What to Wear, What to Wear: Part VI

Autumn is passing rather quickly for me. Such is the advantage of a research leave. I have taken full advantage of it by traveling, traveling, traveling. The only downside is that my gym schedule has been thrown totally out of whack. Erratic time at the gym brings on the ever present threat of an expanding waistline. I just hope by the end of my leave I'm not going to need a crane and Richard Simmons to get me out of my house.

For the time being, I have temporarily returned to MFT (before leaving again next week for Midwestern Metropolis). With an upcoming party on my social calendar, I must face my age-old question of what costume to wear for Halloween. As you all known, I often aim for great ideas, but end up appearing in a disappointing result:

What I aim for:
Robin Hood --


He stands as a classic symbol for the fight for economic justice by stealing from the rich to give to the poor.

What I end up with:
Treasury Secretary Timothy Geithner --


He stands as a classic symbol of incompetence and greed by stealing from the poor to give to multinational corporations. I suppose Obama thinks that he is doing a "heck of a job."

***
What I aim for:
Father Charles Coughlin --


For some people, the mere sight of any Catholic priest is enough to send them running to hide in the basement. Father Coughlin took it to a whole other level by finding new ways to abuse his access to the media. Coughlin started his famed radio program in Royal Oak, Michigan by appealing to working people during the Great Depression. He soon learned that he could play upon their real concerns and fears to promote his unhinged, conspiratorial racist beliefs. By the end of the decade he would be known for his antisemitic tirades and valorization of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. Few other costumes could capture "evil" quite so well.

What I end up with:
Glenn Beck --


For some people, the mere sight of any white, conservative, overweight, straight man is enough to send them running to hide in the basement.Beck frightens small children to be sure, but we’ve seen it all before. Beck’s radio and television program exploits the fears of working people during this economic crisis to foster his unhinged conspiracy theories and accusations that President Obama has “a deep-seated hatred for white people or the white culture"(Yes, he actually said that). In the end, though, his buffoonery will result in him slipping into historical obscurity having been shamed and discredited.

***

What I aim for:
Nichelle Nichols --


Lt. Uhura might not have had much to do on the bridge of the Enterprise back in the 1960s, but Nichols gave the role class and dignity. That was no small task given that her basic function involved mastering the use of an intergalactic hold button. She broke both gender and racial boundaries by portraying a bridge officer with real command credit.

What I end up with:
Zoë Saldaña --


Lt. Uhura might not have had much to do on the bridge of the Enterprise back in 2008, but Saldaña managed to make the role totally retrograde by going along with the idea that Uhura’s chief function should be to either cheer up or make out with Mr. Spock (or making out with Mr. Spock to cheer him up).

***

What I aim for:
Gordon Bethune --


I’m not one to celebrate CEO’s, trust me. Nonetheless, even the most ardent critic has to give credit to Bethune for dramatically changing the fortunes and service on Continental Airlines during the 1990s. When he assumed control of the airline in 1994, it had already filed for bankruptcy twice and looked to be heading there again. He had an astounding philosophy that customer satisfaction and employee contentment were critical to the success of any business (Basically heresy today).

What I end up with:
Jeff Smisek --


We can credit the demise of Continental Airline’s quality with Smisek's (or, as I think of him, Sleazek's) decision to merge with United Airlines, the airline that most often finishes dead last in every measure of customer satisfaction and employee contentment. Sleazek also brought the philosophy of nickle-and-dimeing his customers to death for everything from food to baggage fees. But, hey, why do you need happy customers when you are part of a greedy new airline monopoly? Of course, special thanks should go to the Obama administration for catering once again to the interests of corporations over the needs of consumers.

***
What I aim for:
Cylon --


In the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica, the lumbering metal cylons existed as muscular killing machines. Not since the adventures of Odysseus had the lack of depth perception seemed so terrifying. From the ever-satisfying “voom, voom” sound that they made to their rotating swiss-army-knife arms, these were some richly satisfying robots.

What I end up with:
Twiki --


As a youngster, I adored all robots in popular film (B-9 from Lost in Space, R2-D2, V.I.N.Cent., C-3PO (especially C-3PO)). Yet, Twiki almost always got on my nerves. And that’s funny, because his head was shaped exactly like a penis. That usually appeals to me.

***
What I aim for:
Feminist Activist


Having recently perused the Halloween offerings for women (Drag is always an option...), I am struck by how much this holiday has suddenly demanded that women dress like prostitutes – both literally and figuratively. When manufactures are pushing costumes labeled “Sexy Ghostbuster” or “Army Seductress,” you know we need a feminist intervention.

What I end up with:
Sarah Palin


Alas, I would end up looking like a woman who has reaped all the benefits of feminist activism (such as access to politics, being able to manage both a career and a family, media interest), but who nonetheless supports a party and politics that seeks to undermine women in multiple ways.

***

What I aim for:
Lady GaGa --


Being somewhat contrarian, I have been slow to jump aboard the GaGa train. Still, I give the woman credit for capturing the nation’s imagination. Not since Elton John has a musical artist said so much with eyewear.

What I end up with:
Toni Basil --


Don’t get me wrong, the song and video for “Hey Mickey” probably shaped my sense of gender and sexuality in ways that only years of therapy will uncover. Still, if you know this reference you are probably too old to be parading around town in any costume.

***

What I aim for:
A wet mop --


Say what you will, but we all need a mop from time to time. They serve a much needed service to keep our households clean and fresh.

What I end up with:
Tea-Party Senate Candidate Joe Miller --


I might be willing to degrade myself, but turning out looking like Miller would just make me cry. Let’s not forget that this is the man who said the United States should draw a page from East Germany when thinking about its border with Mexico (Yes, he really said that). I can’t help but think that the wet mop would likely be a more informed and thoughtful candidate.

***
What I aim for:
Wonder Woman --


Could there be a better ideal for me to aspire to attain? She is smart, strong, bold, and brave. Granted, her costume might require a corset and enough spirit gum to build a space shuttle, but isn’t it worth it?

What I end up with:
A Hot-Topic Refugee --


Alas, not only are her clothes dreadfully uninspired, she ended up being poorly written and juggling more continuity problems than the last season of Lost. If that wouldn't make her a disappointing choice for a costume, I also wouldn't be able to get the epic boob job required to reach that 42 DD.

What to Wear, What to Wear: Cloris Edition

Halloween always offers so many of my favorite things: candy, punch, sex with a man in a mask (who isn't into the leather scene). Alas, this year I will be thoroughly detained from the official gay holiday thanks to some remarkable work duties.

You can think of me playing Mr. Rourke this weekend. Only instead of an idyllic island, our guests will be in Midwestern Funky Town. In place of festive tropical drinks, we will have stale coffee. Instead of granting their every fantasy, I will force them to endure days of academic discussion. Still, I can manage to teach each one of them an important moral lesson that will lead them rethink their life choices. Then I will watch them depart on an amphibious plane.

Even with my tough work schedule, it doesn’t mean that I am not thinking about ideal costumes. Those who are serious long time readers of CoG know that my costumes never turn out how I imagined. Indeed, this might actually be the longest running gag on this blog. Read the archive: It's true. After five years, this bit almost seems fresh again.

Here are the things that I aim for, and my disappointing results:

What I aim for:
Edna Garrett



Some might argue that it was an ignoble culmination of the career of Charlotte Rae. Sure, some suggest that appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show was a bit more glamorous than playing dietician to four spoiled and entitled students. Well, I say, you take the good, you take the bad, and then you’ve got the facts of life.

What I end up with:
Beverly Ann Stickle



Few people even remember that Mrs. Garrett left the sinking ship show before it ended. Quite frankly, I would pay for a lot of therapy to forget this show entirely.

Maybe Mrs. Garrett left because she didn't understand how she ended up selling novelties in an ice-cream shop. Or maybe she just got tired of all the whining that went on amongst the entitled. Whatever the case, they replaced her with her sister, the divorcee Beverly Ann. Does anybody even remember her story?

***
What I aim for:
Mrs. Robinson



Because I use it for a class, I can’t seem to escape watching The Graduate at least once a year. After that many viewings, I can tell you that this film becomes much less interesting once Mrs. Robinson exits the scene. She was alluring, sharp, and oh-so-angry. Mrs. Robinson also got to wear lots of leopard prints. Today she would have her only reality t.v. show as the original "cougar".


What I end up with:
Ruth Popper



If there is one thing that I respect about The Last Picture Show, it is that it told the truth about how miserable and depressing Texas really is. Unlike the fun that Mrs. Robinson seemed to have, Ruth Popper just seems kinda sad. While she would be convicted as a pedophile today, Ruth really just needed some xanax.

***
What I aim for:
Mary Richards


Who amongst us hasn’t wished that we could turn the world on with our smile? If you suspect that my home has a giant “G” on the wall, you win the bonus prize. Mary is a model to us all about how to start life over with a go-go attitude. Well, until she cut her hair in the third season -- Then the show was just dead.

What I end up with:
Phyllis Lindstrom



Alas, Mary’s pushy neighbor is probably a bit more like the real GayProf. Phyllis was seemingly immune from Mary’s chipper disposition. Phyllis oozed gravitas.

***
What I aim for:
Baroness Paula Von Gunther



The Baroness had it all – A killer wardrobe, unlimited power, lesbian love slaves. Okay, so she was a Nazi – literally. Still, she probably stands as Wonder Woman’s most famous foe having appeared in both the comic and the television show.

What I end up with:
Frau Blücher



True, Frau Blücher has a place in cienmatic history. But GayProf doesn’t like it when the horses whinny and neigh at the sound of his name. It took a long time to break them of that habit. Besides, Frau Blücher always seemed more like a plot device to free the monster.

***

What I aim for:
Wonder Woman



The ultimate superheroine number 1, what more could be said? She can deflect bullets with her bracelets. Her tiara is a boomarang. She gets to date dreamy Steve Treavor.

What I end up with:
Queen Hippolyta



Alas, the cranky matriarch of Paradise Island just seemed so immovable. She never appreciated the beauty of Steve Trevor. And who besides her would call an island without [gay] men "paradise?"

***

* GayProf wants it made known that he adores Cloris Leachman and hopes she knows this was just a bit of silliness. Please don't hunt him down and twist his ankles.

For the Birds

I have arrived. The conference went well, as did my individual paper presentation (I think). The conference also created the opportunity to meet StinkyLuLu. As it turns out, he lives within a mile of my parents’ house. We also attended the same highschool (though at different times). Small blogosphere, eh?

Alas, TenuredRadical eluded me. For some reason, the American Studies meeting doesn’t have a central message center. In contrast, the American Historical Association transitioned from a bulletin board to a conference-based e-mail system. It makes it a lot easier to connect with people. Take note, ASA.

Since I was only in town for a brief jaunt, I didn’t get to see much of the city. The little I did see, though, reminded me that I missed being in a more urban venue.

Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to be at Big Midwestern University. Midwestern Funky Town also has a great deal to offer. Indeed, it is the funkiest of all the midwestern funky towns. Still, it is a town. As it turns out, size does matter.

Or maybe I am growing more concerned that the number-one recreational activity of the queer community in MFT seems to involve camping. I don’t mean “camping” in the fun Paul-Lynde sort of way, either. No, not camping that involves ironic quips about popular culture or the tragically ludicrous. I mean camping with a tent, sleeping bag, dirt, cold, and all that nature has to offer. Let me tell you, I am not that type of gay.



The number-two favored activity among gay MFT's seems to be canoeing. Don't these people spend any time drinking?

I understand the appeal of camping and other outdoor activities in the same theoretical way that I understand the appeal of sports. These things must be great for those who enjoy it. I don’t in anyway begrudge them their fun. For me, though, I can’t think of anything less that I would want to do than sleeping outdoors. I hated it when my father dragged me away to the mountains when I was a child. I imagine with 99 percent certainty that I would hate it as an adult.

Perhaps I also find the notion of camping in the Midwest even more perplexing. Maybe I am just too much of New-Mexico son, but why would one camp where there are no mountains? Rather than a rigorous hike up a steep incline to find a fabulous vista, aren’t you just basically sleeping outdoors? Your view is of . . . trees? I have those in my backyard and I don’t even have to open the door to see them (Thank you glass – another invention of nature-avoiding humans).

What I dislike about gay campers, though, is that they are always trying to change my mind. “Come on, GayProf,” they say, “You’ll looooove it once you are out there! Think of it as returning to nature.”

If nature was so great, why did we decide to build houses in the first place? I side with the homo-sapiens who first said, “You know what? This nature stuff sucks. The hell with it. I am inventing a roof.”

I don’t understand the inclination of some people who try to convince me that I don’t know what I like and don’t like. It’s not as if I am resisting sampling the thirty-second flavor down at the local Baskin Robbins. If it was something that I had never tried, I could see their point. I have, however, been camping in my life and I know what it involves: the aforementioned dirt, cold, hard ground, lack of showers and general absence of hygiene.





Why, then, do people persist after I tell them that camping is not my scene? I don’t try to convince them that they really hate camping. When somebody tells me that they are spending the weekend camping, I don’t respond with, “Wow – You are going to have a lousy time! If you have enjoyed camping up to this point, you have just gone with the wrong attitude or the wrong people! If you stay home with me, I’ll show you why that activity that you think you like is not at all what you really like doing.” I just don’t do that. Why do they believe that they can change my mind?

Camping is like some type of cult around here. If you don’t camp, you aren’t one of the chosen people. Maybe that was one reason I felt more at home in Boston. For most of the queer folk that I met in Boston, “roughing it” meant that they couldn’t get a cottage with a third bedroom in Provincetown.

Camping (or my dislike thereof) wouldn’t necessarily be a problem in MFT except that it narrows an already extremely tiny gay dating pool. Actually, it’s not really a pool. It’s more of a small pond – in the middle of a drought – with a serious algae problem.

Don’t get me wrong – It’s not that I don’t appreciate natural beauty. I love our nation’s forests – especially when they have been turned into Danish-modern furniture (It’s a joke – Please don’t send me environmental hate mail).



Nature for me, though, is something that you enjoy from a distance. Sure, I get enthralled by the spectacular sights that are devoid of humankind. Mountains, in particular, impress me. Oceans are grand. When I was in grad school, I also spent a couple of different afternoons at the dunes of one of the great lakes (which really was, as the name promised, a great lake).

Couldn’t we just see do those sorts of things in a day hike? Do we need to take up residence to enjoy nature? My feeling has always been that we could just do a quick walkabout and return in time for cocktail hour. Or, better yet, can’t we just skip the hike altogether and enjoy the view of the mountains from the bar patio?

What I need are the gays who are less into nature and more into . . . well, apparently, alcoholism. Yeah, yeah, don’t bother telling me that you can drink while camping. It goes without saying that I would need to drink because I was camping.

**Le Sigh**

Such thoughts make me think that I’ll be alone forever in MFT. Or maybe I am just regretting that I didn’t spend more time chatting up the hunky guy who sat next to me on the plane ride home. He had a whole Anderson-Cooper vibe working for him. I bet he hadn’t been camping a day in his whole life. Better luck next time, I suppose.

Camp It Up

While doing research for another project, I ran across a 1965 New York Times article entitled “Not Good Taste, Not Bad Taste.” The author, Thomas Meeman, explained to an uninitiated audience the meaning of “Camp” as an emerging “New York scene.” Four years before the Stonewall Riots, Meeman reported that homosexuals had (shockingly!) created an aesthetic that some non-homos found appealing. “Camp,” Meeman reported, was “a previously unnamed sensibility, a third stream of taste, entirely apart from good taste or bad taste, that encompasses the curious attraction that everyone – to some degree... has for the bizarre, the unnatural, the artificial and the blatantly outrageous.” Since 1925, Meeman stated, Camp had “been synonymous...with homosexual.”

Meeman offered a list of examples. Camp consisted of things like Tiffany Lamps, Monopoly sets in Italian, Batman comics (which the author labeled “low camp”), feather boas, and Marlene Dietrich. He also authoritatively rejected things as decidedly not Camp, like Humphrey Bogart movies or Kelvinator refrigerators. Astoundingly, he claimed that “no television is Camp.” (!) Clearly he hadn’t watched the big shows of 1965: Bewitched, Johnny Quest, or Shindig! It seems to me that the networks were Camp-powered for 1965.



The article dripped with anxiety about the rise of Camp, particularly its link to the gays. “In many areas of American cultural life,” the author noted, “Camp taste is becoming dominant over what is today generally accepted as good taste.” This left Meeman uneasy as he also stated, “Camps taste and homosexual taste are frequently the same thing.” Maybe that one-to-one link explains why Meeman felt the need to state that he personally had “no fondness for Camp” and that he also had a wife. **cough**

Of course, the author didn’t bother to actually interview any real-life homosexuals about their views on Camp. They might have been the acknowledged creators of Camp, but clearly they wouldn’t have anything relevant to say about it.

Instead, he turned to cultural critic Susan Sontag for all of his information. Indeed, Sontag is still often credited with “introducing” Camp to the nation. Sontag’s own take on (or appropriation of) Camp reassured that “though homosexuals have been its vanguard, Camp taste is much more than homosexual taste.” Good hetero folk, Sontag suggested, could totally get in on the fun and in no way be homosexual.

Meeman seemed unconvinced. Like any article dealing with homosexuals in 1965, it suggested that some sort of pathology had to be at the bottom of Camp. Meeman solicited a New York psychiatrist’s opinions about the cultural ramifications of Camp. The doctor didn’t mince words, “It’s not only extremely childish but also potentially dangerous to society – it’s sick and decadent.” Even Sontag concluded something similar, though without the predictions of Armageddon. Camp, Sontag argued, resulted from “the homosexual's desire to remain youthful.” Like much of mainstream society in the sixties, Sontag and the psychiatrist imagined homosexuals as psychologically less developed than their hetero peers. Their desires and sensibilities ranged from “childish” to vain efforts at “youth.”



Since this (let’s face it: Campy) article in the sixties, Camp has made its way into the mainstream lexicon. We all have a vague sense of what something “Campy” means. My secret desire, for instance, to redecorate my apartment after the bottle-interior on I Dream of Jeannie would qualify as Campy. In much the same way, Camp has also retained a subtle link to gays. We can’t help but think of an animated John Waters trying to explain Camp to Homer Simpson. Waters’ character calls Camp the "tragically ludicrous" or the "ludicrously tragic."

Camp, therefore, deserves more than passing consideration. Too often, Camp has been dismissed as irrelevant or “childish” play. It’s that play, though, that I think is so important.

Like any good postmodern term, it defies easy definitions. Most seem to agree, though, that Camp involves appreciating that which appears absurd even as it claims normalcy.

So, why do many (but not all) gays like Camp? I think Sontag stumbled on part of the answer, even in 1964. She referred to Camp as “something of a private code, a badge of identity even.” Queers learn a set of pop-cultural references that get deployed over and over. Go to an all gay-male dinner party and count the minutes until somebody mentions one of the following: All About Eve, Andy Warhol, or any nighttime soap that ever aired (or, if GayProf has been invited, Wonder Woman). Something Campy will appear in the night’s conversation – unless you are at the most boring gay party ever.



Campy icons are mentioned with both reverence and also a humor that centers on a sly knowing of their absurdness. It’s our common ability to love and laugh at these things, often discovered before coming out, that articulates a sense of shared identity.

Growing up with queer desires in this nation means having a social identity with only minimal mainstream representations. Queer boys learn quickly about gender and sexual performance as part of their identity. They become keenly sensitive to “seeming” gay/feminine. Many make conscious decisions about adopting certain masculine performances, particularly if it means avoiding being beaten or tormented in classrooms. Queer boys might know at some level that they are not heterosexuals, but they also know the right time to impersonate one.

Perhaps it is the artificiality of these personal performances that makes many of us so inclined to see the artificiality in all gender performances. When constantly being informed that either your desires are unnatural or (more often) don’t exist at all, almost everything takes on an aura of the absurd.

Camp suggests that gender is a masquerade. Many of the enduring Camp images smudge the boundaries between a gender binary and expose them as arbitrary and culturally defined. I Dream of Jeannie, for instance, centered on a hyper feminine giggling blonde. Nobody could mistake anything about Jeannie as masculine as she emerged from her big puff of pink smoke. Yet, Jeannie also had real power that had only been reserved for men. Though Tony Nelson got the title “Master,” (and who wouldn’t willingly call Tony “Master” – at least for a night?) it was clear that Jeannie’s magic really controlled the house. All of the gender roles and reversals in I Dream of Jeannie are so exaggerated that they become nonsensical.



In much the same way, Camp historicizes gender roles. For many who enjoy Campy things, it is the absurdity of looking back on previous generations’ presumptions about men and women or about the ways that relationships were imagined. Noting and mocking the ways that actors like Joan Crawford played out gender roles in decades past suggests that gender roles today are as contingent, changing, and political.



Perhaps Camp’s potential for undermining a sexual binary is what Meeman and his psychiatrist found so disturbing. Not only did purveyors of Camp reject the presumption that they had to be heterosexual, they also seemed to laugh at the cultural markers of that lifestyle as well. What Meeman didn’t appreciate, though, was that he could also have been in on the joke. Camp’s humor does not seek to exclude. Rather, it uses humor to expose existing divisions in contemporary society.

Smiles Everyone -- Smiles.

All Things Bitter recently had a little entry that had my mind awhirl with nostalgia. I decided that I would steal plagiarize borrow the idea. Actually, I think that he stole copied found inspiration from another site as well. Let’s just do what all bloggers do when they copy some other webpage for an entry: We’ll call it a meme.

In this case, we are thinking about the television theme songs and opening sequences that best encapsulated the show’s spirit. Over the past decade, networks have quietly phased out the theme song. This did not result in an extra thirty-seconds of television entertainment. Rather, they realized they could toss in one additional commercial per half-hour.

Most of my selections show me to be a child of the seventies. I became quite disturbed early in the year when I realized that the majority of television that I currently watch is at least twenty years old. (As an aside: I just now became disturbed to realize that when I say “early in the year,” I really mean September. For me, the academic calendar dictates my life-cycle rather than the Gregorian calender. New things start for me in September, not January. Perhaps that is another reason why I think January sucks).

Anyway, they don’t make them like they used to when it comes to opening titles. Let’s take a look at the title sequences that captured my imagination:

Wonder Woman

We have to start with the obvious. Perhaps, though, the really die-hard CoG fans will be surprised at which title sequence that I selected. Sure, the first season’s lyrics “In your satin tights, fighting for your rights” have more emotional resonance than any Shakespearian sonnet.

The title sequence that I remember most from my childhood, however, appeared in the middle of Season Two. The more disco-oriented song just felt streamlined. Besides, the image of Wonder Woman holding the two cars in place while the tires screech will forever be etched in my memory. Seriously, I might be riddled with Alzheimer’s and not remember my own name, but I’ll still be able to recall Wonder Woman’s grip on that orange truck and red car (Dodge Aspen?).

Of course, I also just liked Wonder Woman better when they moved the show to the modern era. Instead of wearing the same old uniform week after week, Diana got to dress in designer clothes (and never in polyester, as she made clear in one episode). People around her also stopped pretending that Diana Prince was a homely slouch. I can suspend belief enough that people wouldn’t be able to recognize that Diana was really Wonder Woman simply because she tossed her hair into a bun and threw on some Lenscrafter specials. I can’t suspend belief, however, that anybody would ever imagine Lynda Carter as “plain.”

Hart to Hart

After the collapse of Wonder Woman and the near collapse of Charlie’s Angels (we never discuss the Shelly-Hack era of that show), I needed some sort of action/mystery hour. The networks obliged by providing Hart to Hart. The opening credits neatly outlined the premise of the show. The couple’s butler discussed the basic traits of each character (this show also came on the air when I had a strange ambition to become a butler in my future life (don’t ask)).

Besides Dallas, nobody could have conjured a more perfect show to usher in the eighties. Hart to Hart centered on wealth, glamor, conspicuous consumption, and sex (but within the confines of heterosexual marriage). It was sort of a cross between James Bond and Murder She Wrote, with maybe a little Horatio Alger tossed into the mix.

Jonathan Hart, a “self-made millionaire” and his beautiful wife, Jennifer, flew around the world in their private jet solving crimes. Apparently the police never got suspicious that this wealthy couple always landed just minutes before somebody died. Nor did the police seem to mind that the Harts were always the first to point the finger at somebody else.

Excess and leisure-time marked the Harts’ lives. They also spent at least ten minutes worth of the show’s dialogue engaged in baby-talk with each other. This segued into the show’s unending hints that the Harts had a very healthy sex life. I don’t know about you, but when I am solving murders (especially ones that have major international consequences), it always helps to leap into the sack for awhile.

I will say, though, the Harts’ marriage seemed a lot more interesting and healthy than other marriages on television. They weren’t saddled with mewing and screaming children (even as a child myself, I disliked the presence of children). They also liked spending time with each other. They liked it so much that they even took their baths together (though I am curious why Jonathan Hart is reading a copy of Marie Claire magazine in that scene).

Charlie’s Angels

I am heavy into camp. I know that my blog probably doesn’t at all give this impression. Truth be told, though, I always gravitated to the campy. To the young queer me (and the adult queer me, too!) Charlie’s Angels' over-the-top genre-bending can’t compare with the purest of heroin.

Susan Douglas already gave the show a solid critique in Where the Girls Are. It would be hard to compete with that, so I won’t. For our purposes, Charlie’s Angels’ opening title sequence proves irresistible.

In a nutshell, Charlie, the disembodied boss of the Angels, narrates the necessary exposition. He creates a fairytale situation in which the “three little girls” decided to attend the police academy. While there, we find that these allegedly little girls became experts with guns and learned to toss men over their shoulder with expert judo skills. Despite investing all that money into their training, though, the police force relegated them to traditional women’s jobs of typing, crossing guard, and meter-maid. Charlie informs us that he has rescued these not-quite damsels and given them the excitement that they always craved.

The rest of the intro sequence seems like a schizophrenic mix between Police Stories and a fashion shoot for Vogue. For every clip of the Angels firing a gun, there is an equal shot of them tossing their hair or trying on a bikini. It all ends in a fiery explosion. What’s not to love?

Remington Steele

One might expect that the young GayProf would have had a serious crush on Pierce Brosnan. In truth, I was more inclined to want to be like Remington Steel than lust after him (though, as an adult, I recognize those priorities to have been disordered). This show had it all: mystery, a debonair leading man, and Laura Holt got to drive around in a Volkswagon Cabriolet

Remington Steele, in retrospect, exploited the eighties’ tensions over feminism perfectly. On the one hand, Laura Holt owned the detective agency and had the professional training that made it a success. Those inside the agency understood her to be the real boss even as Steele took all the credit in public.

Still, as the opening title sequence made clear, nobody would really believe that a woman could be a detective. Her talents and entrepreneurial instincts had to be hidden behind the guise of a man. She created the fictional Remington Steele to give her agency legitimacy.

On the surface, Laura’s position critiqued society’s sexism. She points out the injustice of a retrograde society that won’t allow women to do “men’s jobs.” Yet, the premise of the show and the character of Steele upheld that idea as well.

In the show, Brosnan discovers Laura’s secret and assumes the identity of the fictional Steele. Though he had spent most of his time as a thief, Laura quickly forgets about the new Steele’s nefarious past. Moreover, it is often Steele who solves the crime despite Laura’s superior training and experience. We are supposed to believe that Steele has a “natural” ability and instinct that comes, in part, from having been a fanatical movie buff.

The show suggested that even with superior skills and training, women just couldn’t compete in a man’s world. Remington Steele's premise started with the ultimate version of “behind every good man, there is a better woman.” Very quickly, though, Laura Holt became a victim of her own creation.

Mary Tyler Moore

When I think of gay men’s Sacred Texts, a number of things come to mind. There are Tales of the City, Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, and, of course, the Joy of Gay Sex. For gay men of a certain age, though, the Mary Tyler Moore theme song could possibly trump them all.

In the first season, the opening credits set the tone perfectly. Mary, leaving behind the dull life of small-town Minnesota, ventures to Minneapolis/St. Paul. Sonny Curtis poses the musical question “How Will You Make it on Your own?” The film answers that she makes it just fine and has a hell of a good time in her new town. She goes for long walks around frozen lakes, pets a dog, and even buys French bread! Then, with exuberance, she tosses her hat in the air while the old woman in the background judges here quietly.

Of course, the producers wisely edited out the bit where Mary had to retrieve her hat from the street and dodge the on-coming traffic. Nor does the opening show Mary’s lips cracked and bleeding from trying to smile in that bitter cold weather. It’s probably better that way.

For lots of gay men, Mary’s upbeat beginning seemed like something that related to us. Few gay men, after all, move from their parents house directly into a LTR. There is a period of coming to terms with ourselves and learning what it means to be on our own. We eventually find, though, love is all around! Which is why we also learn to carry lots of condoms.

Fantasy Island

Back in the late seventies, Saturday nights couldn’t be beat for television, at least for a five-year old. The Love Boat provided a steady paycheck for washed-up actors and Charo who guest starred week after week on that modern update of Ship of Fools. Directly following Love Boat, Fantasy Island provided (by seventies’ standards) a darker venue. It also provided a steady paycheck for washed-up actors and former Brady children who guest starred week after week.

From the opening credits, the iconic “The Plane, The Plane” made its way into the nation’s lexicon. How many secretaries had to politely laugh as their office-mates’ imitations of Tattoo?

For those who never saw an episode, the premise of the show centered on the mysterious Mr. Roarke who granted visitors to his island any wish they wanted – for the right price. The show always started the same way: Mr. Roarke provided exposition about the guests’ fantasies to Tattoo. Tattoo, who was supposed to be the business manager of the island, apparently never bothered to look into the island’s reservations until two seconds before he met the guests. I think that he later managed the Intercontinental Hotel chain.

As I have mentioned in previous entries, my parents always explicitly pointed out any Latino actor on television. To me, the Mexican-born Ricardo Montalbán proved a much more appealing visage than the ever-servile Chico from Chico and the Man. In an almost unheard of move for the networks, they allowed a character with a Spanish accent on television who was neither a dim-wit nor somebody’s servant. In the case of the ethnically-ambiguous Mr. Roarke, they even played up his accent as one of his alluring and intriguing elements.

Throughout his career, Montalbán managed to walk a tightrope between being a “Latin Lover” stereotype and a genuinely interesting character actor. In many ways, Mr. Roarke continued that same balancing act. On the one hand, Fantasy Island cashed in on the notion of the mysterious Latin who had exotic ways. Still, Mr. Roarke proved smarter than everybody else around him. He also owned his own damn island. That ain’t bad.

Montalbán garnered special recognition from my father because he had refused to change his name to accommodate his career (Hollywood agents and producers suggested that Ricardo Montalbán go by the name “Ricky Martin” to sound less “foreign.” He refused. I am not sayin’, I am just sayin’.) In the 1950s and 1960s, he made a number of B-level films and did some musicals. By the 1970s, television audiences would also have recognized Montalbán as the Chrysler pitch-man who cooed about Corinthian leather’s softness. Mr. Roarke probably brought the actor his most mainstream recognition. In the middle of filming Fantasy Island, though, he also strapped on a giant plastic chest to resurrect his role as Khan (Khaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan!) for Star Trek II.

The first season of Fantasy Island offered the most entertainment. In that early incarnation, Mr. Roarke turned out to be a bit of a dick. Sure, he granted people’s fantasies, but he always found ways to manipulate those fantasies so that they turned into nightmares. Taking a lesson from the "Monkey’s Paw," he often put his guests in mortal danger to fulfill their fantasies. Did you want to live like a millionaire? No problem! Of course, all of your money will come from grim dealings with mafia leaders who will be looking to off you. Enjoy your fantasy!

Somewhere in the middle of their joyless vacation, Mr. Roarke appeared to take delight in his guests’ predicaments. When they pleaded for him to stop, Mr. Roarke clucked at them about “being careful what they wished for.” They had no choice but to finish the fantasy that they started. Beaten, burned, or emotionally devastated at the end, the guests then had to listen to Mr. Roarke tell them why they had misled their lives and wasted all of their money (which he kept) on a pointless fantasy.

Roarke’s moralizing became so intense that the producers later decided to imply that he was really God. In one episode, he even battled Satan mano-a-mano! Just when we didn’t think the show could have more camp, Rody McDowell popped up as the Prince of Darkness, complete with an all-black suit to contrast Roarke’s white one. Hey, nobody said seventies television had subtlety.

Since Fantasy Island, I have always had a soft-spot for Ricardo Montalbán. Of course, it also helped that Montalbán leant his voice to New Mexico’s automated tourist radio that dotted the highway. It also really didn’t hurt that he voiced Señor Señor for Kim Possible, either.

During the late seventies, the only other Latinos on mainstream t.v. mutely served Miss Ellie her morning coffee at the Southfork Ranch. With those options, Montalbán really did seem like God. Mr. Roarke might have been campy, but at least he was in charge.