Could've Had More With Gore!

I first heard about this book from seeing the play Best of Enemies where it gets a brief and slightly intriguing mention. I put it on my to-read list, and then this post from @alovelywaytospendanevening pointing out how popular and ground-breaking the book was reminded me I should really give it a go.

It is a little bit 'tell not show' for my taste and ultimately I didn't feel the emotional content of it, but what I did like was its spare style and (mostly) light satirical tone.

And....what really surprised me was the number of similarities to 'The Charioteer':

Handsome, athletic blond idolises red-headed friend from school and reunites with him seven years later - it doesn't go well.

WW2 is the back-drop and the merchant marine is an important device for splitting up the characters. Oh yes, and Hollywood.

It's a cautionary tale about false romanticisation of the past.

There is liberal use of Greek and biblical references and symbolism (the pillar in the title is a reference to Lot's wife).

It's a coming of age story with a central narrator who is confused but also at times startlingly perceptive.

In style the books couldn't be more different, but on a deeper level, both books seem to have a clear purpose - to portray both the naturalness of same-sex love, and the injustice of society's attitudes to it, without making the protagonists victims of their sexuality.

Vidal is very clear and quite entertaining at times on the ability of his characters to create their own misery. There is no special pleading here, and a clear emphasis on personal responsibility.

Accused, quite fairly, of giving the book a melodramatic ending, Vidal has this to say:

One of the things I liked best about the book was his liberal use and subversion of some of the corniest heterosexual male clichés - the aging film star fooling himself with a string of younger kept companions, the 'intellectual' author who can't seem to feel alive unless he is unhappy, and the man who takes by force what he claimed to 'love'.

To be fair, I'm sure he is having fun with a whole range of gay clichés too, and busting a lot of myths on the way.

Raquel Welch wearing a stars and stripes suit in 'Myra Breckinridge', a 1970 American comedy based on Gore Vidal's novel and directed by Michael Sarne, with Welch in the title role.

📸By Terry O'Neill

Gore Vidal once wrote that Sicily was "liberated by Lucky Luciano, Vito Genovese, and the American army," and it might not be that wrong. In fact, the more you dig into it, the wilder it gets.

It's 1943. Operation Husky. 160,000 Allied troops are about to storm the beaches of Sicily. But before a single boot hits the sand, the U.S. Navy has already cut a deal with one of the most powerful mob bosses in America -- Charles "Lucky" Luciano -- who is, at this point, sitting in a New York prison cell serving 30-to-50 years for running prostitution rings.

The deal was called Operation Underworld. Luciano's organization had already been protecting the New York docks from sabotage and strikes since 1942. Now the Navy wanted more: Sicilian contacts, maps of harbors, photos of coastlines, names of resistance figures on the island. Luciano delivered. From his cell. Using Meyer Lansky as his go-between.

Meanwhile, Vito Genovese -- Luciano's acting boss back in Italy -- would later install himself as the official interpreter for Charles Poletti, the Allied military governor in charge of Palermo and Naples. The Mafia didn't just help with the invasion; they embedded themselves in the postwar administration. The Allies needed people who could manage Sicilian territory, and the Mafiosi were only too happy to volunteer.

Now, historians debate how much the Mafia actually influenced the military outcome. The Liberation Route Europe foundation flatly states "this pact never existed" in the way popular myth describes it -- no yellow flags with black "L"s on Allied vehicles, no Calogero Vizzini coordinating troop movements. But what IS documented is that Luciano's sentence was commuted, he was deported to Italy in 1946, and Mafia-connected figures were appointed as mayors of Sicilian towns under Allied occupation.

Vidal, who lived in Italy for decades and understood its layered political darkness better than most American writers, wasn't making a simple claim. He was pointing at something uncomfortable: that liberation and corruption arrived on the same boat.

That's the thing about history. The liberators and the gangsters were sometimes the same people. And Sicily is still living with the consequences.

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲?” 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐰.

“𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭?”

“𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐲… 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧?”

“𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐧𝐨, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦 𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞. 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧, 𝐈’𝐝 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐰𝐚𝐲. 𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐲𝐫𝐚 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞. 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐝𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐡𝐚𝐝 ‘𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐞𝐬’ 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬, 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐭 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐆𝐢𝐛𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐪𝐮𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫.’ 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥, 𝐈 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭.”

𝐖𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐥𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝.

“𝐌𝐚𝐧, 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭.”

“𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧?” 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐤.

“𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰,” 𝐆𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨, “𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐬.”

-James Garner during an interview with Robert Ward conducted in Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada for GQ magazine, March 1984 issue. (Fun Fact: Garner's real last name was Bumgarner.)

The New Yorker (June 1997): "Just Between Cousins"

Arthur Laurents was a screenwriter (The Way We Were, Turning Point) and wrote for Broadway (West Side Story, Gypsy). In 1954 fellow writer Gore Vidal suggested to Laurents that he visit a certain men’s clothing store in downtown Hollywood. The reason? The young blond man who worked there. Laurents later described the encounter - “It was lust, not love, at first sight.”

Laurents and Tom Hatcher were together until Hatcher’s death in 2006.

Director William Wyler, screenwriters Christopher Fry and Gore Vidal, and actor Charlton Heston on the set of Ben-Hur (1959)

On March 17, Sunday Calendar published a letter from Charlton Heston in which he said that Gore Vidal’s account of their involvement in the making of the film Ben-Hur “irritates the hell out of me.” Heston was particularly incensed at a statement made by Vidal in the recent documentary film The Celluloid Closet, and quoted in Calendar, in which Vidal said that—without Heston’s knowledge—he had written a scene into the film that implied a homosexual relationship between Heston’s character and another. Here is the Heston letter reprinted and Vidal’s response.

What are we to make of Gore Vidal? He’s earned a respectable reputation as essayist-novelist, but now he’s determined to pass himself off as a screenwriter, particularly of Ben-Hur. Your piece on the portrayal of homosexuals in film demonstrates his obsession. Vidal, over the years, has made more and more extravagant claims of authorship. He was in fact imported for a trial run on a script that needed work. Over three days (recorded in my work journal), he produced a scene of several pages which Wyler rejected after a read-through with Stephen Boyd and me. Vidal left the next day. Vidal’s claim that he slipped in a scene implying a homosexual relationship between the two men insults Willy Wyler and, I have to say, irritates the hell out of me. CHARLTON HESTON Beverly Hills

Vidal’s response:

The deserved success of The Celluloid Closet has set all sorts of odd birds atwitter of which easily the oddest is the spokesperson for the National Rifle Assn. and general flak for the National Review, one Charlton “Chuck” Heston. Over the years, I have told the story of how, faced with a hopeless script for Ben-Hur, I persuaded the producer, Sam Zimbalist (this was an MGM film and the writer worked not with the director but the producer; later the director, in this case William Wyler, weighed in) that the only way one could justify several hours of hatred between two lads—and all those horses—was to establish, without saying so in words, an affair between them as boys; then, when reunited at picture’s start, the Roman, played by Stephen Boyd, wants to pick up where they left off and the Jew, Heston, spurns him. This is the scene that was shot and this is the scene that viewers of The Celluloid Closet watched, with my commentary. Los Angeles Times film critic Kenneth Turan wrote that “seeing an appropriate clip makes a strong case for the truth of Vidal’s assertion that Boyd was in on the scheme while Heston was not.”

Now, Chuck, the hell irritated out of him, as he puts it, has sent what looks like a circular letter to a number of newspapers with his latest version of what went on in Rome that bright spring of 1958. Apparently, as Heston wrote, I “was imported for a trial-run on a script that needed work. Over three days (recorded in my work journal) he produced a scene of several pages which Wyler rejected after a read-through with Steve Boyd and me. Vidal left the next day.” Now one does not expect truth to be exactly a shining Grail (I’m slipping back into Ben-Hurese) for a spokesperson of the National Rifle Assn. and the National Review, but downright lying is not . . . well, wise, Chuck, is it?

In 1978 Heston’s “The Actor’s Life” (he never tells us who the eponymous actor is) was quietly published. Entry for April 23: ". . . I met Willy [Wyler] at the airport, as well as Sam Zimbalist and Gore Vidal, to a great accompanying fanfare of press. . . . " I was a contract writer at MGM and had written two films (The Catered Affair and I, Accuse) for Zimbalist. Yet Chuck, in his current letter to the press, says that I am now “determined to pass [my]self off as a screenwriter.” Surely the last thing anyone would want to do, then or now. But I was the screenwriter on the shooting script of Ben-Hur. My deal with Sam was that if I did the picture I’d be let out of my contract.

Sam then hired Christopher Fry, who had never done a film, to take over once I had, in my usual swift way, written what proved to be two-thirds of the script.

April 27: Chuck describes a party at Sam’s for “all the brass,” and an edgy conversation with me, published in an earlier version of his diaries, now cut. May 15: three weeks after my arrival (and I was still on the scene), “Today we rehearsed Vidal’s rewrite of this crucial scene with Messala [Boyd]. Indeed the crucial scene of the whole first half of the story. . . . This version is much better than the script scene” (the famous script that we all arrived with was the work, according to Sam, of S.N. Behrmann and Maxwell Anderson), “and Willy brought its virtues out in his usual manner. . . . " Poor Chuck was spared what Zimbalist and Wyler and I had to say about his astonishing woodenness in a series of readings for us. But then he had been no one’s choice for the film. Newman and Hudson were not available and so Willy brought in Chuck from a western where Chuck had made a convincing villain—guns have always brought roses to his cheeks. It was at about this point that Willy said my thwarted love notion was worth a try, “but don’t tell Chuck because he’ll fall apart.” I was delegated to tell Boyd what the scene’s subtext was; Steve was delighted.

Chuck now adds to his diary entry: “We never shot this scene of Gore’s, or indeed any of the attempts he made on other sequences.” Since Zimbalist was guardian of the pages of the script, no mere actor (or even director) was ever going to know who wrote what. In any case, my “three-day trial run” on the script turns out to have been at least three weeks, according to Chuck’s own journals. By 1995, (“In the Arena”), our memoirist is at it again, rearranging history. In this version, I was “briefly imported for a trial. A tart, embittered man, he seemed an odd choice. . . .” I should note, modestly, that my novel Julian—about the 4th century emperor—has been for many years much read in the Modern Library and at the time that I was helping out Sam in Rome I had a hit play (“Visit to a Small Planet”) running on Broadway, an experience Chuck, as actor much less writer, was never to undergo. As I wrote Paul Bowles, “I am doing a fast rewrite of a mammoth epic called Ben-Hur; I start at the beginning whilst my co-author Christopher Fry, a nice little man who looks rather the way Shakespeare must’ve looked, starts at the end and works towards me. It is predicted that we shall meet during the chariot race, though I rather hope to see him in Pilates’ audience chamber. What fun art is!”

Now let us go backstage and find out what was really going on. Pay attention, Chuck. Just before May 31, as contracted, I departed. Sam gave me the present of a briefcase. On May 31, MGM’s publicity man for the picture, Morgan Hudgens, sent me some pictures of the shooting with the note: “The horses began pounding around The Spina today—quite a sight! The big ‘Cornpone’ . . . " (Chuck, that’s you, I’m afraid), “really threw himself into your ‘first meeting’ scene yesterday. You should have seen those boys embrace! I’m afraid CH is definitely coming off Secunda in that battle of profiles. We miss you.” I had confided to Morgan my problems with Wyler (“Gore, this is Ben-Hur for God’s sake”) and so was pleased that, despite disagreements, he was doing my scene my way.

On 24 July, I got a weary note from Sam. He was pleased with Christopher Fry’s fine-tuning. He offered me a film to write called Never So Few. Then, shortly after, I read that he had had a heart attack and died. Wyler’s slowness, MGM’s corporate hysteria (had Ben-Hur failed, there would have been no studio—in retrospect, no bad thing)—the whole thing was far too much for easily the nicest person I’ve ever dealt with in the movies. As for the film itself, not one silly frame of it was worth Sam’s life. As for you, Chuck, just remember that wise saying, Oh what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.