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Descent of the divas | page 1, 2
Still, even Ricci hasn't managed to tickle a collective fancy. Diva die-hards, and some feminists, have tended to blame the new talent for not measuring up. But iconic stardom requires more than Promethean talent. Such status only rises from the kettle of context, the mix between a star, his or her fans and the sociopolitical backdrop that brought them together. Without AIDS, would Madonna's tell-all sexuality have drawn such cheers? Without the claustrophobic closet, would Garland have induced violence? (The Stonewall riot occurred on the day of Garland's funeral. Some say that emotion-charged event may have been a contributing factor in pushing things to the breaking point at Stonewall.) No way, Clum and others say. But collective reminiscing only goes so far, particularly when so many are too young to have been there. Today, gay Americans can see their lives reflected in TV's "Will and Grace" or in Kevin Kline's gay character from "In and Out." They can ogle and repeat the lines spoken by gay stars such as Rupert Everett ("An Ideal Husband"). They may even continue to wonder about the oft-debated proclivities of Tom Cruise. With such culture, and without a collective enemy to spur fans on, how can the divas measure up? Musto, Signorile and others insist that the second generation of divas -- Streisand, Cher, Liza Minnelli -- are stronger than their predecessors. Indeed, Garland, who died at 47, was not exactly the picture of psychological or physical strength. But the boomers are hardly without flaws. Their campy charm simply doesn't resonate as powerfully as it did in the '80s, when AIDS caught the gay community unaware, and created a desire for life-affirming (think "Mask") catharsis. These days, Cher looks like a shrink-wrapped version of her former self, while Streisand has retreated like a female Howard Hughes: We only find out about her when she auctions off her hair dryers, or a piece of her furniture. On-screen, neither has broken away from the sentimental. The weepy roles made their careers, but when they're played at middle age they inspire big gulps of pity, if not disgust. Gay Gen Xers -- those who often don't fit the "hopeless romantic" stereotype, who want monogamy and are marrying across the nation in droves -- don't want to identify with another Yentl, says D.J. White, 27, an associate producer for "After Stonewall," the PBS documentary that captured the collage of gay culture, 1969 to the present. No one wants Minelli either. Trafficking in the obsession with Garland, her mother, she is filling seats, but her all-male chorus has drawn at least as many eyes as the star herself. Even Madonna, despite her techno-reemergence with "Ray of Light," can't inspire longings that match her days as the material girl who, on MTV, always seemed to be on her knees "praying." "To me, they've meant nothing," White says of divas, past and present. They are, after all, only entertainers. Other role models abound. And perhaps not surprisingly, many live in the world of finance. Though most of America is enjoying prosperity, gay men -- statistically wealthier and better-educated than their straight counterparts -- are best positioned to take advantage of the investing frenzy. And White, among others, has noticed. "I have more respect for the guy who started Quark, Inc.," he says, referring to Tim Gill, the openly gay businessman who spearheaded gay philanthropy in 1994 by founding the Gill Foundation, a charity with an $80 million endowment. "He built his life out of intelligence. I respect someone like that much more than an entertainer." And White is not alone. The New Hampshire native dresses chiefly in Gap-style clothing and sneakers, wears his hair closely cropped, attends the gym only occasionally and like many gay men of his generation, has grown tired of being cut out of the homosexual family portrait. "The media is obsessed with flamboyance," he says, stressing that gay culture -- assuming it exists at all -- means more than Ru Paul. White traveled across the country for "After Stonewall" and discovered that many gay men have little interest in diva figures, just as few now own Garland albums, or care for the sappy sentimentalism of Streisand or the many masks of Madonna. When looking for heroes, most look to those around them. "Everybody's out of the closet now," White says. "Before, 'friend of Dorothy' was a code for being gay, while only the most flamboyant were out of the closet, chiefly because they had no choice. It was obvious. But now, so many more are out, and those code words aren't needed anymore. I didn't look up to celebrities. I looked to history, to Leonardo Da Vinci, or to gay friends." Clum, the diva-loving professor at Duke, considers this progress. "I don't think Judy Garland is someone that an all-together person would identify with," he says. And White agrees, noting that he shouldn't have to wear his homosexuality on his body, nor reveal it through his CD collection. While filming "After Stonewall," many gay men expressed a similar lack of interest in divas, but they all spoke of such matters in hushed tones. The media and the older veterans of the gay community often don't recognize the pressure they put on those who don't fit the mold, he says. "It's kind of annoying. Why should I have to prove to them that I'm gay?" It's not that White doesn't respect the older generation of gay men. He does, particularly Larry Kramer, the playwright and activist who founded the Gay Men's Health Crisis. And he tends to laugh off most of the hostility as ardor rather than anger. But older gay men need to understand the lack of interest in divas not as a loss, but rather as a welcome result of today's freer society. "We've always been this way," White says. "But before everyone came out, there wasn't as much freedom to be open about your views." That freedom may not spring eternal. The killing of Matthew Shepard proved that homophobia endures, just as Clinton proved that political promises can easily end up diluted. Divadom may once again rise if discrimination or AIDS once again grabs hold of the gay consciousness. But until then, the gay community has itself to scrutinize. The fall of the divas is only a minor point -- they are, once again, only entertainers. But it signifies other rifts, fault lines that have only recently started to shake. At the 1998 gay pride parade in New York City, White watched through a camera lens as Mayor Rudolph Giuliani trotted down Fifth Avenue flanked by a dozen Log Cabin Republicans, members of the "nation's largest gay and lesbian Republican organization." Out from the curb rushed a militant crew of 20 lesbians and gays. Their shirts read, "Rudy, get out of our parade," and that's what they screamed, White says. Security guards whisked them quickly away, but shock remained on the Republicans' faces. Already, they stood out if only for their preppy attire. But their faces are what stuck in White's mind. "They were really confused. That was the craziest scene of the day." And it was one that contrasts sharply with Stonewall's June evening of 1969. "They may be dorks," he says of Giuliani's gay supporters. "But let them do what they want."
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