Apparently there were co.., p.25
Apparently There Were Complaints, page 25
I was allowed to pick one wig. I chose the red one.
Then the thing that Ron and Dan were concerned might happen did happen. It was my first day of shooting. The show was already in production for about two weeks in August before I came in. I was given a call time of 11 a.m. I arrived on the set and got into costume, wig, and makeup. Every actor on the show had a small dressing room with a makeup mirror over a counter, a bathroom, and a couch. It was fine with me. I knew the deal when I signed on. So, once I was ready, I went to my dressing room, sat on my little couch with my script, and waited to do my scene. I am never late. One hour passed, then three more, then it was midnight. At 5 a.m., I was finally called to the set to shoot my scene. I had been waiting for eighteen hours.
The director did nothing at all to make Debbie Novotny’s introduction to the viewers special. The scene takes place in the diner. My son, Michael, comes in with the new kid, Justin. Debbie nicknames him “Sunshine.” I had some fun ideas of how to introduce Debbie to the viewers. The director didn’t care. He barely made eye contact with me, was uninterested in any suggestion I had, and basically treated me as if I were a person who had never been on a soundstage before.
I tried to keep my cool, but I was infuriated by his arrogance and lack of imagination. Clearly, I had a dose of arrogance myself.
I had been trained early on in my career that at the end of a day of filming, you never leave the set without personally thanking the director. It was a tradition I had always honored—until that morning.
Instead, as soon as we were wrapped, I phoned my agent.
After that, I went to Ron and Dan’s office with my complaint. They had one, too. About me. They were unhappy that I had called my agent. They were sympathetic, but it was complicated. A lot was on the line for them with this two-hour launch episode. They pretty much let me know that they had “warned” me. And they had. I was in tears.
The truth was, I didn’t understand their key concerns. I had not played a supporting role for decades. I had always been on one of the major networks. I had never done a cable show. I was clueless about the way it might transpire.
I didn’t identify it on that day in Ron and Dan’s office, but now it’s evident to me. This leading lady had to adjust to becoming a supporting player. It was a harsh wake-up call for me, like a cold shower at a campground when you’re used to a Jacuzzi tub at the Four Seasons.
I took a deep breath, tamped down my residual anger, and then said, “Here’s my request. I will wait for as many hours as the director needs to get his shit together until he gets to my scene. However, once I’m on the soundstage, and it’s my time on camera, you have to give me time to work. Don’t rush my scene because you got yourselves in a bind. Please.”
That was my only ask. They agreed.
I never complained again for the entire five-year run and neither did they.
Showtime did a screening of the pilot for an invited audience in Los Angeles. Barney went with me. He was stunned that I would let myself appear in a TV show looking like that—I was overweight and wearing a cheap red wig and gaudy clothes. He thought it was a career crusher and let me know it.
I didn’t have the same worry. I knew I had reinvented my career with the most interesting female television role available that year. The people who attended the screening applauded my scenes and came to talk to me afterward. They fell for Debbie as hard as I had. I knew TV viewers would have the same reaction.
When the lights came up, Barney said, “I was wrong. It works. They love you.”
Then he added, “But that director certainly didn’t know how to introduce you.”
I appreciated his apology.
Often interviewers will ask me why I wanted to be in Queer as Folk. I always tell them, “I did it because I thought there would be trouble. And I love trouble.”
And I will thank Jerry Offsay, Ron Cowen, and Dan Lipman for the rest of my life for letting me in. They brought me back, and for five years we made wonderful memories.
Forty-Three I’ll Be There
“I had to tell Michael he was gay so he didn’t have to tell me first.”
Debbie Novotny says these words to Justin’s mother after she returns the teenage runaway back to his front door.
Over the years, many people have told me how much they loved that line from Queer as Folk.
I didn’t write the line. I wrote none of Debbie’s dialogue. I didn’t alter a word. I was just the lucky one who got to say it. It’s why I wanted to play this character. I knew she could cause change.
One morning during the first week of filming, Michelle Clunie, who played Melanie, was in the makeup trailer at the same time I was. When she was finished, she stopped by my chair on her way out.
“None of us would have done this show,” Michelle told me, with tears in her eyes. “We were all so afraid that it would end our careers because the content is so shocking. But then we heard you were going to be in it. We all decided that if Sharon Gless thought it was worth the risk, then we could do it, too.”
I was both flattered and floored. Ironically, I’d done the show because I thought it would help my career!
Filming that first episode, we all knew that we had signed on for a groundbreaker. In those days, truly daring TV shows about gay life didn’t exist. TV studios usually want a safe and popular hit. When you sign on for something radical and new, there is no safety net.
There was no Queer Eye for the Straight Guy or The L Word when we debuted. Those shows didn’t appear until years later. Somebody had to be brave enough to start it. Jerry Offsay, Showtime president, took the chance.
I think everyone who worked on Queer as Folk held their breath the night the show premiered. We expected backlash from the religious right, or strong “warning” reviews, maybe a petition or two against Showtime. We didn’t hear a peep. Unbelievably, our premiere happened on the very night that George W. Bush stole the election from Al Gore in Florida. The religious right was focused on their political victory. The rest of America was stunned and sad. The show slid in under the radar and stayed relatively unnoticed by the press until it gained an audience and momentum. The producers had anticipated that gay people would find the show, but their expected audience numbers doubled. It became a pop culture phenomenon.
Showtime discovered that heterosexual women were making Queer as Folk appointment TV. They watched by the scores, intrigued by the sexy and beautiful men. Then their boyfriends would watch with them, hoping for payoff with their turned-on girlfriends.
Viewers may have first tuned in out of curiosity about the sex scenes, but they stayed fans for all five years because the show had heart, loyal and tumultuous relationships, and ever-evolving friendships. Okay, it had great sex, too.
Only the actors and the camera operator were allowed on the set during filming of any scene involving sex.
Believe me, I tried to inconspicuously watch, but the director would always laugh and say, “Sharon. Go to your room.”
These actors were not exhibitionists. They were real actors, and they courageously gave full life to each character.
Because we were all far away from home, the cast became very close. It was an intimate show. And our friendships reflected that intimacy. We are still close to this day.
One of my all-time favorite scenes was with Gale Harold, who played Brian. Debbie has heard that Brian lost his job, and she goes to his loft to comfort him. She arrives with a tuna casserole in hand to find Brian sitting on the floor, stoned. Despite admitting that she hasn’t smoked pot since Woodstock, Debbie joins Brian on the floor to share a joint.
The last time I had smoked pot was in the early 1980s. All I remembered about being stoned was that there were always long gaps in the conversation.
At the table read for this episode, I said to Gale, “Let’s make this scene how it really is when you’re stoned. Okay?”
Gale nodded. “Following your lead.”
We read the scene with a six- to ten-second pause between each line. The actors, producers, and writers at the table broke into laughter and then applauded at the end.
As the relationships developed season to season, it became obvious that Debbie had a potent power over Brian. She could call him on his shit like no one else could. He is vulnerable with her in ways that he never is with other characters. And, God love Gale, he was willing to go there with me every time.
Right before our final season, Rosie O’Donnell was shooting a movie in Toronto and was working with crewmembers from Queer as Folk. She told them she loved the show and wanted to be on it. Of course, everyone thought it was a great idea. Rosie had certain caveats, however. She told the producers that she did not want to play herself and that all of her scenes had to be with Sharon Gless.
They honored her wishes.
Rosie played Loretta, a woman who escaped an abusive marriage, came to work in the diner, and fell for Debbie. She brings her roses and homemade candy. Debbie thinks it’s a sweet gesture of friendship. Peter Paige’s character, Emmett, gives Debbie the wake-up call that Loretta’s feelings are romantic.
Then, one evening, after three drinks, Debbie leans in to kiss Loretta. The next day she has no memory of what she did. Loretta hasn’t forgotten.
Rosie was in three episodes. She was wonderful. Later, she sent me a dozen red roses, with a card that read, “You’re a good kisser.”
I was flattered. It was the first time I had heard that from a woman. But then again, it was the first time I had ever kissed a woman.
I’ve had gay friends my entire adult life, but until I was on Queer as Folk, I didn’t know a lot about the struggles and concerns of the gay community. Debbie was a true advocate and activist. As a PFLAG (Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays) mom, she knew the issues. I learned quickly what they were.
Ever since Queer as Folk, gay men will approach me as I am leaving events, movie theaters, restaurants, and even on the street to ask if I will give them a hug. I’m always happy to do that. Many will express how often they had wished to be accepted by their parents. Once, I embraced a young man, and he started weeping in my arms. I stood and held him, thinking, “My God, the damage that has been done to this boy!”
I’ve never consciously adopted as my own the principles of a character in the way that I adopted Debbie Novotny’s. She was a bold advocate for gay and lesbian rights, and I learned a great deal from her. Anytime the gay community needs me, I’ll be there.
* * *
One of the first things I did after the show wrapped was to accept Rosie O’Donnell’s invitation to be a guest on her second R Family Vacations cruise. She and her then wife, Kelli, wanted to provide an opportunity for the gay community to take a vacation with their kids, friends, and other families like their own. Rosie chartered a complete cruise ship. It was an instant hit. She made a sensational two-hour documentary on the virgin cruise. It was nominated for five Emmys.
For years, Rosie lived part-time on the island next to Fisher Island in Florida. I would ferry to the bridge and walk to her house. We’d talk for hours. She’s smart and funny, as well as very politically savvy.
I liked her more and more every time we hung out together.
We were having dinner one night and I said, “Ro, I love you so much. I mean, do you feel… do you think…?”
I didn’t even know what I was expecting. She was married. I was married. I was obviously confused. She was not.
Rosie smiled and said, “Oh, Glessy, no. Never. You are so straight.”
I was disappointed. And very relieved.
So, for all of you who thought since the first episode of Cagney & Lacey that I was gay… well, I gave it my best fucking shot with the number one lesbian on the planet.
And she turned me down flat.
Forty-Four Apparently There Were Complaints
In Alcoholics Anonymous, they count the number of years a person has stayed sober in the same way most people count birthdays. I never made it to my Sweet Sixteen. I started drinking again on my actual sixtieth birthday in May 2003. Perhaps, had I attended AA meetings over those fifteen years following my stay at Hazelden, I wouldn’t have started again. Who knows? It doesn’t matter. It’s now many martinis under the bridge.
Barney and I were still considering a divorce, though no one else in our immediate world knew about it. I was still residing in Toronto to film Queer as Folk.
With everything in flux, I had not given much thought to my approaching sixtieth birthday. Family members began asking me about how I planned to celebrate. I finally chose a birthday bash weekend in Las Vegas for thirty guests, with rooms at the Four Seasons. We chartered a private bus to drive most of us from Los Angeles to Vegas. On the way, we all viewed my favorite movies and listened to my favorite music. Besides three days of gambling, we arranged tickets for all of us to go to Cirque du Soleil, as well as dinners in the best restaurants.
The night of my birthday dinner, we all gathered at a restaurant where Barney had reserved a private room. As was his custom, he sat me at the head table with my brothers on each side of me.
Before dinner was served, I leaned over to Michael and whispered, “Will you ask the waiter to bring me a martini?”
He never batted an eye.
“With pleasure,” Michael responded.
As the evening progressed, I happily sipped on my one martini. I never ordered a second one. Not one person in the room noticed there was a drink in my hand. I hadn’t held one for fifteen years.
Since the birthday martini didn’t change my personality, I convinced myself that I could have an occasional drink and be perfectly fine. I was sure that all of the cautions I had learned at Hazelden didn’t apply to me.
There’s a reason it’s said that denial is the primary roadblock to recovery. I thought a little cocktail detour would be a harmless way to improve the landscape of my life. And, honestly, it did. I had a lovely time drinking again. No one else in my life seemed to have a complaint about it. My having one cocktail seemed to be acceptable in the “social drinking” realm.
One summer break, between seasons of Queer as Folk, I returned to Miami with the intention of figuring out the details of the end of my marriage. It was time to divide the spoils.
Barney said, “Your job is to bring two pads of paper and two pens.”
We sat at a table in our Fisher Island apartment, legal pads in hand and a long night ahead.
“Before we start,” I offered, “I owe you an apology.”
Barney looked up from the notes he was jotting down. “What’s that?”
I said, “As you know, I never thought I was pretty. But recently I found photos of myself as Cagney. I looked at one and thought, ‘Gosh, I really was pretty, at least in a photo.’ I know what I look like now. I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I did.”
Barney got tears in his eyes and said, “Sharon, I was a poor Jewish boy from east LA. All I ever dreamed about was a beautiful blonde shiksa. I finally had my dream, and within a year, you were gone.”
I said, “I’m sorry, Barney.”
He replied, “I’m sorry, too, for being so shallow.”
It wasn’t as if we allowed the marriage to crumble without trying to fix it. We saw many relationship counselors for couples therapy over our first ten years together.
During regular therapy sessions, we would be horrifically spiteful to one another. It was safe to let it all come out with the therapist in the room, but it was a little scary how mean we could be. Oddly, following each hour-long session, when we were alone, we would be the kindest we had been all week to one another.
Someone highly recommended a specific couples therapist to Barney. I agreed to go, though it was an hour drive from where we lived.
The counselor’s office was in a small pool house behind his regular home. The pool was only about ten inches from the side of the garage. There was no other walkway to get to his office. We had to shimmy sideways the length of the pool, our backs hugging the wall, to not fall into the water. Barney was already looking apologetic. I didn’t say a word.
The therapy session was equally ridiculous. We had to play word-association games for an hour. I didn’t dare look at Barney.
At the end of our session, the therapist got a very serious look on his face, leaned in, and said, “May I ask you both a question?”
We both said, “Sure.”
With complete seriousness, he inquired, “Do you know Al Pacino?”
I’m sure the look on my face reflected my thought, “What? What did you just say?”
Finally, I spoke up
“No. I do not. Barney?”
I turned to stare at the side of Barney’s face.
He somehow held it together. “No. No, I don’t.”
We left, silently scooting sideways along the garage wall to get back to our car. Once the car door was shut, I looked over at Barney. “Al fucking Pacino? Do I happen to know Al fucking Pacino?! Don’t ever do this to me again, Barney!”
He didn’t.
One of the last couples therapists we saw wisely said, “If I were to give you a relationship diagnosis, I would say that this marriage is over.”
Barney and I both stopped talking. This wasn’t what we expected.
The therapist explained. “The truth is,” he said to me, “you fell in love with Barney because he was powerful. And power is a great aphrodisiac. He made things happen for you. He was the boss. He’s not that anymore.”
Then he turned to Barney. “And you fell in love with Sharon because she was beautiful. She’s not that anymore.”
We sat silent. He continued, “The reasons you came together as a couple no longer exist. So what are the two of you going to do?”
We had no answer to his question.
The therapist said, “What I would suggest you do is either call it quits in a kind manner and be done with it all or, when you leave here, go out this door and introduce yourselves again. See if you like one another as you are today. You may. You may not.”
