TV

Jon Bastian goes back to the 1960s for a take on how audiences have learned to accept gay actors playing straight roles leading up to "college-hero" Neil Patrick Harris.

I was twelve when my friend Joel introduced my to Sybil Dorsett. Not only was her story of a woman afflicted with a psychological condition called multiple personality disorder printed on pulpy old paper and delivered in the same stay-up-all-night-with-the-flashlight gothic style as V.C. Andrews grotesque Flowers in the Attic, here was a heroine with which a gay tween in the eighties could unknowingly align: she was a wallflower whose many shades of fabulousness were so bright that not even the grisly sexual abuse of her schizophrenic mother would contain this girl's spirit. Her psyche had simply found a creative and beautiful way to escape torture and pain. Sybil was sold as the real story of how this young lady worked with a psychologist, Dr. Cornelia Wilbur, to discover, heal and unite her many selves into one.

When Captain Jack Harness (John Barrowman) burst onto the scene (Doctor Who, "The Empty Child," 2005), what was most refreshing was his lack of bisexual angst. Or at least, what angst there was had nothing to do with his sexuality. Here was simply a man as likely to kiss the Doctor as his female companion, a man who could use his seductive charisma for good, a man who ultimately would run his own "fringe division" as if it were some nontraditional family structure unafraid of sex or sexuality. The real source of angst among the Torchwood team, at least at a personal level, was love and commitment. So what went wrong?

Back in 1988, Julianne Moore won an Emmy for her roles as identical twins in the daytime CBS soap "As the World Turns" for the category of Outstanding Ingénue in A Drama Series. Six years later, she appeared bottomless in Robert Altman’s Short Cuts (1993) proving to the world that, in fact, her carpet matches her crimson curtains. Those two roles may be worlds apart. Yet, they not only show Moore’s range but also her foremost asset as an artist: she has a mean streak for taking risks. Other actresses are more beloved or more successful, but no other film performer has been willing to court failure as often as Moore, or be as much a hero to gay audiences and directors alike.

CHICAGO – I came of age in a nice Catholic household in the 1970s, the oldest of five kids. My mother and father were first generation college graduates in their respective families; they were moral, kind and respectful. There was tolerance in the household, with no prejudice and no expression of prejudice. But my two brothers and I could call each other out with the one word that got away from all that tolerance. We could say “faggot” with no retribution.

The book Music on Film: Grease is an homage to everything Grease: The original 1971 play, the 1978 movie, the sequel Grease 2, the TV documentary Behind the Music, the 1994 and 2007 New York revivals, more TV specials, the 2010 sing-along version of the original movie, the promotional John Travolta posters given away with purchase of Helene Curtis shampoo, Grease jeans, Grease jackets, Grease Firestone tires, and Pepsi’s Grease “lucky caps”.

This landmark series, which originally aired on U.K.’s Channel 4 between 1999 and 2000, follows a group of gay men living in Manchester, England. The series’ primary focus is on the characters Stuart, Vince, and Nathan. Stuart (Aidan Gillen, The Wire), a wealthy, self-centered businessman, goes to bed with a different man every night and is headed for a meltdown. His best friend Vince (Craig Kelly, Titanic), an avid Doctor Who fan and grocery store employee, on the other hand, hasn’t had a shag in six months and contents himself with following Stuart around like a lovesick schoolboy. Adding to the drama, these two long-time friends are rapidly approaching the age of 30, spelling the end of their clubbing lifestyle. Meanwhile, Nathan (Charlie Hunnam, Sons of Anarchy), a 15-year-old high school student, is making his first appearance on the Manchester scene, embracing his sexuality while attempting to cope with the resultant bullying back at school.

As a fan of The Carol Burnett Show, the skit I remember most was "Mildred Fierce," a parody of the Joan Crawford noir potboiler, Mildred Pierce (1945). When I saw the film version of Mildred Pierce my first semester in college, I was floored by how little the Burnett sketch really made fun of the movie and that the overcooked criminal plot, outlandish costumes and even the sketch's preoccupation with how cooking grease symbolically separates the working-class Mildred from her pretentious, social climber daughter,Vita, are lifted from the original movie nearly intact. Consequently, Crawford's definitive vehicle has always felt to me like a long, dull episode of variety show television.