams. Beside me sat actor Michael York with his wife, followed by actress Gloria Stuart and then Don Bachardy. Recalling my previous visits to the Huntington, I guided Rooney toward the hallway, momentarily marveling at the coincidence of sitting beside a performer whose films had been a constant part of my life, starting with television broadcasts on Long Island. His portrayals, notably Andy Hardy, exemplified in his famous romance with Judy Garland and his iconic utterance, 'I have an idea! We'll put on a show in the barn!'

Another nudge to my ribs. 'Hey, kid. I just had cataract surgery. Could you guide me to the restroom?' I complied, rising and extending my arm to accompany Rooney. He grasped my arm. We traversed the auditorium and the hallway to the men's room. A moment's reflection on his eye condition occurred as we arrived, deterring any unnecessary risks. 'Directly ahead. I'll be waiting here.' Several minutes later, he was back in his seat, and I ascended the stage for my turn as the first reader.

This anecdote warrants inclusion in a future memoir. My two volumes of True Stories have been acclaimed and recognized as award finalists. Perhaps another volume will follow. These, while not strictly autobiographical, explore aspects of myself by sharing accounts of influential figures in my life. Further, it highlights a commonality in my experiences: meeting prominent individuals, usually under unexpected or unusual circumstances.

Subsequently, after our fellow readers enjoyed dinner at a Pasadena French restaurant, Gloria Stuart disclosed that she'd lost her ride home to Santa Monica. Could I provide a lift? Inside the car, I inquired about her identification as the very same Gloria Stuart who appeared in 1930s horror films like The Invisible Man and The Old Dark House. She confirmed her identity and added that she was a prominent actress under the direction of the celebrated gay director James Whale. She revealed her career resurgence at age eighty, highlighted by My Favorite Year, notably culminating in Titanic, which earned her an Oscar nomination. Acknowledging who I was, she stated, 'Like you, I was an early activist. My involvement in founding the Screen Actors Guild earned me the label of a socialist.' We engaged in an animated conversation, which continued throughout our journey back to her residence, a rose-adorned cottage across from the site of the O. J. Simpson murders. A friendship blossomed, remaining intact until her death at one hundred.

Books Discussed

My past was not always such; I was notably disengaged from celebrity matters. An instance in Manhattan involves a middle-aged woman attempting to pilfer a cab I had hailed. My chagrin eventually grew when my embarrassed friend revealed her to be Angela Lansbury. In Nights at Rizzoli, I recount the unique moment when I recognised the intelligent woman in the pink raincoat as Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, after an hour-long discourse.

Years ago, memoirs generally focused on personal trials, often dwelling on poverty, challenging parents, and difficult educational experiences, culminating in the achievement of notable achievements, mirroring the lives of Charles de Gaulle and Douglas MacArthur. More contemporary memoirs, which I categorize as "hetero-weepies," have become common. These stories, by individuals not previously renowned, aim to establish renown through their memoirs; sometimes succeeding. Think Oprah-approved publications, in short.

My memoirs diverge significantly from this genre, deviating from the typical narratives of struggling youth or personal triumphs. Similarly, a significant collection of gay-themed memoirs emerged in 2015. Among them, Matthew Spender's A House in St. John's Wood, exploring the life of the famed gay poet Stephen Spender, and Brad Gooch's Smash Cut, focusing on his association with filmmaker Howard Brookner. Bernard Cooper's My Avant-Garde Education provides an insightful look into his artistic education. Gary Indiana's I Can Give You Anything But Love, and Jameson Currier's Until My Heart Stops complete this compilation. One should also consider other works, like George Hodgman's Bettyville and Dale Peck's Visions and Revisions, alongside numerous other gay-centered memoirs, and substantial biographies of notable gay figures like James Merrill, Tennessee Williams, Gore Vidal, renowned fashion designers Alexander McQueen and John Galliano, plus contemporary gay male memoirs from David Crabb and Jamie Brickhouse.

This suggests the existence of a crucial turning point: an entire cohort of (predominantly male) gay individuals, living both before and during the Gay Liberation Movement, choosing to disclose aspects of their lives, and to share their perspectives. This indeed feels like a watershed moment.

There are several underlying factors. We gay men of a certain generation have faced considerable struggles, often acknowledged as being notable and perhaps historical. Concurrently, having lived through these experiences, we have relinquished any expectation that a happy outcome is guaranteed or even probable. At the close of Gary Indiana's memoir, he diligently verified his text to avoid any implication of triumph over adversity. Spender's straight son encountered reverse discrimination in a household venerating poetry and gay lovers, but he was nevertheless criticized and discouraged when he expressed his desire to pursue a career in painting and express a preference for women. Gooch's book provides insight into the difficulties in fostering and maintaining a relationship during the vibrant but complex 1970s and 1980s, when aspirations, creativity, substance use, and sexuality were often interwoven. A sizeable part of Currier's biographical essays explores his ongoing conflicts regarding relationships, career choices, or personal matters in a similar context.

Despite such challenges, the path could have been far worse. Alexander McQueen tragically ended his life at the peak of his career. John Galliano's anti-Semitic outburst in a Paris café damaged his career, causing a rift with people who had benefited from his work. The passing of Tennessee Williams remains a sad chapter. Gore Vidal's final years were marked by alcoholism, ultimately becoming a distorted and unmanageable caricature of his former self. Only James Merrill, thankfully, passed away with dignity.

Triumph was, in truth, absent from our narratives. After five years, I was released from the gilded confines of a renowned bookstore, after initially pursuing the tempting prospects of higher salaries and advancement in exchange for the relative safety of a $3,500 book advance. I had observed numerous talented people compromised by their choice of financial security over creative fulfillment. Brad Gooch's loss of Howard was amplified by his own modeling pursuits, followed by his lover's substance use and untimely death from AIDS. The relationship between Spender and his mother irrevocably deteriorated after the death of his father. Indiana's memoir, encompassing his twenties, took a dark turn, culminating in a nightmarish Hollywood car accident. I've personally visited Bernard Cooper's remarkable mid-century modern home, though I was unaware of his artistic background; he recently joined Los Angeles Magazine as an art critic. Whether Currier triumphed is uncertain; survival and publication certainly count as victories.

It's probable that you already recognise the incomplete nature of each memoir's narrative of a lifetime. Even Spender's, spanning the entirety of his existence, cannot fully depict the fullness of one's lifespan. This might be attributed to the extended duration of life and the multifaceted nature of careers. How much of our lives can we precisely remember? Some of us, being writers, maintained diaries, while others possess exceptionally strong memories. Crucially, instinct often prompts us to record events during crucial moments.

Despite having precise memories and a daily journal, additional details were required for Nights at Rizzoli. I sought crucial details about people connected with the store, beyond the store's founding figure, Angelo Rizzoli, or the American operations manager, Natalia Danesi Murray, or the prominent reporter, Oriana Fallaci, who all possessed fascinating lives. During those early 1970s evenings, the store often hosted celebrated figures including John Lennon, Abba Eban, Gregory Peck, George McGovern, and I. M. Pei, yet I was drawn to the store's talented international employees, who were mostly artists or aspiring artists. This culminated in a lasting bond. Forty-five years later, I remained in contact with five of them. One sent me a 25-page biography before his death. This investigation enabled a comprehensive understanding of the store's personnel, both past and present, which enriched my book.

This methodology seems universal to any biographer. Memoirists similarly use research as part of their work. This approach dramatically enriches many of the books I've discussed. This approach perhaps reaches its pinnacle in William E. Jones' insightful 25-page introduction to a reissue of Boyd McDonald's Cruising the Movies: A Sexual Guide to Oldies on TV. I was the acquiring editor for this book back in 1985, recognizing it as a unique memoir of a brilliant and eccentric individual, the founder of Straight To Hell: The Manhattan Review of Unnatural Acts. McDonald, in his preface and throughout the text, intimately portrays each film frame, every actor or actress, viewed through the prism of his own, frankly obsessive, masturbatory life and psyche.

These memoirs and biographies showcase a condensed gay world. My volumes of True Stories explore my interactions with Auden, Vidal, Williams, and Merrill, alongside my publishing partnerships with McDonald and Gooch. A mutual colleague, Larry Mitchell, edited and published Indiana's Scar Tissue and Other Stories. Currier, in turn, published my own books, creating a shared network that felt like an extended, albeit complex, family.

We frequently knew the same individuals, often with drastically different perspectives. Indiana's memoir includes a five-page critique of his friend Susan Sontag, portraying her as a domineering champion of literary greatness, whose opinion was paramount. Others echoed similar assessments. I encountered Sontag twice. The first time was when I accompanied a young man in Chelsea, who hosted a brief encounter. Sontag arrived unexpectedly and observed the event. The young man briefly introduced us, before vanishing to attend to household duties. Sontag engaged in detailed discussion and questioning. Two decades later, we were reunited at the intervals of Der Rosenkavalier at the Metropolitan Opera. She was accompanied by my friend Edmund White and Roger Straus, publisher of Farrar Straus & Giroux. I was accompanied by Susan Moldow, a notable editor. Our discussions mainly centered around literature, though she never made any allusions to our previous encounter. This pattern of impeccable demeanor, courtesy and consideration was repeated on that occasion.

In Smash Cut, Gooch documents the double-publication party for his debut novel, Jailbait and Other Stories, and Dennis Cooper's Safe, held at Limelight, a transformed church. Prominent figures, including Edmund White, James Merrill, and John Ashbery, attended. Published by The SeaHorse Press, a one-man operation, this event remained unacknowledged in the account. This absence feels peculiar.

Last month, at drinks with Don Bachardy, his co-editor of Isherwood's journals and letters, Katherine Bucknell, was intrigued by my biographical essay "The English Auntie" in True Stories. This essay recounted W. H. Auden's narrative of a perilous wartime mission over Germany, when the German-speaking poet was almost shot down. Bucknell is writing Isherwood's authorized biography and consulted Huntington Library archives in Los Angeles. She informed me that 'Wystan (Auden) flew several more times to Germany, playing a key role in the surrender negotiations.' I already possessed this knowledge. A week before Auden's fateful relocation from New York to England, he confided in me about the event, requesting discretion. He did not elaborate, but I adhered to his wishes. Bucknell's insights confirm the reliability of this previously undisclosed information, while scholar Edward Mendelson aims to validate this critical detail in Auden's life narrative.

Memoirs invariably reveal truths, secrets, vulnerabilities, and imperfections. Bernard Cooper, describing his education at Cal Arts, reflected that student artists strived to differentiate themselves, positioning artistic creation as a competitive sporting event, driven by the relentless pursuit of innovation. This perspective resonates with my personal perception of conceptual art. Cooper additionally discussed his coming out story, encompassing his explorations of identity and sexual experience before the AIDS crisis. Gooch also wrote about the 'Golden Age of Promiscuity.' I, too, reflected on my multifaceted existence: navigating the worlds of the influential at Rizzoli in formal attire, juxtaposed with the liberating, less-structured exploration of the city's abandoned piers, the truck stops, and S/M bars of Chelsea—an existence that spanned the night. The memoirs of Spender, Cooper, and Indiana all showcase the ease with which we uncovered our authentic selves at that time. Fashion-conscious individuals came out equally quickly a few decades later, despite the AIDS epidemic. The 1970s witnessed our collective astonishment and apprehension, as we redefined social norms, often provoking older generations.

In a moment of anxiety, a lover posed the question: 'What if everyone comes out, like you and your friends?' My rejoinder: "Initially, the world will gain a clearer understanding of how many of us there are." These memoirs and biographies will illustrate not only the sheer numbers of individuals who have come out of the closet, but also their extraordinary bravery, ingenuity, resilience, and courage, potentially recognizing the unappreciated contributions of numerous gay writers to literature.

Felice Picano's latest book, Nights at Rizzoli, is published by OR Books (2015).

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