Last night I watched “Behind the Candelabra,” a made-for-HBO
biopic about Liberace and his seven-year romantic relationship with Scott
Thorson, who was 40 years his junior. Based on the 1988 memoir by Thorson and
co-writer Alex Thorliefson, the book was adapted to film by Steven Soderbergh
to star Michael Douglas and Matt Damon. I was unable to watch it the night it
premiered because I was too busy watching “Mad Men” and “Nurse Jackie,” two
cable series that air on Sunday nights, which is, annoyingly, when all the
great television happens.
Liberace, who was born in 1919, always seemed like a freak to
me. The first time I saw him was on the Ed Sullivan Show in the 1960s. My
mother was a big Liberace fan and eagerly tuned in whenever he appeared on any
TV show, for whatever reason. (I should say here Geraldine was also in love
with Charo, the singing star and wife of bandleader Xavier Cugat. The
“cuchi-cuchi girl,” as she was known, was a sassy Latin sexpot/bimbo who, like
Liberace, was completely flamboyant and over the top. In case you don’t
remember Charo, there’s a great video of her on YouTube clowning around and
dancing and singing with Dean Martin and Danny Thomas on the Dean Martin Show.
“Modern Family” actress and Diet Pepsi pitchwoman Sofia Vergara, adorable as
she is, is the watered-down version.)
But back to Liberace. Unlike my mother, I was not a fan. He
annoyed me when he appeared in a cameo on “The Monkees” and later on an episode
of “Batman” with Adam West in which he played a dual role as a concert pianist
and his gangster twin. Embracing hippie culture as I did, I hated his sequined
outfits and his capes and furs. His chest and hands covered in gold and
diamonds looked cheesy and tasteless, while his stage presence and campiness
struck me as offensive. I couldn’t watch the few times he appeared on Saturday
Night Live. By then I was repulsed merely at the sound of his name, which I
associated with all things phony. By the ’80s my main issue with Liberace was
his refusal to acknowledge what was obvious to me, that he was a gay man. His
refusal to be open about his sexual orientation seemed an insult to all the
brave and out gay men I’d met in college and later working in the city who were
dying of AIDS.
Right up until his death in February 1987, my mother was one of
the legions of Liberace fans who believed the love of his life was Sonja Henie.
My mother went to her grave herself a few months later, still believing. In the
days following his death, a scandal erupted when the Riverside County coroner refuted
Liberace’s physician’s report that the performer had died of heart disease,
instead ordering an autopsy based on tissue samples taken from the embalmed
body, which told a different story entirely: Liberace had died of complications
from HIV. When the news broke, I remember my mother throwing a mini-tantrum,
asking why anyone felt the need to besmirch the star’s reputation.
On Facebook, after the airing of the HBO biopic, I posed a
question on my forum. I say “my forum” jokingly because, as everyone knows, FB
is just one giant forum. My old writer friend Cindy from our mutual 1980s
magazine days pronounced Matt Damon’s performance as Scott Thorson “brilliant”
and Michael Douglas “surprisingly good in a tough role.” As did several other
FB friends, Cindy loved Debbie Reynolds’ depiction of Liberace’s mother. I
personally loved Rob Lowe as Dr. Jack Startz, the celebrity doctor who got
Thorson started on his addiction to diet pills and other amphetamines, setting
the young man on a crash course. Lowe plays Dr. Startz as a stunning dissolute
in an Emmy-worthy performance.
“Behind the Candalabra” is a film one can’t soon forget. I
remarked on Facebook that I really wished some of my gay friends would weigh in
with their comments. For me and other heterosexuals to comment intelligently on
a gay relationship that happened 35 years ago seems kind of absurd. The ’70s
were heady times for everyone, especially in places like New York, Las Vegas,
L.A. and San Francisco. It was the beginning of the great Coming Out. But
Liberace thought it would be professional suicide to tell the truth about
himself, and Thorson, who at 22 was at the forefront of a new generation, was
willing to risk everything for love. Thorson was Liberace’s victim — that’s my
takeaway.
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