For a few months there I began to think that I was destined to agree with and generally admire all gay books. This time though, I’ve found a book that wasn’t written for me. I reacted to this book in much the same way that I reacted to The Big Chill upon first viewing: “This may well be a masterpiece, but I’ll be damned if I can find anything here to sink my hooks into.” The generational gap (or my naivete) may well be to blame.
This is a gay life story that includes many characters but really is mostly about New York City and Fire Island in the mid 1970’s. The plot spans about 6 years, but the passage of time is marked only by the right of passage from the “guy who gets looked at by others who long for him” to the “guy who looks at others longing for them.”
I’ll be nice first. There are some reasonable themes here. Nature abhors a vacuum, and humans tend to follow the laws of entropy. In other words, we fall into ruts very easily. In the 1970’s, the ruts were the use of drugs, the ridiculous make-or-break emphasis on penis size, and the unmistakable need to dance. Okay, that last one has survived in me.
Another reasonable theme is the embodiment of indifference in the character of Malone. The effectiveness of indifference on one’s overall appeal is a rarely explored subject, and Holleran’s view is refreshing. Malone, after all, is the one (and only) character whose penis size is never mentioned and apparently, never of interest. For this to occur in an environment where the less fortunate “crumble into dust” when their shortcomings are revealed, speaks loudly. At the beginning of the book, Malone wants to be liked by everyone. In the end, everyone wants to be liked by Malone. Cool, relaxed indifference, coupled with his infectious love of life, make this possible.
Now on to the problems. Malone’s character doesn’t always ring true. At one point, Sutherland, the other main character who becomes Malone’s mentor of gay New York, discovers he is sitting on a gold mine. Poof! He’s a pimp, and Malone, his protege. If Malone is the last holdout in the quest for love, why accept this fate without question? It doesn’t make him look indifferent, it makes him look untrue to himself. Perhaps it is Malone’s unspoken faith and trust in Sutherland, which, in itself, appears to be accepted without question. I’m not sure I could put much faith in a man who says, “Oh, don’t ask, darling...if it’s a pill, take it.”
The dialogue is in precious short supply throughout, buffeted by paragraphs that stretch for pages. All too often, characters are simply speaking, not necessarily to anyone in particular, merely a snip of a conversation that was worthy of saving, yet which isn’t. Mercifully, Sutherland does most of the talking throughout, as much in camp as he is in drag. Excellent one-liners abound wherever Sutherland goes.
In the end, Dancer from the Dance paints a picture of gay life that I find utterly unappealing. If it is an accurate representation of the urban, post-Stonewall scene, then all I can say is, yuck. Even then, a question remains: If New York and Fire Island are so incredible, so tantalizing, then what are the drugs for? Shouldn’t the environment be its own stimulant? Of course the answer is, without the drugs, one would fall into depression. After all, what joy is there in waking up to find that you really did look longingly at a deserted street, that you really do mark the beginning of Spring by the first whiff of piss rising from the rest rooms, that you really have slept with everybody and remember only “to the quarter inch” each one’s penis size?
One final ding. This book is written in the unusual first-person omniscient. But who the hell is speaking? Why doesn’t anyone call the narrator by name, and why doesn’t he identify? He’s the storyteller who was there, but who wasn’t. The detachment was annoying!
Sour grapes? I’m afraid so.