Hollywood Gays (27 page)

I imagined he referred to Lynde’s well-known drinking and possibly his reported penchant for young Orientals and Mexicans. I wondered what Richard’s private life was like. “Do you live with someone?” He answered readily, “No, I’m a loner. But I do like company.” At last, a smile. “Would you care to be my guest for bruncheon tomorrow?”

I hesitated because I was surprised and pleased but didn’t want to say yes too quickly. During my silence, his eyes went from hopeful to hurt, and he stated in a compensatory way which embarrassed me and probably him, ‘‘I’m quite good in the kitchen.”

I invented a white lie. “To have brunch with Richard Deacon, I’ll gladly cancel my prior engagement. You’re on!” The seldom-smile returned. He had nice teeth—large and pearly, like Paul Lynde’s—but rarely seen.

I drove the few miles to Richard’s modest but cozy and artistic apartment. He prepared wondrously light and zesty eggs Florentine, “in case you’re sick of eggs Benedict.”

At his glass table, I asked what he really thought of Paul Lynde. ‘‘I’m jealous of his gift for being funny, regardless. He doesn’t even have to try. In comedy, if you try, you’re dead. When I was young, I tried. I fell flat on my face—that’s how it got this way.” He said this minus the grin that would have looked alien on his face during a funny moment; Deacon during a laugh was always dead-serious. “Then I learned the only way I could get laughs was through a situation.
I
do nothing. The star or other character does it. For instance, if a female character finds me sexy and chases me, it’s funny because I’m no sex symbol at all. If I get spray-painted, like on
Lucy
, it’s funny as long as
I
don’t act as if I think it’s funny.

“But Paul only has to
look
at someone, and he’s funny. He can ridicule somebody just by looking at them. His body language is funny. It’s a gift few have. Jack Benny had it. Also Danny Kaye, and certainly Franklin Pangborn.”

I interjected, “Do you realize all the men you’ve named are either gay or rumored?”

He half-smiled. “It’s a sound theory. Gay is funny. It just is. If a man is innately funny, he can’t be a sex symbol. Don’t ask me why I’m neither. But any man that funny is bound to cause rumors. Like Benny. Of course, he was married....”

“So are most Hollywood gays. Tell me, do you think Lynde didn’t get as far as Benny or Kaye because his image is less hetero? Because he’s not married?”

“The only way Paul could have gotten further would be in a hit series, which is a matter of luck. I think people suppose Paul’s a regular bachelor, don’t you?”

“At
least
. Do you think people suppose that of you?”

“With minor actors, it doesn’t even enter their heads. As far as they’re concerned, we’re sexless.”

“Or vaguely straight? Do you imagine any segment of the public guesses Richard Deacon is gay?” He shook his head: “Not even gays. Most would be surprised. Only because what you see on TV—a serious guy in a suit, unsmiling—isn’t how anyone thinks of gay males.”

“Are gay comedians more outrageous than hetero ones?”

“I think so. With a few exceptions. Like [Milton] Berle—and he got his biggest laughs in drag, which is considered gay humor, although I wouldn’t do it, unless ordered. But gay comedians are less boring, as a group. Danny Thomas, for one, just standing around joking, isn’t very humorous.”

I asked, “What’s Paul Lynde like as a private person?”

“Not the most sincere man on Earth. Come into the kitchen, and I’ll tell you. Before the egg stains stick to the plates.”

* * *

“Several years ago, Paul convinced me he’d taken a sincere interest in my work. ‘I want to take your career to a new level,’ he said. He said he hadn’t done any writing since his early days in nightclubs in New York, but for me he was going to write a ‘hilarious’ nightclub act. He’d use his connections and see about getting me a gig in Vegas, and he planned to be at a ringside table each night and coach me afterwards.

“The idea appealed to me, although stand-up is something I fear, something I don’t think I’ve done well, when I’ve ventured to do it at all. At any rate, Paul convinced me of his sincerity, and one evening, here, in front of me and his associate Wayland Flowers, he did a nightclub routine—short but very funny. Sort of what I was supposed to do, and he was so good at it, he convinced me.

“Then, for several months, we lost touch—separate ways, separate gigs—and when I saw him again at a party over at Rock Hudson’s house, I asked him—in an undemanding way, of course—how the written act was coming along. He looked at me like he had no idea what I was talking about, and at first I thought he’d been drinking. Which he had, but everyone knows
that
... and when I inquired further, Paul said, ‘Oh, Richard! Ya don’t mean you took me
seriously
? It was an
act
.’ For Paul Lynde, my act was an act. An acting exercise for him.”

“That pretty much killed the relationship?”

“No, it only soured it. Anyone in a relationship with Paul has to be prepared for the worst. It’s the down-side of his ability to entertain.”

“What about the saying that inside every comedian is a tragedian crying to get out?”

“Not me. I’ve done a couple of dramatic things. Always with a light touch, of course. But I don’t see myself invading Shakespeare’s domain. Nor that of Buddy Hackett—who
looks
funny, so right there he has a head start.”

“Professionally, who if anyone do you think you resemble?”

‘‘I’ve been asked that before. Once. The interviewer wasn’t happy with my answer. It was in the ‘60s, during
Dick Van Dyke
, when I got interviews...I told him I sympathized with Bud Abbott, who was forever the straight man to Lou Costello. Of course, Abbott spoke much more than I ever get to, but he was always there to show off the funny man, and that means being personally underrated.

“By another token, he was half of an incredibly popular comedy team, so Abbott probably didn’t complain as much as I did to that interviewer.”

“Is the fat person, like the evidently gay man, always funny?”

“Again, our society perceives gay to be funny, and fat also. Look at Abbott’s Costello, or Laurel and Hardy. Except, with Laurel and Hardy—who were the best of them all—both were funny. Sublimely funny and in my opinion geniuses.

“But there’s one other comedian, or comic actor, I’ve drawn a parallel with. Do you know Richard Haydn?”

Haydn, a spinsterish British “bachelor;” played supporting roles in films like
Ball of Fire, And Then There Were None, Please Don’t Eat the Daisies
, and
The Sound of Music
. He essayed priggish professors, officious clerks, and generally waspish types. In
Sitting Pretty
, he was the mama’s boy and town snoop who made (fellow gay) Clifton Webb’s Mr. Lynn Belvedere—a genius “bachelor”—look macho by comparison. In later years, Haydn, whose fondest pursuit was gardening, became a recluse, seldom leaving his Pacific Palisades home.

“Haydn was known in the old days as a fish mimic. He imitated fish. A critic once compared me to him, and I can see a similarity, but not much. Haydn’s more prissy.”

“Have you ever been cast as gay?”

“No. Asexual, often. Heterosexual, now and then—if the part’s bigger than usual.”

“Do you think within the industry it’s known you’re gay?”

Deacon shrugged minimally. “No idea.”

I glanced about in his living room. In the shadier side of the room, on a triangular wood table, sat a bust of Michelangelo’
David
. Unusual, since the David is usually full-bodied, nudity and all. This was just the beautiful—chaste—head. Had Richard become his own character?

He continued, “On the debit side, where
my
brand of deadpan is concerned, Paul’s branch of outrageousness is very ‘in’ now. It’s more acceptable than ever, and he works steadier than me—much.
He
can get away with playing it very nearly gay. That’s all he does anymore.”

“Do you think most people perceive him as gay or not?”

“Straight civilians have to be hit over the head with a mallet to recognize that even Paul Lynde is gay. His character would have to have a boyfriend, before it occurred to them.”

“Have you ever at all wanted to be Paul Lynde?”

He took no offense. “Yes, as a performer. I admire what he does and the results he gets. I admire his wit and comedy. He still has several good years, which isn’t true of most men our age. For instance, the TV people think I’m overexposed....And I’m sure Paul has fun with what he does.

“But on a personal level, no. I feel sorry for him. He’s special, and he knows it. But in show biz, if you’re too special, it can lock you out of the success you deserve or think you deserve. Paul is a bitter man, and I can’t blame him. He never found that one special vehicle to take him to the top.
Hollywood Squares
is probably his pinnacle.” Richard paused, maybe searching my eyes for prurient interest, before continuing. “He covers it with drink, and he’s very difficult to get along with. A prima donna. No wonder he’s lonely.

‘‘I’m alone but not lonely. He’s alone and frequently drunk. Paul’s big enough to swank, but not big enough to command or buy the cuties he craves. A little Paul goes a long way—in life or on the tube. He’s fun in a program, but if he’s the star, it’s too much Paul Lynde. Like Ethel Merman in movies; she was too big for them and put the men off.

“I think Paul gets on straight men’s nerves....So I don’t envy him too much, because if I was as funny as he is, and that effortlessly, I’d be somebody else. Or
him
. And being me isn’t a barrel of monkeys, but from where I sit, it’s a lot easier than being Paul Lynde.”

I concluded with questions about gay comedy, a subject first broached by Richard.

* * *

Q: How do you differentiate gay and hetero comedy?

A: We can laugh at ourselves. Straights—straight men—usually can’t. In a nutshell.

Q: How would you compare Paul Lynde with, say, Franklin Pangborn?

A: They’re similar; as you say. Both have nervous-Nellie images. Pangborn was always an official or a harassed desk jockey, and Paul, when he does get to act, is the same sort. With one difference—now and then, Paul plays fathers. I don’t think Pangborn ever played anything except a single man. That’s odd, isn’t it?—about Paul, I mean.

Q: How do you react to critics who feel the Pangborn or Lynde stereotype demeans gay men?

A: Some entertainers are stereotypes. Gertrude Berg was very successful, radio and TV. She was a stereotype—the Jewish mother, or as she was then called, the Yiddish mama. Chico Marx played an Italian stereotype and wasn’t even Italian. Jerry Lewis plays an idiot, but I doubt he is one. And Liberace’s a stereotype, although he’s not intentionally funny.

Q: What sort of person or comedian makes you laugh?

A: People who aren’t too confident. If you have enormous self-assurance, I don’t think you can be that funny.

Q: Paul Lynde isn’t the most confident character, is he?

A: Are you kidding? That’s what made him. He always seems on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Or at least a major snit.
Snit
—with an “n.” (Deadpan; fadeout.)

* * *

Paul Lynde became a household word on the original
The Hollywood Squares
. He starred in and dominated via his central square and un-square wit some dozen years of the 16-year series, considered by many TV’s all-time favorite game show. Lynde was described by Alice Ghostley as “amiably crotchety.”
Squares
host Peter Marshall called him “the funniest man I’ve ever known, and in this business, I’ve known thousands.”

Lynde was discovered in
New Faces of 1952
. He stood out in a show that introduced the likes of Eartha Kitt, Mel Brooks, Ronnie Graham, and Alice Ghostley. In
Bye Bye Birdie
Lynde wowed Broadway, then got to reprise his role in the hit movie version. However, his film career languished, though he did two films with Doris Day—one less than Rock Hudson did. Lynde also turned up in the camp classic
Beach Blanket Bingo
, opposite the 60’s ideal hetero couple, Frankie and Annette.

But it was Paul, not Frankie, who went into
Hollywood Squares
and found that his subsequent stage appearances were sell-outs due to the game show. To his utter amazement. Elsewhere on TV, Lynde was less successful, with numerous failed pilots. He finally played a paterfamilias in his own but short-lived
The Paul Lynde Show
.

In 1978
Talk
magazine asked me to interview Lynde, who was instantly ready, willing, and agreeable. The resultant piece was titled “Now I
Love
Me!” Like all pieces at the time, it briefly circumvented Paul’s “bachelorhood” by noting that, like Mae West, he felt, ‘‘I’m single because I was born that way” (West, however, had contractually wed).

The first thing I noticed in Lynde’s home above Sunset Boulevard was his taste. We sat on a Recamier chaise longue, the tape recorder between us. The living room of the Mediterranean-style home was blue and white. Sunshine flooded the place, lending what Paul called “a Doris Day ambiance.” He waggled his head at his campiness, but in repose his tanned face was actually handsome. It was difficult to picture him as the fat, unhappy youth he said he’d had to grow to love.

After the
Talk
questions and topics were covered, I asked some questions of personal interest. Both sides of the tape had been used up, and then came the campier and more honest Paul Lynde. He allowed me ample time for notes, in between head-wagglings. If he was unusually candid, it was partly because he knew that his statements, and the individuals mentioned, would not find their way into pages edited by women and men afraid of lawsuits and of the truth that
well
over 10 percent of Hollywood’s performers are homosexual.