Out of the closet and Behind the Candelabra

Michael Douglas is mincing across my TV screen in Behind the Candelabra, the HBO teleflick in which the Oscar winning star of Wall Street and husband of Catherine Zeta Jones plays Liberace, the pianist known to his intimates as Lee. To call Liberace a “pianist” is a bit of a stretch. He played piano, and I think those who are better capable of judging musicianship than I would say he played well, but his skill at tinkling the ivories was not what made him famous.

“Flamboyant” is the word usually tossed around when Liberace’s name comes up, but it doesn’t go far enough. It would be more accurate, if a little rude and certainly politically incorrect, to say he was a flaming fruit. Long before anyone talked about coming out of the closet, Liberace’s door was ajar if not wide open. He stepped out of his closet and brought his sequined wardrobe with him, but drew the line at admitting he was homosexual. He successfully won lawsuits against newspapers that dared to print the truth even though everybody – everybody except, perhaps, the more naïve middle-aged women who comprised his fan base – knew he was gay. Like “flamboyant,” “gay” doesn’t go far enough either. Liberace was the embodiment of the once popular homosexual stereotype: a lisping, mincing queen. He didn’t crossdress in the usual sense, but what kind of man wears floor-length fur coats, sparkling rings on every finger, or appears on stage wearing hot pants while twirling a baton?

Why would anyone want to make a movie about Liberace almost three decades after his death?

Steven Soderbergh, the Oscar winning director of Traffic, is the auteur who did the unfathomable and made a movie with HBO based on the trashy memoir of Liberace’s final lover, Scott Thorson. It was Thorson who kicked down the entertainer’s closet door in 1982 when filing the first same-sex palimony suit against the star who denied having anything but a professional relationship with Thorson. When Liberace was hospitalized in 1986, his illness was said to be due to his watermelon diet. Finally, when he died, the medical examiner refused to accept the death certificate, and demanded an autopsy. It was then that the world learned that Liberace died from complications related to Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome (AIDS), the scourge of homosexuals that had claimed beefy matinee idol Rock Hudson a year earlier.

But why a movie about a campy figure unknown to most of the modern audience”

It can only be to titillate an audience curious about that gay sex. There’s very little insight in Richard LaGravenese’s screenplay, no real explanation as to why the world’s most blatantly obvious homosexual would deny the truth about his sexual proclivities for so long. We see him courting Thorson who moves into Liberace’s gaudy mansion where the male servants treat him with scorn. There’s a scene in which the two engage in anal sex (though no anus or penis appears on screen), and one at a triple X bookstore where Liberace visits a gloryhole. It’s a very seedy contrast to the showman’s otherwise luxurious life.

You have to hand it to Michael Douglas for having the guts to play this bizarre figure. When his father, Kirk, played Vincent Van Gogh, the tortured Dutch painter who, by all accounts, was heterosexual, John Wayne allegedly asked him why he bothered to play such a “pantywaist.” Imagine how the Duke would have felt about Kirk’s son playing Liberace? Douglas is good and seems to be enjoying himself. So does Matt Damon as Thorson. It’s Rob Lowe, however, who seems to be having the best time as a grotesque doctor who prescribes drugs to help Thorson lose weight. Wearing a hideous wig and a too-tight shirt, Lowe always seems to be stifling a laugh.

That’s what the audience is likely to do, too, when watching Behind the Candelabra.

© 2014 Brian W. Fairbanks


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Traffic (2001)

Anyone who has watched with pity, scorn, or exasperation, the ruin that drugs have made of the life of a loved one doesn't need a lecture on the danger of illegal drugs. Director Steven Soderbergh knows that, and his new film, Traffic, doesn't lecture. It weaves in and out of the lives of those on the front line in the war on drugs, shifting back and forth between three different stories, observing the players, but never pointing an accusing finger at any of them. It's aware that when it comes to drugs, the victim and the culprit are often difficult to tell apart. Unfortunately, it's that very knowledge that cripples the movie.

Traffic begins in Mexico where a major drug bust is intercepted by a general who stands to profit from the success of the country's drug cartels. Photographed with a glaring yellow tint, Mexico looks as seedy as it always does in the movies.

The scene shifts to the USA where an Ohio judge (Michael Douglas) is appointed the country's new drug czar. He receives sympathy rather than encouragement from his predecessor, a man who is convinced that his successor's mission is as doomed to failure as his was. But the new czar is an idealistic sort, at least in his public statements. The trouble is, while he concentrates on the big picture, his eyes are blind to his own corner of the canvas. He makes the rounds of Washington cocktail parties, discussing his agenda with the government elite, but he's unaware that his daughter is free-basing cocaine in the family bathroom.

Meanwhile, in a posh California suburb, a wealthy society girl (Catherine Zeta-Jones) sees her life of ease turned upside down when her husband is arrested for drug trafficking. It's the first clue she's had that her husband is something other than a legitimate businessman.

For two and a half hours, Traffic paints a portrait of despair. There's weariness in the eyes of the Mexican cop (Benicio Del Toro) who finds himself caught between his corrupt superiors, and the agents from the Drug Enforcement Agency who want him to be an informer. The drug czar is a ghost in his own home, and needs, as his wife tells him, three drinks just to say hello to his family. The California material girl, desperate to hang onto her life of luxury, takes over her husband's business affairs, concerned only with maintaining her lavish lifestyle at any cost.

Ambitious in a way few films have been of late, Traffic has its heart in the right place but not its head. It doesn't offer solutions and shouldn't be expected to, but it doesn't provide any insight either. It shows us the problem and the consequences, but so do television news reports. Soderbergh's lack of the kind of passion Oliver Stone might have brought to the topic leaves his film just lying there. Furthermore, much of what we see has been a staple of every cop show since Kojak. In addition to the forced irony of a drug czar with an addicted daughter, there's the amusing repartee between two street-smart cops (Don Cheadle and Luiz Guzman) assigned to a stakeout of the drug trafficker's home.

As troubling as it is to admit, Traffic is also a bit racist. It suggests the drug problem in our society is a problem only when it reaches the suburbs and infects the blue-eyed, blonde haired children of the upper middle class. When the czar's daughter sinks to prostitution, selling her body in flea bag hotels to support her habit, the customer we see her with is a black man. The filmmakers would deny it, of course, but this is meant as a double shock, a suggestion that she could sink no lower.

The performances are all good, and Soderbergh has assembled such a high profile cast that even the great Albert Finney pops up only briefly in a small role. The best moments belong to Cheadle and Guzman, who are smart and funny in a movie otherwise populated by characters that are sophisticated but dumb.

Named the best picture of the year by the New York Film Critics Circle, Traffic appears to be the front runner for the Oscar. That simply proves it's been a dismal year at the movies. Nancy Reagan's much ridiculed campaign advising young people to "just say no" to drugs may have been simplistic and perhaps naïve, but Traffic doesn't say much of anything. A film about a subject this serious should be compelling enough to stay with you for days. It should force the audience to ask themselves questions. By the time the credits rolled, the only question the film left me with was this one: what does Catherine Zeta-Jones see in Michael Douglas? By the time I got home, I was even asking myself what Douglas sees in her. That is not the mark of a masterwork.

Brian W. Fairbanks

Originally published at Paris Woman Journal
© 2001 Brian W. Fairbanks


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