Breaking Down the Walls

I have no idea what’s been going on in the outside world the last few days. I heard this morning that the Oscar’s were last night. I heard on my favorite morning radio show, “Armstrong & Getty,” that Brad Brunner, president of the Gay Rodeo Association was assailing the selection of Crash over Brokeback Mountain as Best Picture as yet another example of blatant homophobia. I was kind of scratching my head over that one. A bunch of dyed-in-the-wool (as a group) blue-staters (members of the Academy) voted for a picture about racism over a picture about closeted gay men. I figure it’s a win-win no matter which picture won from a social justice perspective.

 

 

Unfortunately, I haven’t seen any of the Best Picture contenders this year, so I can’t definitively say what the “best” was for the year, but my guess would be the very best movie wasn’t even nominated. That’s frequently the case. But, that’s beside the point.

 

 

My mom and I were speaking this weekend about the soap movie era of the 1950s. I brought it up after reading an article about Grace Metalious, the unsatisfied, little-educated woman who had to write and drew from life to create the melodramatic community that became synonymous with the era; "Peyton Place." The curious stealthily snuck into bookstores everywhere, donning sunglasses and scarves to disguise themselves, so their neighbors would not know they were pandering to the "Peyton Place" rage. I am visualizing all sorts of straight men in the Midwest sneaking down to the video store in the same manner to pick up a copy of Brokeback Mountain, which they could never have gone to the theatre to see. In 1960, my mom left her mom’s home to go to Germany with my father, leaving behind two books—“Lady Chatterley’s Lover” and “Peyton Place.” When she returned to the US in 1962, those books had disappeared from her stash of stuff. I guess you are never too old to be censored by your mother.

 

That was an era of fabulous melodramas like Douglas Sirk’s: Written on the Wind, Imitation of Life, Magnificent Obsession, and All That Heaven Allows. One of Sirk’s favorite male leads was then-closeted actor Rock Hudson, perceived by the masses as the ultimate in heterosexual masculinity. All of these movies displayed all the passions of Man, controlled or subdued in order to fit with the mores of the 1950s. Heartbreak and desolation tied inextricably to the requirement to conform.

 

 

While I’m sure Brokeback Mountain is a fine movie with stunning cinematography, it surely could not hold a candle to the 2002 homage to Douglas Sirk, the barely touted, Far From Heaven. Dennis Quaid had the role of a lifetime portraying a closeted gay man living “everyman’s” dream of success with the beautiful family, home, and career, but one tormented by the love that dare not speak its name. Quaid’s lovely wife is played by the brilliant Julianne Moore. She captured all the shame, agony, confusion, denial, and despair of the wife who is first punished by the loss of her husband to his confused sexuality, and then the loss of her community when she befriends her Black gardener as she traverses the multiple double standards inflicted by the time in which she lived.

 

 

Unlike the crashing thud of Berlin’s Wall in 1989, the wall of double standards, inequality, racism, and homophobia are being chipped away, one person at a time. If Brokeback Mountain helps take a chunk or two out of that wall, it doesn’t have to be “Best,” it just needs to exist.

 

 

Bigotry may be roughly defined as the anger of men who have no opinions.

~ G.K. Chesterton 

Published on: Mar 7, 2006