All That Heaven Allows

by Mark Griffin

  When Rock’s participation in Embryo was announced in the trades, even the staunchest members of his fan club began wondering if his judgment had somehow been impaired. “I put Rock into Embryo . . . it turned out to be terrible,” Tom Clark admitted. Though there had been warning signs from the beginning. Embryo would be produced not by Universal or MGM but by Cine Artists, responsible for such four-star schlock as To the Devil a Daughter and Lex, the Wonder Dog.

  Gone were the days of A-list costars like Elizabeth Taylor. The supporting cast, which included Nicaraguan fashion model Barbara Carrera, Roddy McDowall, Diane Ladd, and Dr. Joyce Brothers, may have redefined eclectic, but it was clear that the producers of Embryo were wholly dependent on Hudson’s waning star power to carry the production.

  When the producers trumpeted the fact that Rock had agreed to shoot his first nude scene for the film, the announcement seemed like pure publicity gimmick. Fans who had watched the boy next door grow up on-screen were aghast. Rock did his best to explain that the total exposure was all in service to the story. “When a scene demands it, that’s that,” Hudson told the press, which also registered its disapproval. Upon hearing that Hudson intended to bare more than his sparkling teeth in Embryo, one of his former boyfriends cracked that if Rock did indeed go full frontal, the movie would have to be shot in CinemaScope.

  Kevin Thomas of the Los Angeles Times, who could always be counted on to champion Hudson’s work on the screen, didn’t disappoint: “In the most demanding part since the not dissimilar Seconds, Hudson sustains the film in a far-ranging, demanding role.” Even though Embryo had its supporters, the shoestring quality of the film and its failure at the box office made it clear that although Rock Hudson was still an enormous draw on television, he could no longer be considered a bankable movie star.

  Rock had now appeared in an unbroken string of flops. Could everything be blamed on weak scripts, washed-up directors, or difficult costars? Or had Hudson simply overstayed his welcome on the big screen?

  By the mid-1970s, most stars of Rock’s generation had been reduced to headlining sitcoms or appearing on the dinner theatre circuit. Jimmy Stewart was pitching Firestone Tires while Henry Fonda was plugging Life Savers. Other screen legends simply retreated altogether. Cary Grant, recognizing that he could no longer convincingly play the romantic lead opposite actresses half his age, had retired from films at age sixty-two. But not Rock. Alongside his other addictions, he was an inexhaustible workaholic. But as his film career continued to deteriorate, it became clear that in terms of job security, there were only two viable options: television, where he could maintain his popularity, or the stage, where he could maintain some semblance of creativity.

  When he wasn’t counting the days until his contractual obligations to McMillan & Wife would be fulfilled, Rock kept busy by searching for a new theatrical venture. The tour of I Do! I Do! had been so rewarding that Hudson was eager to recapture the excitement of performing live. It just so happened that publicist turned producer James Fitzgerald was intent on staging a dramatization of Stephen Vincent Benét’s John Brown’s Body.

  Published in 1928, Benét’s Pulitzer Prize–winning epic poem explored many aspects of life during the Civil War. In 1953, Fitzgerald had been part of an acclaimed staged reading of John Brown’s Body, which had toured the United States. That production had starred the Rock Hudson of an earlier generation, Tyrone Power. While still working his way up through the ranks at Universal, Rock had attended a performance with roommate Bob Preble. Both the show and its star made an indelible impression. The thought of following in the footsteps of an idol like Power was irresistibly appealing.

  As 1976 was America’s Bicentennial year, James Fitzgerald was convinced that a national tour of John Brown’s Body headlined by Rock would be a commercially viable undertaking. As Independence Day approached, patriotism would be reaching a fever pitch and the tour would capitalize on all of the flag-waving and fireworks. As the production was essentially a live history lesson, college campuses topped the list of performance venues.

  When Fitzgerald initially pitched the idea of a twenty-city tour from San Diego to Miami, Tom Clark was enthusiastic. Not only would the production afford Rock the opportunity to prove himself as a legitimate dramatic actor, but he would be directed by John Houseman, legendary cofounder of Orson Welles’s Mercury Theatre. To support Rock, Fitzgerald had already tapped two actors that Hudson admired—Joseph Cotten and Colleen Dewhurst.

  Although Houseman was indeed on board as director, it turned out that Fitzgerald hadn’t actually secured commitments from either Cotten or Dewhurst. Ultimately, Leif Erickson (who had appeared opposite Rock in Twilight for the Gods) was hired to enact roles ranging from Abraham Lincoln to a slave named Cudjo. This left the one female role to be cast. Rock suggested his friend Claire Trevor. Although she was an Oscar-winner with an impressive list of credits, Trevor hadn’t appeared in a feature film in nearly a decade and her last Broadway production dated back to 1947. Even so, Trevor was thrilled: “As soon as they said that Rock Hudson wanted me, I jumped at it.”

  Reviewing an early performance, The Hollywood Reporter’s Ron Pennington sounded hopeful: “Trevor and Hudson—who has developed considerable stage presence and agility—have many excellent moments.” But it was Bill Edwards’s Variety review of a well-attended Pasadena performance that Hudson would never forget. When his agent, Flo Allen, read the notice to him over the phone, Rock was practically levitating: “Hudson proves himself a fine actor, revealing a strong side to his dramatic talent that has seldom been explored by films. Making his dramatic stage debut, Hudson acquits himself admirably and should now be able to take his place in the ranks of exceptional stage performers.” McMillan & Wife producer Jon Epstein had the review framed and it became one of Rock’s prized possessions.

  In addition to the three leads, John Brown’s Body also featured a sixteen-member chorus (eight boys, eight girls), which provided a cappella accompaniment throughout the show. “I was in the chorus and I had this beautiful solo and I think that’s kind of how I got Rock’s attention,” says actress Florence Lacey. “We became good friends through that tour. Rock was really great about making us all equal and all together and all fun—even we lowly chorus members. The entire chorus would travel by bus from one venue to the next and Rock actually got jealous of the time that we spent on the bus. He even bought us a guitar to play on the bus. It was so sweet.”

  While the reviews of John Brown’s Body had been almost uniformly outstanding, attendance was a different story. Often the company played to half empty houses or the show was staged in locations that were far from ideal. By summer, most college campuses were deserted. For the random students hanging around the dorm, John Brown’s Body didn’t seem especially enticing.

  Despite solid reviews and strong box office during a two-week run in Florida, the tour of John Brown’s Body began to fall apart. “When we finished in Florida, they told us the rest of the tour was cancelled,” chorus member Peter Kevoian remembers. “We were all forlorn. At the airport, when it was time for all of us to fly home, you could see that Rock was having these pangs of ‘I’m never going to see these people again . . .’ So, he said to all of us, ‘There’s a party at my place. Come on over when we get back to California.’ We all gathered again at Rock’s house. Juliet Prowse was there and just a couple of other people in his life that he cared for. We had a great time. Then it came time for people to go home and Rock wouldn’t let us leave. I stayed for three days, and on the third day I said, ‘Rock, I have to go home and change my underwear.’ After that, it was a summer of parties that Rock and Tom kept inviting us to.”

  JACK COATES, WHO was still drifting in and out of Rock’s life by the mid-1970s, would introduce Hudson to Armistead Maupin after a performance of John Brown’s Body at the San Bernardino Playhouse. “The moment he extended his hand to me in a handshake, the lights went out. I recall saying, ‘Well, this is the chance of a lifetime.’ Rock laugh
ed and was a totally good sport about it. Subsequently, he came to San Francisco and invited a whole bunch of guys, including myself, out to lunch on Nob Hill. I had bragged to him that I had a story that was going to start running in the Chronicle the next morning.”

  The story turned out to be the first installment of Maupin’s highly addictive serial Tales of the City, which would perfectly capture the major cultural shifts taking place in America during the swinging 1970s. Readers would experience the sexual revolution through the wide eyes of Mary Ann Singleton, a refugee from Cleveland, Ohio, who impulsively moves to San Francisco.

  “The very first episode of Tales of the City appeared on May 24th, 1976,” Maupin recalls. “Rock, unbeknownst to me, went to the desk clerk at the Fairmont Hotel and got the bulldog edition of the Chronicle. Once we were all assembled upstairs, Rock got up and gave a very sweet, if slightly wobbly reading of the first chapter. It was astonishing to hear him reading Mrs. Singleton’s words to her runaway daughter—‘I was just watching McMillan & Wife, and there was this terrifying story about San Francisco . . .’ and there was McMillan himself doing the reading. It never stops reverberating with me. It was a huge moment in my life.”

  Coinciding with Maupin’s literary breakthrough was a long-awaited moment of truth—coming out to everyone, including his mother: “I couldn’t help but think if she knew that Rock Hudson was a friend of mine, everything would be all right because there were no reference points for heroic gay males at that time,” says Maupin. “When Rock and Tom Clark invited me to dinner in the Tenderloin, I told them that I had just come out and that my life was so much richer. I also said that it was probably time for Rock to do the same thing. Very cheeky on my part, but what the hell. I said, ‘You should write a book. Come out that way. I can help you because I know how to approach the subject matter.’ Tom said, ‘Not until my mother dies.’ I remember thinking if I were fucking Rock Hudson, I would have no problem at all telling my mother.”*

  Rock Hudson’s coming out confessional would never materialize. “He was surrounded by people who wanted to keep making money, and that meant protecting his image at all costs,” Maupin says. Despite all of the years he had been confined to the closet, Rock had never missed out on anything. In fact, he had always been way ahead of the curve, sexually speaking. And by the 1970s, the entire culture had finally caught up with him.

  It was the era of Deep Throat, Shampoo, and The Joy of Sex. If the birth control pill had emancipated straight society, the Stonewall Riots and the Gay Liberation movement had helped queer culture become more visible and mainstream than ever before. In New York, out and proud gays could visit Fire Island, the Continental Baths, and the Crisco Disco. San Francisco’s enticements included the Castro, the Purple Pickle, and an after-hours dance club known as Trocadero Transfer. No matter where the party was, Rock wanted to be there. The Bay Area above all, as it reigned supreme as a kind of pansexual Disneyland.

  “Rock thought San Francisco was his playground,” says friend Ken Maley. “He just dove right into the action. I remember when Rock and Tom were visiting San Francisco, I took them to one of the gay sex clubs called The Glory Hole.* You paid a modest entrance fee and you got a membership card. You then had to sign the card and I remember when Rock started filling his out, Tom Clark said, ‘Oh my god, he’s signing his real name!’ Rock didn’t seem self-conscious about this at all but of course, he and Tom were well cocktailed at that point.”

  Dimly lit, popper-scented, and frequented by libidinous males of every description, the club consisted of two parallel rows of cubicles—or buddy booths—that faced one another. Above this was a mezzanine level where patrons could look out over the whole room. For the voyeuristically inclined, this was about far more than getting a bird’s-eye view. As there were no ceilings on the booths, one could see all of the illicit activity taking place inside the cubicles.

  “I remember standing on the balcony with Rock and he was surveying the whole scene,” Ken Maley recalls. “Occasionally, one of the guys in the booths below us would look up from whatever he was doing and there would be this exclamation, ‘Oh my god, it’s Rock Hudson!’ He got a huge kick out of it. In fact, one of the guys there was a major fan of Rock’s but had never met him. I knew which booth this guy was in and I took Rock over, knocked on the door and pushed Rock inside. The guy nearly fainted. He was suddenly in a four-by-four space with Rock Hudson. It was probably one of the great moments in his life. Looking back, it was a grand adventure for all of us. In fact, I still have Rock’s Glory Hole membership card.”

  While San Francisco’s gay scene could never truly be replicated, Rock would make a valiant attempt back in Los Angeles. “The word would go out that there was going to be a party at The Castle and a select group would be invited to attend,” says Ken Maley. “Rock had this propensity for boy parties. If he had been out on the road or away, he would call Mark Miller, major domo at The Castle, and say, ‘Let’s have a boy party . . .’”

  At that point, Miller would call the well-connected optometrist Wes Wheadon, who would go to work. “I knew a lot of folks in the community,” says Wheadon. “If you’re going to have a pool party with a bunch of young men, you’d want to bring out the nicest eye candy that you can find and a lot of my friends were very handsome guys . . . I would call up whoever I could get my hands on and say, ‘Here’s the deal. Here’s the address. Just show up. You can have a nice day swimming and carrying on and you’ll get to meet Rock.” By the time Hudson was back in town, everything would be in place. “At the appropriate day and time, the whole courtyard and around the pool would be chock-a-block with these stunning boys,” says Ken Maley.

  The parties would become the stuff of legend. It was assumed that the guests would consider The Castle “a closed set” and not discuss anything that occurred behind its walls. If a knockout blond was invited to stay over, he would be esteemed as much for his discretion, composure, and good manners as for his physical attributes. To make certain that everyone remained on their best behavior, there would not only be one host presiding over the party but four.

  “The main hosts were Rock and Tom, though by the time the party was underway, they were pretty well cocktailed, because that’s the way the day started,” recalls Ken Maley. “Then there was Mark, who was the gatekeeper and overseer. George Nader would be there, but he always kept a very regal distance, seated in a throne-like chair. Very aloof. You never knew what George thought about the whole thing.”

  Accounts differ regarding how wild the parties really were. “In a way, Rock was very proper,” says Wes Wheadon. “I never saw him get so drunk that he got sloppy or aggressive with guests . . . It wasn’t like he was there picking up people and stuff.” Mark Tillman-Briggle attended parties at The Castle with his partner, director Stockton Briggle, and doesn’t remember witnessing anything untoward: “I don’t think Rock was ever as promiscuous as some people have made him out to be. I mean, I was at a lot of those parties in the 80’s and I never saw the kinds of things that some people have said took place. Though I do remember asking, ‘Why does everybody leave Rock’s parties so early?’ and somebody said, ‘Well, if you don’t leave early, it probably means that you’re an unemployed actor.’”

  Upon being apprised of some of the goings-on at one of Rock’s “blond Bacchanalias,” George Nader began self-deprecatingly referring to himself as “a fuddy-duddy . . . the straitlaced country cousin.” Though Nader wasn’t the only one who was taken aback. Since they had appeared together in Written on the Wind, Lauren Bacall had only seen Hudson occasionally. When they were reunited, Bacall thought she sensed something different about her former leading man:

  “It’s funny, I guess as he became more involved in the homosexual scene—maybe he wasn’t that involved with it in the beginning, I don’t know—but he changed. I remember he came backstage when I was playing Woman of the Year at the Ahmanson [Theater] in L.A. He had a mustache and he looked quite different. He was a great big, frie
ndly, sweet guy who had a secret life. Boy, he sure kept it secret—but he sure had it. [I] found out that he used to have daisy chains and gangbangs and God knows what!”

  IN 1976, AFTER five successful seasons, McMillan & Wife was revamped as McMillan. At this point, Susan Saint James and Nancy Walker—both of whom had been nominated multiple times for Emmy Awards during the run of the show—exited the series. Saint James moved on to feature films with Outlaw Blues. Walker divided her time between her own short-lived series and playing Valerie Harper’s domineering mother on Rhoda. John Schuck became a semi-regular on McMillan after he was offered his own ABC series, Holmes & Yoyo, in which he played a crime-fighting android.

  “Believe it or not but I don’t think any of those changes really affected Rock,” says Tony Kiser, who became an associate producer on the show at age twenty-four. “This was a job to him. I don’t think he thought he was making great art. He wasn’t doing Giant all over again. This wasn’t some role of a lifetime . . . When he’d finish a scene, he would go back to his trailer and work on his needlepoint. I mean, he was just the sweetest, friendliest guy but also completely private.”

  With most of the principals gone and the format retooled, there was much speculation about whether McMillan would be able to maintain its footing at the top of the Nielsen ratings. Universal’s television division remained confident that as long as they had Rock (at $125,000 an episode), they would be fine.

  In an attempt to breathe some new life into the series, Martha Raye came on board as Commissioner McMillan’s housekeeper, Agatha—sister to Nancy Walker’s Mildred. Network executives initially resisted the idea of casting the sixty-year-old Raye but Hudson insisted.

  Also hired at Hudson’s urging was Peter Kevoian, the young actor whom Rock had befriended during the tour of John Brown’s Body. “Rock was an amazing gentleman,” says Kevoian. “But a little sad by the time I worked with him. It was like his career had peaked and McMillan was coming to an end. He drank a little too much and smoked too much for his own good but he was a true friend . . . I auditioned for the role of a young officer on McMillan but didn’t get it. Rock called me and said, ‘You didn’t get the part but I asked them to give you an episode. We’ll write you into the show. We’ll get you your SAG card. I want you to come on the set and learn as much as you can. That’s what I can make happen for you.’ And he did everything that he promised.”