I first saw Midnight Cowboy at a drive-in movie theater in El Paso shortly before graduating from high school. A friend who signed my yearbook wrote "I hope you're not like the Midnight Cowboy" which I figured was a reference to the fact that I would be going to college in New York rather than than my deeply hidden sexual orientation. But maybe not, as I eventually learned: the date I took to the drive-in, the smartest person in Andress High School, may have outed me because of my X-rated movie choice and my lack of enthusiasm for making out with her in the back seat.
Perhaps I was less titillated than stunned. The decaying New York City captured by director John Schlesinger (and re-conjured by Frankel from contemporary sources and interviews) could not have been more frightening. What had I gotten myself into by accepting Columbia's invitation to join its Class of '75? What had my parents been thinking?
That's all water long under the bridge, but reading Frankel's delicious book made it come rushing back in strong current of nostalgia for the days when my adopted home was dirty, dangerous and cheap. I remember the thrill of encountering my first couple of film location shoots, too (The Eyes of Laura Mars, Hair and Cruising), before concluding that no matter how much I loved movies, I could never contemplate their production as a career choice because of all that waiting around.
Frankel doesn't make you wait for anything and leaves nothing out. He traces the movie's beginning as a novel by Jim Herlihy, a closeted gay man who spent a lot of time hanging out in Times Square, to the real story behind its X rating and eventual Oscar haul. Along the way, he chronicles Midnight Cowboy's peculiar embrace by John Schlesinger, another closeted gay man who directed Darling, the definitive depiction of Swinging London in the 60s; its perfect casting of a known (Dustin Hoffman, burning hot from The Graduate, got cold feet after seeing the finished product and refused to stump for it fearing the homosexual subtext would end his career) and unknown (Jon Voight, whose equally brilliant performance was overshadowed by Tinsel Town's affection for John Wayne in the Best Actor race); the surprising selection of a definitive song ("Everybody's Talking") by a Florida-born folk singer who captured the film's hopeful soul; and Andy Warhol's jealousy over Hollywood's appropriation of his underground films' territory (male hustling).
I can't wait to watch the film again especially after dimly recognizing co-star Brenda Vaccaro last night in a reboot of another iconic New York entertainment that perfectly illuminates the difference between the city of then and now!
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