Surrender Dorothy
By Eric Grigs | October 22, 2019
I’m a bad gay. I don’t own any Judy Garland records. Actually I own one, but I bought it more for Liza at the time. It’s the Garland/Minnelli mother/daughter performance at the London Palladium. So I guess false alarm—but clearly, still plenty gay.
For decades, that was the old code: are you a “friend of Dorothy?” Referring to the character Garland played in The Wizard of Oz, of course—to wink wink, let someone know you were, you know. Although looking around a fairly empty theater recently when I saw Renée Zellweger’s star turn as Judy, there was a serious lack of many secret friends showing up to watch under the cover of darkness and kiki about it together afterward. Mostly just old retired couples—some straight and a handful gay. Me: squarely in my 40s (middle age, married—so I might as well be retired too, in gay years). And yet, my husband and I were quite possibly the youngest persons at this screening, gay or otherwise. Oh, and one of the final epilogue notations before the credits roll made sure to let me know I am just two years shy of the age Judy was when she died. Rude.
How can you not think about ageism when watching the unrelenting breakdown of late-career Garland? Not to be that annoying old gay man pining for the good old days—ok, well, not this time, much—but when Renée’s Judy closed with the line “promise you won’t forget me,” it took on a different poignancy for me. And it wasn’t because of nostalgia. I finally completely got why gays of a certain age identify so strongly with this late-stage version of Judy. And to be honest, it sucks.
Let’s get real, those who care to remember Judy now are over the hill—or rather, let’s say somewhere over the rainbow. And it’s clear that younger gay men find Judyism puzzling. They don’t share the exultation of her as a touchstone—this deeply unhappy woman with zero self-worth, who did just as others told her to do and frequently made terrible choices, albeit somewhat bravely. This is not their torchbearer to bind around, for some unknown reason. (Ok, that reason’s name is Lizzo. Or Taylor Swift. Or some other new pop goddess whose name I can never seem to remember.)
Plot twist: as well they should. Every generation must have its own heroes and idols, which is a good thing I think. Duh, or else we’d all like the same stuff. How un-rainbow! And let’s not forget the proud American tradition (also possibly a gay sport) of gleefully watching famous icons take a tumble from a great height—what do you think was being promised in the price of admission to this film?
And in case you’re looking for “happy days are here again” moments in the portrayal, beware. This movie depicts periods full of heartache and loneliness, almost exclusively. She’s broke, her star has dimmed, giving one erratic performance after another—a reverse A Star is Born—and then (spoiler alert), suddenly she’s gone. But this twenty-first century celluloid (oops, digital) revival of those final London shows may be her ultimate swan song. Oh sure, people will still remember her as long as The Wizard of Oz plays during holidays in repertoire theaters (sorry again, I mean streaming!) somewhere—but they won’t give anyone the full feeling, or understanding of her, for what she meant to queer men in the shadows. Because (well, the 80s decimated them, and) each day fewer gay men exist in the shadows and need a Judy anymore. (Side thought: are Madonna’s Madame X performances her own Talk of the Town run? Me: You hush! Millennials: Madonna who?)
Now that sheroes and queeroes (I know, I hate myself for writing that too) abound today, is there a need to sit through a eulogy for a woman seen in many circles as albatross around their necks—evolved gays who are embarrassed to be seen as Judy-loving clichés? I won’t lament the lack of curiosity from those in my community for not paying their respects to a gay legend, because I know who this sad drama is really meant for. In press interviews, Zellweger has said the film is a love letter to Judy. Hardly. More than anyone, Garland was forged in an era where you covered up flaws as best you could and always tried to project perfection. She wouldn’t want her legacy to be remembered for these London performances. No, this movie is a love letter to aging gay men who don’t leave their idols behind, but drag their memory forward—however absurdly, however lovingly. We refuse to surrender Dorothy. Although, I recognize all these recent biopics are also telling me: mourn the passing of an era, say one final goodbye, and move on. But oh how depressing.
Or I could be all wrong. Shhh, quiet—oh dear Judy—maybe you’ve given us a thrilling opportunity, for the largely invisible, routinely ignored and overlooked old gays to once again start identifying ourselves to one another in whispers, in the dark—as a friend of Dorothy. We’ll still get the puzzled looks for being so out of touch, but you’ve taught us once again how to have a hell of closing act in life when so few care to watch. (And always be on the lookout, glancing furtively, to catch the attention of those few who do.)
Shout hallelujah, come on, get happy.
Eric Grigs is a pop culture writer, artist, and co-host of the Pop Trash Podcast.