Mark Griffin (2 page)

Whenever some shortsighted film authority attempted to write Vincente off as a glorified window dresser, I wanted to lead them (by the hand) to the nearest copy of
Lust for Life
. In Minnelli’s critically hailed 1956 biopic, Anthony Quinn’s Paul Gauguin lashes out at Kirk Douglas’s Vincent van Gogh. “You paint too fast!” Quinn’s fiery postimpressionist tells the mad genius. “You look too fast!” is van Gogh’s unforgettable reply. As the director’s most fervent followers have always maintained, it would appear that we’ve been looking too fast at the work of Vincente Minnelli.

For many Minnelliphiles, part of the mystique and fascination with his work is that it is so richly layered that a single film can be appreciated on many different levels. “I feel that a picture that stays with you is made up of a hundred or more hidden things,” the director once said.
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A well-dressed, thoroughly entertaining movie such as
Gigi
can be enjoyed as the tune-filled, sensory-rich experience that it is. Or, if one chooses to lift the ornate lid and peer inside, there are countless “hidden” elements to be discovered, including sharp-eyed social critiques, a feminist manifesto, and erudite references to great artists and their works. Oftentimes, the sumptuousness and sheer artiness of Minnelli’s presentation has tended to distract viewers from the fact that there was plenty going on beneath the elegantly appointed surface.

Though as Minnelli pointed out to interviewer Henry Sheehan, he always intended that the decorative trappings should be in service to the story: “Most people don’t realize that the décor, what [the characters] hold and the
surroundings tell an awful lot about the character. And that’s what I’m concerned with—the character.”
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From Madame Bovary to Eddie’s father, the characters in Vincente Minnelli’s films are some of the most beloved in all of cinema, which is a bit surprising when one considers the fact that they are anything but your typical Hollywood heroes. Virtually all of Minnelli’s movies are stories about unconventional individuals who find themselves at odds with the world around them simply by being who they are. Their very identity is the source of their dilemma, and these nonconformists must seek refuge in fantasy, art, or an alternate reality in order to heal themselves. From Little Joe Jackson, whose soul is caught in a tug-of-war between heaven and hell in Minnelli’s first feature,
Cabin in the Sky
, to Nina, an impressionable chambermaid who lives vicariously through the memories of a faded courtesan in
A Matter of Time
, a Minnelli character is almost always a dweller on two planets. These are people who are not only displaced but split right down the middle. Without question, this was a recurring theme that Vincente had more than a passing interest in exploring. Why? Was the duality that turned up time and again in the films reflecting some part of his own experience?

After Minnelli’s death in 1986, suggestions that the director may have had a divided life of his own began to appear in print. Along with such iconic figures as James Dean, Cary Grant, and Rudolph Valentino, Vincente Minnelli has always been a sexually suspect character. Just consider the “evidence”: Minnelli was a former window dresser and costume designer. He had an unerring eye for décor. An alleged affinity for eye liner. A romantic association with Judy Garland. In the eyes of some, Minnelli was seriously overdue for his own float in a gay pride parade.

In our postmodern, politically correct world, everything—and everybody—must be clearly marked with a very precise label. “Bisexual” is the one usually hung on Minnelli, though it was generally assumed that despite his marriages to four women (some of whom were also rumored to have been bisexual), Minnelli was a “closet case”—an essentially gay man who, due to societal conditioning and career pressures, felt compelled to marry and procreate. Denying who he really was would at least satisfy society, a politically conservative studio, and
Modern Screen
subscribers.

In Jon Marans’s recent play
The Temperamentals
, “Vincente Minnelli” appears as the physical embodiment of the closet. Marans concocted an episode in which Minnelli is approached by gay activist Harry Hay and asked to lend his support to the Mattachine Society. “I have Minnelli using this metaphor about homosexuality,” says Marans. “He talks about a woman’s
perfume and how it will lose all of its heavenly aroma once you open up the bottle. In the same way, he thinks you shouldn’t open up the bottle of homosexuality. Minnelli has this theory that ‘You should never discuss it for fear of making it mundane and letting it all out into the open.’”
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In this out and proud post-Stonewall age, it probably wouldn’t take most observers long to do the math and consign Minnelli to the closet. But then again, hadn’t some of Minnelli’s own movies, most notably
Tea and Sympathy
and
Designing Woman
, pointed out that just because something looks one way doesn’t necessarily mean that it is that way? Was it possible that, just as people had looked “too fast” at Minnelli’s work, snap judgments had been made about him as a person? Had Vincente been stereotyped into a corner? Minnelli may have been effeminate, androgynous even, but did this automatically add up to gay? Even in our more socially conscious times, there are some observers (including an exceedingly sequined relative) who seem convinced that everyone is barking up the wrong tree.

“My sister, Liza, passionately resents the suggestion that her father had a secret gay life,” Judy Garland’s daughter, Lorna Luft, wrote in her 1998 family memoir. “The Vincente I remember had a roving eye and a weakness for beautiful women, some of whom he married. Granted, one marriage might be a cover, but three?”
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Those closest to Minnelli seemed to be contradicting the frequently repeated rumors about him. Or was this denial in the first degree?

When my longtime dream of writing a Minnelli biography became a reality, I knew that my subject—while colorful and endlessly fascinating—was also a complete enigma. “Vincente Minnelli was Hollywood’s great mystery man,” Garland confidant Tucker Fleming told me. “I think he’s quite a complex figure and there have always been so many question marks about him. . . . You really have your work cut out for you.”
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Though who was I to go rummaging around in somebody else’s life? Especially when that someone had been so guarded and self-protective? Then I reread Minnelli’s 1974 autobiography,
I Remember It Well
, and came to regard the title as something of a challenge. In
Gigi
, Maurice Chevalier croons a wistful tune by the same name, in which he misremembers some of his romantic interludes. By borrowing the title of the song, Minnelli seemed to be winking at the reader—these are the memoirs of a notoriously forgetful man. In other words, this autobiography is my version of events. What I choose to remember. The truth may be a very different story.

So I began searching for the real Vincente Minnelli. Before too long, I found myself playing a variation on “Limehouse Blues,” the celebrated sequence in Minnelli’s 1946 revue musical
Ziegfeld Follies
. In this indelible production number, Fred Astaire is in pursuit of Lucille Bremer—first while fully conscious and then when he’s in the midst of a delirious dream. Astaire is lured into the darkened depths of his own subconscious by the most Minnellian object imaginable—an Oriental fan. As Bremer disappears into the shadows, the fan she clutches seems self-propelled, flitting about like an unusually beautiful butterfly. Although Astaire makes several attempts to capture the fan, it’s always just out of reach. I knew exactly how Fred felt, for trying to find Minnelli was like chasing after that fan.

My subject practically defined “elusive.” Minnelli may have been a public figure, but the most important parts of his life had been locked away deep inside of himself. How do you go about finding someone who really knew a thing or two about staying hidden? Early on, I realized I wouldn’t be able to find Vincente on my own. So I organized a search party. I knew that it would be necessary to conduct as many interviews as possible and get people talking. As Vincente had been the subject of so much speculation and rumor, hearing directly from those who actually worked with or knew him would be absolutely essential. Only this posed another set of challenges that I had been warned about.

When I profiled the late screenwriter Gavin Lambert for a magazine, I mentioned that I was interested in writing about Minnelli and talking to as many of the director’s surviving colleagues as possible. Although Lambert was encouraging, he had two very succinct words of advice: “Hurry up.” How right he was. Considering that Minnelli’s first feature was released in 1943 and that his Broadway career stretched back to the early 1930s, finding people to talk to postmillennium was not going to be easy. And even if I managed to track people down, how forthcoming would some of these press-savvy Hollywood veterans be if I broached the very personal subject of Vincente’s sexuality? Even though we were living in supposedly less repressive times than Minnelli had, most of his colleagues had graduated from the MGM School of Public Relations and they were masters at deflecting uncomfortable questions.

Apprehensive yet insatiably curious, I began to move forward. During a three-year odyssey, I contacted as many Minnelli coworkers, friends, former neighbors, and true believers as I could find. Armed with an antique tape recorder and aided by an enterprising though overworked research assistant, I ended up talking to hundreds of people who were exceptionally generous in terms of sharing their memories, insights, private correspondence, and
photographs with me. Amazingly, many of the people I spoke with had never gone on record before.

There were also plenty of surprises along the way. An elderly interview subject in Delaware, Ohio (where Vincente had spent his formative years), casually mentioned Minnelli’s brother to me.
Vincente Minnelli had a brother?
The detail-obsessed director had overlooked his sibling in his autobiography. Why? Another person I talked to was curious to know what I had discovered about that terrible tragedy involving Vincente’s adored Uncle Frank. The terrible tragedy. Yes, of course.
What terrible tragedy?
Early on, a fellow biographer had advised me to play dumb when talking to people, but it quickly became clear that no playing would be necessary. Just because I had seen
The Sandpiper
more times than was psychologically advisable didn’t mean that I really knew anything about the man who had created it.

Some people were dying to tell me Minnelli stories, having saved up revealing anecdotes for nearly seventy years. Others played it close to the vest, choosing their words with almost excruciating caution. And more than a few people attempted to steer the conversation away from Minnelli, preferring to discuss Judy Garland, the weather, or their own careers (one veteran actress took the opportunity to pitch me the story of what she hoped would be her comeback vehicle—the saga of a centerfold-turned-mafia-wife).

In conducting research, I asked a thousand different questions, though virtually everyone I spoke to had the same one for me: “So, have you talked to Liza?” The answer, unfortunately, was no—though an attempt was made. After all, many of my interview subjects had stressed how unique and endearing the bond had been between father and daughter. If anyone really knew Vincente Minnelli, they knew his bond was his pride and joy. And over the years, the high-octane headliner has done an admirable job in terms of celebrating her father’s cinematic legacy (including two helpings of
Minnelli on Minnelli
, a televised tribute in 1987 and a Palace Theater stage show in 1999). Nevertheless, I wasn’t at all surprised that she did not consent to be interviewed. Although Liza obviously adored her father—and she remains one of his most devoted champions—she has been unwilling to either acknowledge or explore some of the complexities of his life. Despite several efforts, I was unable to contact Vincente’s other daughter, Tina Nina Minnelli. This was another disappointment as I’m sure she has a compelling story to tell, and one very different from her famous sister. Thankfully, many people were willing to talk.

I found that often the most challenging interviews proved to be the most rewarding. Nina Foch, who appeared in Minnelli’s classic
An American in Paris
, bristled at some of my questions about the film, but she turned quietly
reflective and almost melancholy when I asked what her director was like as a human being:

Taking everything into account—the enigma of Vincente Minnelli as both an individual and an artist, his unconventional upbringing, an ambiguous sexuality, a show-business career that afforded him the opportunity to work with everyone from Josephine Baker to Jack Nicholson, long-concealed family secrets, and no less than Judy Garland and Liza Minnelli as supporting players—it’s truly astounding that Minnelli’s story has received so little attention.

Film historian and Minnelli disciple George Feltenstein has made some attempts to rectify this. Feltenstein has long wanted to produce a documentary that would explore the director’s life and career. But when he presented his ideas to some documentarians, he found that his enthusiasm was met with an inexplicable indifference: “I remember that the filmmakers’ objection was, ‘Well, there’s no story there.’ I said, ‘What do you mean there’s no story there? There’s an amazing story there. . . .
The story of his life is in his films.’
You know, Judy Garland had that lyric that Roger Edens wrote for her, ‘The history of my life is in my songs. . . .’ Well, the history of Minnelli’s life is in his films. And when you look at all those films, you see the pained artist, the passionate romantic. All of those things. How is it people cannot see this?”
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Looking too fast, yet again.