Dead End

Before Raviv Ullman starred in the revival, we had Dead End (1935), the film version of Sidney Kingsley’s sociological analysis/Broadway play.  It was scripted by infamously radical Lilian Hellman, and it starred box office big-shots Humphrey Bogart and Joel McCrea, who competed to see who would get the best lines.  Innocent of this back-story were the five “Dead End Kids” from the original play, child stars grown into young adults when no one was looking: Billy Halop, Gabriel Dell, Huntz Hall, Bobby Jordan, and Leo Gorcey. None really came from Dead Ends, but they created the myth of the Lost Boys, the slum-dwelling "angels with dirty faces," wise-cracking, irreverent noble savages who would endure in hundreds of films, radio plays, pulp stories, and novels for twenty years.

Dead End takes place within a single day and night on a single block in Manhattan near  the East River, where the poor Irish immigrants in their tenements and the ultra-rich Anglo-whites in a highrise apartment complex peer out windows at each other.  Two childhood chums have returned on opposite sides of the law: architect Dave Connell (Joel McCrea) and gangster Baby Face (Humphrey Bogart). A group of neighborhood boys, all teenagers,  immigrants’ sons, orphans, zoom across the set.  They spend the day swimming, playing cards, fighting, assaulting sissies, offending the sensibilities of the rich, and posturing for the approval of “big men.”  The men, in turn, take an interest in the boys, and compete for their attention.

Meanwhile the boys compete for our attention.  Their bodies are displayed blatantly and continuously.  Before five minutes have passed, Tommy (Billy Halop, the bully in Tom Brown's School Days) rushes out of his tenement apartment wearing overalls and no shirt.  It’s a hot day, so he and his friends decide to go swimming in the East River, an excuse to spend the first third of the movie in their underwear.  Water signifies the boundary between civilization and savagery, childhood and adulthood, the liminal space of adolescence itself.  

At midday, they put on clothes to play cards, but afterwards they strip down again.  Tommy drops his pants and converses for awhile in his underwear, and in case we haven’t gotten a good enough look, gets grabbed by a rich man, so he can squirm and twist, muscles straining.

Dead End Kids are smooth, lean, and very pale, their bodies almost glowing against the dark, sooty backdrops, suggesting that they do not belong there.   They belong in an angelic world, in an Eden unsullied by sin (Bobby Jordan’s character is even named Angel).

One is reminded of the somewhat more bucolic setting of Thomas Eakins’ Swimming, where Berger locates in the adolescent nudes “a reassurance of an essentialized masculine identity.” Yet they represent something more, an elemental connection with each other, sensuous, intense, and physical, erotic but pre-romantic.  They are not yet separated into homoromanic pairs.   They are a pack.

 The boys exhibit no interest in heterosexual coupling, except for a taunt from Spit (Leo Gorcey) at a rich girl who can’t find her boyfriend:  “Won’t I do?”  When they see rich couples dancing on a balcony, they pretend disgust: “Look, they’re dancing like they like it!”

But they are quite aware of same-sex erotic practice.  When they taunt the sissy with “what are ya, a boy or a goil?”, evoking the classic intersexed pansy of 1930’s comedies,  they add a sexual dig.  Angel thrusts his pelvis backward and forward, not side to side as he would to signify girlishness – he is emulating coitus, pretending that he wishes to have sex with the boy.  He has been to Reform School, and knows about the same-sex practices there; when Tommy is arrested, he offers explicit advice on whom to hook up with and whom to avoid.

Early in the film, the kids encounter a new boy, who is acting the mollycoddle by rocking a baby carriage.  He and Tommy exchange shy smiles, but the others try to strong-arm a quarter out of him. He only has three cents, so they grab him, throw him to the ground, pull up his shirt, and start to pull down his pants. There is a close up of his waist, with many hands on his belt, one cupping his crotch.  He struggles wildly. At that moment, an adult intervenes, and surely prevents a sexual assault.  Amazingly, the boys’behavior was toned down by the censors.   In Kingsley’s original play, dirt is rubbed directly into the boy’s privates, and in other scenes the boys playfully grab at each other’s zippers.

The film ends with the architect winning Billy's heart, the first of many adult-teen homoromantic relationships that audiences in the 1930s couldn't seem to get enough of (another is Born to Fight).

Mighty Isis

In the fall of 1975, I was in high school, too old for Saturday morning tv.  I still watched, but sneakily, with an algebra textbook open on my lap, pretending to be just sharing space in the living room with my brother and sister: Sigmund and the Sea Monsters (a gay couple adopts a sea monster), Land of the Lost (a gay boy trapped far from home), Westwind (about Van Williams taking his shirt off).

But what was the point of The Mighty Isis (1975-77), about a mild-mannered science teacher, Andrea Thomas  (JoAnna Cameron), who recites "Oh, Mighty Isis!" and turns into the ancient Egyptian goddess?  And then uses her superpowers to get teenagers out of jams?  And then preaches to them: "See, you shouldn't use tobacco!  See, you shouldn't hang out with kids who drive motorcycles!  See, you should always carry a jacket!"

1. Andrea had a buddy, fellow science teacher Rick Mason (Brian Cutler), who was cute and had no romantic interest in her. (Photo is from Catalina Caper a few years before, where he got to buddy-bond with gay actor Tommy Kirk).

2. But Rick did get a boyfriend (Gregory Elliot) in "Seeing Eye Horse." (about a boy who was blinded in a riding accident, and therefore afraid to "get back on the horse again.")

3. Every teen hunk in the business guest starred: Leigh McCloskey (Dallas), Johnny Doran (Captains Courageous), Buddy Foster (Mayberry RFD), Thomas Carter (The White Shadow).  They rarely took their shirts off, but in the 1970s exceptionally tight pants were in style.

4. There was little heterosexual romance, but a lot of homoromantic entanglement.

For instance, the episode "How to Find a Friend" has the teenage Tom (Mike Lookinland  of The Brady Bunch) gazing wistfully at cool motorcyclist Joe (Tommy Norden of Flipper).  He tries to win Joe's heart by offering him a loaded gun.  It doesn't work.

But Isis assures him  that someday he'll meet a boy who likes him for himself, not for the size of his. . .um. . .gun.

5. There were crossovers with Captain Marvel from Shazam!

Jolly Green Muscles

In the 1960s, beefcake wasn't common, but if you were diligent, you could find it in some unexpected places, like the Green Giant, (or Jolly Green Giant), who wore a toga made from leaves and flexed gleaming bodybuilder muscles on cans of corn, in magazine ads, and in television commercials (which offered the added bonus of a booming voice).

The character was created by the Minnesota Valley Canning Company in 1928.  He became so popular that the company changed its name to Green Giant in 1950.  He didn't get much of a back story, like other advertising icons; he just lived in a valley, supervised vegetable production, and after 1972, had an apprentice named Sprout (not a son; the Giant remained happily unmarried).

Charles Atlas

During the 1960s, gay boys could find beefcake in unexpected places.  The interior cover of nearly every comic book featured a bodybuilder in a posing strap, usually Charles Atlas, sometimes Joe Weider, Earle E. Liederman, or someone else from the early days of bodybuilding.

The sales pitch was heteronormative. "Get girls!"  "Attract the opposite sex!"  Charles Atlas offered a mini-comic strip about a "98 pound weakling" named Mac, who gets buffed, beats up a bully, and attracts the attention of a girl.

But who paid attention to the plot when you could look at pecs and abs?

Boyce and Hart

Boyce and Hart barely rated a "wow!" in Tiger Beat.  Maybe they were too old, over 30 by 1968.

But they made a splash with gay kids, and not just because of the eye-appeal of their exceptionally tight white slacks.  While other musical duos like Simon & Garfunkel gazed at each other and occasionally placed a hand on shoulder, Boyce and Hart seemed to relish physical contact, always touching: hugging, arms around shoulders, legs draped over thighs.

Both had wives and talked about girls, but still, it wasn't hard to imagine them as boyfriends.

Arizona native Bobby Hart (bottom) and Virginia boy Tommy Boyce  (top) met in Los Angeles in 1958, when they were 19 and 20 years old.  Soon they were writing songs for Chubby Checker, Paul Revere and the Raiders, Del Shannon, and Dean Martin.  

But their biggest fame came in 1965, when they began writing the songs for The Monkees. They left  in 1966, after a dispute with producer Don Kirshner, but they remained close to the Monkees, who graciously gave them credit for writing such hits as "Last Train to Clarksville" and "I Wanna Be Free."

Boyce and Hart also performed, with three albums and five charting singles.  They appeared as themselves on three 1960s sitcoms: I Dream of Jeannie (1967), The Flying Nun (1970), and Bewitched (1970), and wrote the soundtracks of a dozen other programs, including Days of Our Lives, The Ambushers, and Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows.

The songs they wrote for others were often heterosexist, to meet the requirements of the music machiine of the era.  But some, deliberately or not, omitted pronouns:

It's so neat to meet you "Where the Action Is"
Say you'll always be my friend, because "I Wanna Be Free."

And some were about friends:

Just exactly what does trust mean?
Is it about being down with the scene?
Or is it about following your own true heart
And being true to your friends to the end from the start

They wrote over 300 songs together before breaking up in the early 1970s.  They reunited briefly in the 1975-77 to perform with Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones of The Monkees (calling themselves David, Micky, Tommy & Bobby).  But then each pursued his own projects.  They lived on opposite sides of the country, Boyce in Nashville, Hart in Los Angeles.

Tommy Boyce committed suicide in 1994.   Bobby Hart is currently working on a musical about their partnership; Sunshine Pop: Stories from the Boyce and Hart Music Machine.