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Willhoite's Hollywood
Hardcover
First published December 1, 1994
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October 7, 2016
Tony Perkins peeks out from the shower, while Edith Head brandishes shears. The drawings that grace Willhoit’s Hollywood aren’t so much caricatures as appreciations. The book celebrates those tinseltown icons who have come to play so important a part in queer culture, and the author considers it a “valentine to gay men and lesbians in show business.”
Clearly, Michael Willhoite loves old movies – the musicals, the films noir, the screwball comedies – and his focus embraces set designers, choreographers, and scriptwriters. But stars of the first magnitude receive special attention: his drawings lampoon them with affectionate mirth, and the accompanying passages display comparable levels of wit and economy, at times achieving a quality that verges on bitchy haiku.
The text is replete with glorious dirt, though some famous names appear in a mood of purest conjecture. (Willhoite gleefully acknowledges his debt to Kenneth Anger’s “delectably mean-spirited and irresistible” Hollywood Babylon.) Many of these disclosures may still have the power to raise a few eyebrows, though on closer consideration it’s difficult to imagine why they ever did. For instance, Cesar Romero, who often referred to himself as a “confirmed bachelor,” starred in a 1940 film called The Gay Caballero. How much broader could the hint have been? Revelations abound in the biographical sketches of performers as diverse as Hattie McDaniel, Raymond Burr, and Agnes Moorehead. Even Monty Woolley used to go out cruising with Cole Porter.
The mind reels.
Film lovers will page through delicious likenesses of celebrities like Barbara Stanwyck and Rock Hudson, only to discover obscure but fascinating figures like Alla Nazimova and Dorothy Arzner. Consider this harrowing analysis of Montgomery Clift who “never made peace with his homosexuality, seeking to numb his confusion with liquor and drugs. As a result, his beauty was taken away from him.” Moving from caustic to kindly with lightning speed, Willhoite’s comments about Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe become almost nurturing, even if they do include remarks like “death can do wonders for a career.” His rendering of Garland – all eyes and mouth – is especially striking, capturing a surprising innocence: she resembles a debauched child. Many of the more effective images display this kind of enhanced realism. Bette Davis, clutching the inevitable cigarette, glares with beetling eyes, and it’s hilarious and disturbing, like some weird combination of Minnie Mouse and Dracula.
Comparisons with Al Hirschfeld are probably as unavoidable as they are misguided. For all their polish and elegance (and undeniable power), Hirschfeld’s work remained mired in the status quo. Willhoite’s strongest suit is his intrinsically gay irreverence. (The Joan Crawford portrait is a total nightmare.) With their eloquent use of negative space, many of these drawings, especially the more sinister representations, like those of Peter Lorre or Conrad Veidt, even suggest the later work of Aubrey Beardsley. The single complaint might be one of organization. The entries, most of which originally appeared in the Washington Blade, skip from the heyday of the studios to pop singers of decades later, and from television personalities to porn stars, without any sustained attempt at orchestration, which in no way diminishes the pleasures to be discovered in a random sampling.
Clearly, Michael Willhoite loves old movies – the musicals, the films noir, the screwball comedies – and his focus embraces set designers, choreographers, and scriptwriters. But stars of the first magnitude receive special attention: his drawings lampoon them with affectionate mirth, and the accompanying passages display comparable levels of wit and economy, at times achieving a quality that verges on bitchy haiku.
The text is replete with glorious dirt, though some famous names appear in a mood of purest conjecture. (Willhoite gleefully acknowledges his debt to Kenneth Anger’s “delectably mean-spirited and irresistible” Hollywood Babylon.) Many of these disclosures may still have the power to raise a few eyebrows, though on closer consideration it’s difficult to imagine why they ever did. For instance, Cesar Romero, who often referred to himself as a “confirmed bachelor,” starred in a 1940 film called The Gay Caballero. How much broader could the hint have been? Revelations abound in the biographical sketches of performers as diverse as Hattie McDaniel, Raymond Burr, and Agnes Moorehead. Even Monty Woolley used to go out cruising with Cole Porter.
The mind reels.
Film lovers will page through delicious likenesses of celebrities like Barbara Stanwyck and Rock Hudson, only to discover obscure but fascinating figures like Alla Nazimova and Dorothy Arzner. Consider this harrowing analysis of Montgomery Clift who “never made peace with his homosexuality, seeking to numb his confusion with liquor and drugs. As a result, his beauty was taken away from him.” Moving from caustic to kindly with lightning speed, Willhoite’s comments about Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe become almost nurturing, even if they do include remarks like “death can do wonders for a career.” His rendering of Garland – all eyes and mouth – is especially striking, capturing a surprising innocence: she resembles a debauched child. Many of the more effective images display this kind of enhanced realism. Bette Davis, clutching the inevitable cigarette, glares with beetling eyes, and it’s hilarious and disturbing, like some weird combination of Minnie Mouse and Dracula.
Comparisons with Al Hirschfeld are probably as unavoidable as they are misguided. For all their polish and elegance (and undeniable power), Hirschfeld’s work remained mired in the status quo. Willhoite’s strongest suit is his intrinsically gay irreverence. (The Joan Crawford portrait is a total nightmare.) With their eloquent use of negative space, many of these drawings, especially the more sinister representations, like those of Peter Lorre or Conrad Veidt, even suggest the later work of Aubrey Beardsley. The single complaint might be one of organization. The entries, most of which originally appeared in the Washington Blade, skip from the heyday of the studios to pop singers of decades later, and from television personalities to porn stars, without any sustained attempt at orchestration, which in no way diminishes the pleasures to be discovered in a random sampling.
Displaying 1 of 1 review