for them.” Later, having seen one of Williams’ hits, he wrote in his diary: “Went to Tennessee’s new play Cat on a Hot Tin Roof—full of adolescent sex, dirty words and frustrations, but at moments very fine. It was beautifully played but over-directed by Elia Kazan.” Of Sweet Bird of Youth in 1959: “Like all of Tennessee’s plays it has moments of brilliant writing but the play is not really good. None of the characters is really valid and the emphasis on squalor—drugs, syphilis, castration, sex, sex, sex— is too heavy and almost old-fashioned.” (Ironic, to say the least, coming from the author of The Vortex.) There was something about Coward—perhaps that he stood for Theater—that drew young playwrights to him. Included in Day’s book is a photo of a handsome young Edward Albee (“very intelligent, but badly tainted with avant garde, Beckett, etc.”) with Coward’s arm around his shoulder. As time goes by, he sounds more and more like an old fogey, but really he was simply sticking to his fundamental principle: that the theater should amuse—no one wants to hear about your private troubles. On Albee’s Tiny Alice: “Altogether maddening evening in the theatre, so nearly good and yet so bloody pretentious. I told Edward what I felt, and he was very amiable about it.” There’s lots of tips for writers in this book. One of the most valuable may be the discovery that the plays he worked hardest and longest on were mostly flops; the ones he wrote in five or ten days are the ones we remember. Exactly how Coward was “read” when he was an international star is not elaborated in this book, but the question piques one’s curiosity. The song “Mad About the Boy,” for instance, is the monolog of a young woman who’s fallen for a lad on the silver screen, and yet, if you go to YouTube, you can find not only an album cover with a young Coward beside the title, but Coward himself singing the song, something that makes the lyrics much more poignant, as many comments attest. Here’s the first stanza: “Mad about the boy/ I know it’s stupid to be mad about the boy/ I’m so ashamed of it/ But must admit the sleepless nights I’ve had/ About the boy.” Was it just assumed by the public that Coward was singing it simply because it was his own song, or did they realize he was homosexual and not care, or did only his fellow poofters know the reality? Day does not go into this. Whatever the answer, he was one of those people—as Vito Russo showed in The Celluloid Closet—who made no attempt to butch it up and were accepted anyway, indeed enjoyed because of it. From Ivor Novello to Laurence Olivier, from Gertrude Lawrence to Mary Martin and Elaine Stritch, Coward’s career spans so many changes not only in theater but in the culture itself that Barry Day’s scrapbook is a treasure trove for theater mavens, fans of Coward, and students of social history. In an era when people get on airplanes in shorts and flip-flops and watch movies on their smartphones, one may well ask: What does Coward have to say to us? His world has vanished along with the British Empire, the Bright Young Things, cigarette holders, and the shock value of divorce. Even the songs Coward composed (classics like “I’ve Been to a Marvelous Party,” “MadAbout the Boy,” “Someday I’ll Find You”) came from an English music hall tradition that has disappeared. What lasts are the plays. Who knew there were so many?As for the sophisticated patter, the belief that whatever else it does, the theater should entertain, Day’s book reminds us that all of that was based on hard work and discipline. Coward was, for a man associated with insouciance, utterly dedicated. “Work hard,” was his advice, “do the best you can, don’t ever lose faith in yourself, and take no notice of what other people say about you.” Still, it should come as no surprise, I suppose, that playing in London at the Noël Coward Theatre on the day I write these words is the musical Dear Evan Hansen—an American import. NOËL COWARD ON (AND IN) THEATRE Edited by Barry Day Knopf. 496 pages, $40. 16 The G&LR The Man Who Met Luke Warm When Jimmy invited Luke over, he did not know What to expect other than that Luke would pose unclothed. Jimmy is gay, an amateur artist. Luke is a nudist. Luke had sent a photo. He qualified. Slim, thirty, With a handsome face—as much as Jimmy could see Around the COVID mask in the photo—he ought to do, So Jimmy invited him over. Luke posed. They spoke little. The drawings came out well; Luke exclaimed “They are great!” He lay, stomach down, on Jimmy’s cot, buttocks pert. Jimmy offered a massage. Luke replied that would be All right. The rest is not history. Plus, it was unclear, Before Luke left, whether he would return to pose Or once more be massaged. Really, Jimmy Knew almost nothing about the man. And yet. . . And yet—here is what Jimmy thought, hours later: “I liked what we did. Did you? You did not moan When I pressured your butt, though when I questioned Is that O.K.?” you softly answered yes. I have not touched a man’s body in over a year And am glad to have done so today. When I asked if you were nervous you only said “a little.” Then you relaxed. The skin contact was nice, vanilla though it was. Now I wonder whether I will receive an email Saying it had been fun, perhaps adding you would like to return Or will I email you, saying I enjoyed our time together? Would that be manipulative? Asking for rejection? Demeaning? Luke, at heart I think I feel it would have been better Had you never come over. I may delete my Craigslist posting. I am too old for this. Yet people are mammals Who want to touch and hope to be touched in return.” JONATHANBRACKER
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTk3MQ==