Visions of glory barbara grizzuti harrison
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There are also tasteless allusions (one assumes Random House had its libel lawyers working overtime) to the heterosexual rich and famous who haunt, for obscure and kinky reasons of their own, the gay scene. (Indeed the participants in the bizarre activities so graphically described here seldom remember their partners, who are anonymous orifices, chosen for their muscle definition, used for a moment's pleasure or pain, or shame, and then discarded.) Among the members of the passing parade are "Boo Boo" Bronstein, a profligate young man who masterminds his own kidnapping in order to extort money from his longsuffering father Irving Slough, a rich, aging shrink who silently backs heterosexual porn films and uses hypnosis to "cure" gays while forming an advertising agency to promote gays Winnie the Winston Man America's symbol of virility, the most handsome model in Slough's stable, who dies casually and almost unnoticed at an orgiastic costume ball 15-year olds who sell their bodies old homosexuals who buy young bodies and legions of the coarsened, corrupted, and self-absorbed. Īnd a cast of thousands: Lemish says "there are 2,556,596 faggots in the New York City area" and so many of them turn up in this busy busy novel it's difficult to keep track of who is doing what to whom.
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The action takes place in the "meat rack" of New York's Fire Island, in bars and discos and bathhouses with names like The Toilet Bowl and Everhard it includes fire, accidental death, dismemberment, raids, blackmail, incest.
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Lemish (I keep wanting to call him Nebbish ) makes his decision to just be (whatever that may mean) after a long Memorial Day weekend, during which he and the hapless reader become intimately involved with nonculinary amounts of Crisco, with urine and excrement, with "fag hags,) gallows, whips, leather executioner's masks, ropes and thongs and chains and buzzsaws and live snakes, dog-collars and artificial limbs and ankle shackles, ping-pong paddles, cattle prods-and well, that's enough of that. it takes courage not to be a faggot just like all the others.
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Fred Lemish, the homosexual whose story this is, tells himself that he "must have the strength and courage to say No. (If I believed for a moment that it were, I might be inclined to join forces with Bryant.)Īnd now that that's out of the way, we'll get to the sorry business at hand.Īt the end of this book (which leaves nothing to the imagination), there is what is meant to be an epiphany. (Anita Bryant may think so, but that's her problem-and, to a reprehensible degree, Kramer's.) Although Kramer (the screenwriter of Women in Love ) has allowed his publishers to tout Faggots as "the inner reality of homosexual life," he is in fact writing about a peculiarly ugly, vicious, perverse, depraved, sado-masochistic subculture in which love does not exist-a subculture that homosexuals have been at pains to say is not representative of homosexual life. I don't think Larry Kramer is writing about homosexual life. I WOULD LIKE to make it very clear that in reviewing this novel-which I might as well tell you I find revolting-I am not reviewing male homosexual life.