Remembering Gay Icon Elaine Stritch

Remembering Gay Icon Elaine Stritch
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2015-07-13-1436811601-7772352-Elaine_Stritch_2_Allan_Warren.jpg
Image of Elaine Stritch in her dressing room Savoy Theatre, London, by Alan Warren, courtesy of Wikipedia Commons

Theatre legend Elaine Stritch died one year ago on 17 July. As the anniversary of her death approaches Alex Hopkins shares his personal memories of an icon who lived on her own terms

I first met Elaine Stritch in 2002. She was about to open in her one woman show, Elaine Stritch at Liberty, at The Old Vic. The show had already won plaudits on Broadway and would go on to win Stritch a Tony Award.

Shamefully, I had not heard of the 78 year old star who was about to take London's theatre world by storm, but my friend Velma had. Velma (real name Ian), was known as one of London's finest men's hairdressers. After years of working in The Savoy, he had taken over the salon directly outside the hotel. Numerous celebrities had sat in Velma's chair and he had outrageous stories about all of them ("Arthur Laurents? A poison dwarf, dear"; "Leonard Bernstein? Glorious, but I fear he picked up my cold...he carked it soon after"(, but little did he know that he was about to face his greatest coiffeuring challenge yet.

Velma wasn't Stritch's hairdresser to start with - that honour was left to a corpulent, simpering, American queen in his late 40s, with a comb over like the maginot line - but Velma's salon, Number 10, was used as Stritch's base: each day, before she was driven to the Old Vic, she'd stride out of the Savoy and plump herself down in one of Velma's chairs as her haidresser set to work.

Velma texted me the first day she arrived: "She's here, dear. But be very careful when you walk in. She's NOT in a good mood." I edged my way carefully into the salon. Stritch had her back to me, but her face was visible in the mirror - those clear blue eyes sparkled fiercely as they followed every movement the shaking hairdresser made with the setting lotion. "For fuck's sake, get a grip will yer?" she screamed. Velma shot me an anxious look and we retreated into the backroom as the hairdresser dropped the comb.

I can recall the exact moment Velma introduced me to Elaine. She was about to leave the salon and grabbed for her fur coat. She stared directly into my eyes and shook my hand firmly. "Come to the show," she demanded. "Ian, I'll see you tomorrow." And then she was gone, swept up in back of her car.

Over the next few weeks Velma went on 'Stritch Watch', and I'd receive regular updates via text: "Stritch has just left the Savvy, dear - she's in a GREEN turban" ; "Her hairdresser just presented Stritch with Gladioli. 'I fucking hate gladioli,' she bellowed." After it became clear that her hairdresser couldn't "cut the mustard", he was spectacularly sacked and Velma took over as Stritch's hairdresser - dressing the immaculate grey locks of one of his greatest idols, for the whole of the Old Vic run.

Velma and Elaine got to know one another. They talked. She gave him the theatrical anecdotes that he loved and he soaked them up. But she also let him talk. Sitting alone in his salon he slowly opened up about the hidden pain in his life: his longterm partner, John, was sitting at home killing himself with vodka and parasitical young men. At first Velma was careful what he said. His experience with celebrities had told him that they often only wanted to hear so much and that their ego was all that really mattered. But Elaine had surprised him. She had listened and empathised. She spoke candidly about her own experiences with alcohol, and by placing a hand gently on Ian's shoulder she made him feel a little less frightened.

I will never forget the generosity that Elaine showed both myself and Ian during that month in London. She made sure tickets were available whenever we wanted to see her show and invited us to her first night party. But for a woman who defined the Broadway stage, there was nothing of the cult of celebrity about her. "I don't do that star bullshit," she told us one day. My overriding image of her is at that first night party. She arrived late and entered the huge room alone, without any fanfare. We looked up and suddenly she was there, standing at the top of the stairs, in her trouser suit, Pepsi bottle in hand, eyeing the crowd below carefully - at once a part of this showbiz world, but also entirely separate from it.

Her abruptness could be daunting, but it earnt her unanimous respect. You knew where you were with Stritch. I remember an afternoon in her suite. She answered the door in a dressing gown and pointed to the bathroom. A tub, the size of a small flat, was overflowing with flowers. "What a fucking waste," she snapped. "They'll only die!" She then turned to Ian, pointing at a beautiful bouquet of orchids: "those are from Elton; you have them." I was battling alcohol problems of my own at the time and spoke to Elaine briefly about this. "Get a hold of it or it'll finish you off," she said. Those words were more powerful than many sessions with a trained drink counsellor. But you also knew when you'd over stepped the mark and hit a nerve. "Do you miss booze, Elaine?" I'd naively asked. She'd slammed her fists down on the table as those fiercely intelligent eyes bore into me. "Of course I fucking miss booze. Every fucking day! Now pass the coffee." Her talent was taking the pain and frustration she'd shown in those few seconds - which must have been unbearable at times - and translating it into art.

This art came from her status as an outsider; Stritch answered to no one. She didn't care what others thought - what other woman, pushing 80, would have ripped up a stage every night in nothing but an oversized white shirt and pair of form-fitting black tights? She had no time for self-indulgence and advocated utter integrity. Talent, for her, meant hard work and complete honesty. She was indefatigable in her quest for the truth and embraced both her personal failings and life's cruelties with hilarious self-deprecation. But above all of this, she was wise and sincere. And those were the qualities she lived by - both on and off the stage.

In 2008, six years after her triumphant Old Vic show, Elaine brought a slightly truncated version of Elaine Stritch at Liberty back to London - to The Shaw Theatre. Although she stumbled over a few lines, she remained peerless. Belting out the same songs in that inimitable, gravel-like voice, she hoisted herself up on a stool, dragged it around the stage and fumed and rejoiced at the insanity of humankind. It was a masterclass in joy.

But it was what Elaine revealed when off duty that really touched me. Hearing that Elaine was returning to London, my friend Velma had called and left a message for her at the Carlyle Hotel, her New York residence. Velma was in France when Elaine called back - his nephew was house sitting and picked up the phone.

"This old woman called for you. She was extremely abrupt. 'Tell him Elaine called,' was all she said. Then she hung up."

Velma called Elaine back when she arrived in London.

"Yeah, Ian, what do you want?" she asked, as direct as ever. Velma stumbled - it had been years since they'd seen each other and he'd forgotten just how no-nonsense she was. But then they'd talked, just as they had those eight years ago. And, again, Elaine listened. She fell silent as Ian explained that the drink had finally got John - leaving him dead, in a pool of blood, on the bed they had once shared. Ian wept and then pulled himself together - and still Elaine listened and in her silence Ian knew that she understood; that was all that he needed to know.

"You take care of yourself, Ian. We need you," she'd said quietly before she hung up.

The best people in our lives, no matter how long we know them, have the gift of making us feel valued and a little less alone. Elaine Stritch had that gift in spades.

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