Forgotten Queers

Jody Dallas, played by Billy Crystal, was one of the first openly gay characters on American television—and not just a sidekick or a punchline, but a fully realized, messy, lovable human being.When Soap premiered in 1977, Jody wasn’t just groundbreaking—he was controversial. A gay man in a primetime comedy? That alone had people clutching their pearls.But what made Jody revolutionary wasn’t just his identity—it was his story.Jody is introduced as a sensitive young man struggling with his sexuality, his family’s expectations, and a world that doesn’t quite know what to do with him. His mother? Not exactly waving a pride flag. His life? A chaotic mix of love, rejection, and trying to figure out where he belongs.And here’s where it gets complicated.At one point, Jody considers gender transition—not because he is transgender in the way we understand today, but because he believes it’s the only way to have a socially acceptable relationship with a man he loves. That storyline, while problematic by today’s standards, opened the door to conversations TV had never touched before.Throughout the series, Jody’s romantic life is… let’s call it “eventful.”He falls in love more than once, gets his heart broken more than once, and constantly searches for something stable in a world that keeps shifting under him. His relationships highlight a painful truth of the time: queer people were often denied lasting, happy love stories.But then there are moments—beautiful, quiet, deeply human moments—where Jody finds connection.Including one unforgettable hospital scene where a fellow patient delivers a monologue about love—how it can happen more than once, how it can surprise you, how it’s never really out of reach. It’s one of the most tender affirmations of queer hope ever aired at the time.Jody also forms a meaningful friendship with a lesbian character, offering a rare depiction of queer community on television—long before that was common.And while Soap is a comedy—wild, absurd, over-the-top—Jody’s story is often its emotional center.💡Why Jody Dallas MattersJody Dallas walked so that characters on shows like Will & Grace, Queer as Folk, and beyond could run.He wasn’t perfect representation—far from it. His storylines were sometimes misguided, shaped by a culture that didn’t yet understand queer identity.But he was visible.He was vulnerable.And most importantly—he was human.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Assumptions is a character-driven novel that digs into how quickly we judge—and how wrong we can be when we do. The story centers on a group of interconnected characters whose lives overlap in unexpected ways. At first glance, each person seems easy to define: their identities, their relationships, their motivations all appear straightforward. But as the narrative unfolds, those initial impressions begin to crack. Secrets surface, perspectives shift, and what once felt certain becomes complicated. At its core, the book explores how assumptions—about identity, love, morality, and even ourselves—can shape our actions in ways we don’t fully understand. It asks: What happens when the stories we tell ourselves about other people turn out to be incomplete… or completely wrong? There are strong emotional undercurrents throughout—relationships are tested, truths are revealed slowly, and characters are forced to confront not just each other, but their own biases. The novel also touches on themes of belonging, self-acceptance, and the courage it takes to live authentically, especially when the world around you is quick to label and dismiss. By the end, Assumptions doesn’t just challenge how the characters see each other—it challenges the reader to reflect on their own snap judgments, and what might be hiding beneath them.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

A Brief History of George MichaelBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Tig Notaro Turning Pain Into Punchlines Tig Notaro is one of the most quietly revolutionary comedians working today. Not because she’s loud or flashy—she’s not—but because she has done something far more difficult: she made raw, uncomfortable truth not only watchable, but deeply, painfully funny. Born Mathilde O’Callaghan Notaro on March 24, 1971, Tig grew up in Texas and Mississippi. Her childhood wasn’t exactly idyllic. She has described it as chaotic, marked by instability and a complicated relationship with her mother, Sue. That relationship—messy, loving, frustrating—would later become one of the emotional cores of her work. Comedy wasn’t her first plan. Tig bounced around creatively, initially pursuing music before finding her way into stand-up in her late twenties. When she did land in comedy, though, she developed a voice that stood out almost immediately. Her style was understated, almost deceptively casual. No big gestures, no forced punchlines—just a slow, dry delivery that let the humor sneak up on you. It felt like she was thinking out loud and you just happened to be there for it. For years, Tig built a steady career in comedy—respected, but not yet a household name. She performed on radio shows like This American Life, worked the club circuit, and collaborated with fellow comedians. She also co-hosted the podcast Professor Blastoff, where science, philosophy, and humor collided in ways that felt both smart and completely ridiculous. Then came 2012. In what can only be described as a relentless series of blows, Tig’s life unraveled in a matter of months. First, she suffered from a severe case of C. diff infection, a painful and often dangerous bacterial infection that attacks the digestive system. Around the same time, her mother died suddenly after a fatal accident. Tig has spoken about how complicated their relationship was, but there’s no question that the loss hit hard—harder than she expected. As if that weren’t enough, her long-term relationship ended. And then came the diagnosis: bilateral breast cancer. Cancer in both breasts. It was the kind of year that would break most people. Instead, Tig Notaro walked onstage. At Largo in Los Angeles, she began her set with a line that would become one of the most famous openings in modern stand-up: “Hello. I have cancer.” There was no buildup. No easing into it. Just the truth, dropped into the room like a weight. What followed was unlike anything audiences—or comedy—had really seen before. Tig didn’t perform about her trauma in hindsight. She performed from inside it. The set was raw, uncertain, vulnerable, and yes—funny. Uncomfortably funny. The audience laughed, then hesitated, then laughed again, unsure of the rules but trusting her enough to follow. That performance became the album Live, released with support from Louis C.K. and praised widely, including by Sarah Silverman. It wasn’t just a breakthrough—it was a shift in what comedy could be. Instead of using humor to distance herself from pain, Tig used it to sit directly inside it—and invited the audience to sit there with her. Following her diagnosis, Tig chose to undergo a double mastectomy. In another moment that blurred the line between performance and personal truth, she later performed shirtless on stage. It wasn’t a stunt. It wasn’t for shock value. It was, in many ways, a continuation of what she had already started: radical honesty. Major publications like The New York Times, Rolling Stone, and The Guardian covered these performances, recognizing that something important was happening—not just in comedy, but in how we talk about illness, bodies, and survival. Tig’s career expanded rapidly after that. She co-created and starred in the semi-autobiographical series One Mississippi, which drew heavily from her real-life experiences—her illness, her grief, her Southern upbringing, and her sexuality. The show was quiet, deeply human, and often devastating in its honesty. It didn’t chase laughs; it earned them. She also became a fan favorite on Star Trek: Discovery, playing Jet Reno, a no-nonsense engineer with perfectly timed deadpan humor. Even in a sci-fi universe filled with drama and spectacle, Tig’s presence grounded the show in something real and relatable. Along the way, Tig also became more publicly open about her identity as a lesbian. She married actor Stephanie Allynne, and together they have twin sons. Their relationship—and her journey into parenthood—added another layer to her storytelling, one that reflects growth, stability, and a kind of hard-won peace. But what makes Tig Notaro truly significant—especially in the context of queer history—isn’t just her identity. It’s her approach. She didn’t wait for her story to be neat or resolved before sharing it. She didn’t clean up the mess or package it into something easier to digest. She let it be complicated. She let it be uncomfortable. And she trusted that the audience could handle that. That’s a radical act. In a world that often demands polished narratives and tidy endings, Tig offered something else: truth in progress. She showed that humor doesn’t have to come from distance—it can come from proximity. From sitting right in the middle of the hardest moments of your life and saying, “This is where I am. Let’s talk about it.” And somehow, against all odds, she made people laugh. Not in spite of the pain—but alongside it. That’s Tig Notaro’s legacy. Not just as a comedian, but as a storyteller who changed the rulesBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Louisa May Alcott : The Radical Mind Behind Little WomenMost people know Louisa May Alcott as the beloved author of Little Women. But behind that classic novel was a fiercely independent woman who resisted the expectations of marriage, challenged gender roles, and lived a life shaped by passionate friendships, radical politics, and personal freedom. In this episode of Forgotten Queers, we explore the life of one of history’s most intriguing forgotten icons. Raised among abolitionists and transcendentalists, Alcott grew up questioning the rules society placed on women. Many historians believe her most famous character, Jo March, reflects Alcott’s own identity—bold, independent, and uninterested in the traditional life expected of women in the 19th century. Was Louisa May Alcott quietly expressing something deeper in her writing? And how does her life fit into the broader queer legacy hidden within literary history? Join this queer history podcast as we uncover one of the most fascinating lgbtq stories in American literature and reclaim Louisa May Alcott’s place in queer history.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

In this episode of Forgotten Queers, your favorite queer history podcast, we revisit one of Hollywood’s most quietly revolutionary leading men — Montgomery Clift. Often remembered for his beauty and tragedy, Clift deserves recognition among our true forgotten icons. With only seventeen films, he reshaped masculinity on screen — bringing tenderness, vulnerability, and emotional depth to roles that audiences in the late 1940s weren’t used to seeing. From the moral tension of Red River to the nurturing presence he embodies in The Search, Clift expanded what male strength could look like. Behind the camera, he navigated mid-century Hollywood as a man who loved men in an era that demanded silence. His life, his artistry, and his struggles are part of our shared queer history — and part of a powerful queer legacy that continues to shape film and culture today. This episode dives into one of the essential lgbtq stories of classic Hollywood: the brilliance, the softness, and the enduring influence of Montgomery Clift.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Born in Edmonton, Alberta, Canada in 1939, ted stayed in the area to attend school and grow up. His family was unconditional in their support of ted even after coming out as homosexual in a time where it was a criminal act. In 1958 he moved to Vancouver and started protesting homosexuality being a criminal thing, always appearing in drag. ted northe wound up on the steps of the provincial court/art gallery in full drag holding a sign that said “I am a human being”. In this daring act, he was joined by 4 supporters, only 4. ted northe continued protests through the late 1950s and early 1960s. In around the early 1960s ted briefly moved to the USA, participating in the LGBTQ communities all up and down the west coast. Most notably ted northe was in San Francisco to see the formation of the Imperial Court System (more on that in a little bit, I promise!) by Mama Jose (Jose Sarria). Returning to Vancouver, ted ramped up the protests. They were small and localized but also generated talk. Talk about whether the charges of “deviancy” and “buggery” were warranted. In the protests, always a lady prepared, ted was sure to sport the “required pieces of men’s clothing on his person. This was accomplished by stuffing his bra with men’s socks, a pair in each cup and wearing men’s underwear! This persistence and cheek was how ted made a splash, and it made it possible for the tide to turn. Continuing protests that just skated the line into the late 1960s, ted made sure everyone “just” skated the line, wearing 3 articles of men’s clothing. Then ted made a pivot, one I think came from his small- town upbringing. He started letter writing campaigns. Successful ones. I want you to think of this, kids and others, he tracked down members of parliament, court officials, law professors, and police advocates with NO national databases. No email or social media accounts. Just determination to be heard. Small town networking on a national scale. It just boggles my mind, to be honest. Did I say they were successful campaigns? Because they were so successful and he had been so dogged in his determination, that it ended up culminating in the Criminal Law Amendment Act (Bill C-150), passed on May 14, 1969, which decriminalized homosexual acts between consenting adults in private by amending the Criminal Code provisions on buggery and gross indecency. This decriminalized homosexuality in Canada. After this, the Prime Minister of Canada, Pierre Trudeau (Justin’s Dad) would call ted “Your Majesty” to acknowledge ted’s efforts and his title as “Empress of Canada”. Why Empress of Canada, I hear you ask? Well, good question. Remember the Imperial Court System? That is an association of drag organizations that conduct shows, events, and outreach in charitable form across the North American Continent (and possibly beyond, I’m talking certain areas today). ted was in Portland Oregon and was crowned Empress of Canada in 1964, taking ted from a single performer and activist to a refined station. It’s at this time ted stylized his name with no capital letters. He wanted to downplay himself in efforts he felt far bigger than just himself. In 1971, he founded the Dogwood Monarchist Society, the Vancouver chapter of the International Imperial Court System. They were responsible for sponsoring the first Vancouver Pride Parade, gay sports leagues, disaster relief funds, and collaborations like the first openly gay breast cancer fundraiser with lesbians. By institutionalizing drag as a vehicle for fundraising and social support, northe's model empowered local movements, enhancing resilience and public acceptance of LGBTQ+ identities beyond legal battles They still exist today and are the second largest LGBTQIA2 charity in Canada. ted’s involvement raised an estimated 10 million dollars in his lifetime at the Imperial Court. This provides funding for housing, medical needs, scholarships and bursaries, Christmas dinners for the community, youth outreach, safe sex initiatives, HIV/AIDS outreach. ted northe received the Queen Elizabeth II Golden Jubilee Medal in 2013 for his long-standing contributions to Canadian society through activism and community service.[8] He was also awarded the Canadian Red Cross Humanitarian and Distinguished Citizen Award for his charitable efforts, particularly in supporting marginalized communities. Within the drag communities he was awarded the Imperial Sovereign Court System International's Jose Honor for lifetime commitment and achievements. In 2017, ted northe lane was designated in Vancouver. His work laid groundwork for inclusive community initiatives, such as the Greater Vancouver Native Cultural Society for two-spirited people, extending impact to Indigenous LGBTQ+ subgroups. While centered in Vancouver, these efforts catalyzed national dialogue, earning posthumous recognition like Vancouver's 2023 declaration of September 13 as "Ted Northe Day." ted northe died on March 30, 2014, at St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver, British Columbia, at the age of 74, following a prolonged battle with cancer. According to accounts from friends present in his final days, northe passed peacefully in the early morning hours.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

The wonderful Canadian Rufus Wainwright is being profiled this week. A queer who’s not forgotten and lives proudlyBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

This is a revising of Wendy Carlos. I wanted to get a trans women’s perspective on it and Marcia Darling agreed to help me with this.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

In this week’s episode, Zee & For the next few weeks Negotiate I discuss Elliot Page and what a true warrior he is, and somehow connect this with the atrocities of Trump and Caitlin Jenner. Quite a ride folks. I hope you enjoy.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Little Richard, the complicated Forgotten Queer! Yeah, that about covers it. I hope you enjoy this episode please rate and review.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Stephen King said Clive Barker was the future of horror. I tend to agree. Whether you know him best from his books, movies, comics or art he’s a Queer Icon who hopefully will never be forgotten 🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Chris Kanyon from Physical Therapist to Wrestling Superstar to Wrestling joke 😢. Find out more on this week’s Episode of Forgotten QueersBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Rob Halford lead vocalist of Judas Priest. He joined them in 1973. They received a 2010 Grammy award for best metal performance. Learn more in this podcast.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Moved to New York City in 1978 to study painting at the School of Visual Arts Started his career as a graffiti artist in subway stations using white chaulk on black, unused advertisement boards. 1980: He used New York lamp posts to post graphic letter messages around the city. “Regan Slain By Hero Cop” “Pope killed for Freed Hostage” 1980: Participated in The Times Square Show with one of his earliest projects. He altered a banner advertisement above a subway entrance in Times Square that showed a female embracing a male’s legs, blacking out the first letter of the clothing brand Cardon, to read Hardon. 1980: began organizing exhibitions at Club 57 which were filmed by close friend, photographer Tseng Kwong Chi. 1981: First solo exhibition at Westbath Painters Space in the West Village Later that year, he had a solo exhibition at the Hal Bromm Gallery in Tribecca 1982 to 1986: His career started to take off HIs work appeared in Times Square, computer animated, (probably some of the first of it’s kind)Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Danny Lockin was born in Hawaii in 1943,Not for any glamorous reasons but because that’s where dad Joseph was an operations manager for Dole Pineapple well anyway the family didn’t stay there long and fairly soon relocated to Omaha, Nebraska. Mom also known as Jean, who had been a dancer in the last raspy gasps of The vaudeville circuit , opened up a successful dance studio. From an early age Danny excelled at dancing. He obviously wowed his mom because well come on it’s mom but other people noticed also. So from an early age he performed. Professionally from the age of 9. In a kind of modern day vaudevillian act with an African American partner named Neal Reynolds. They would do the fair circuit, and by all accounts, it was successful, let’s keep in mind, queers and weirdos, we are talking about, the mid-west and like a 3 month time frame but a success All the same. In, what to me, seems like a terrible time to do this, but none of us know what was going on in the Lockin family, they moved to Anaheim, California, Danny’s junior year of high school. During this time he got leading juvenile roles is several regional productions of Gypsy, The Music Man and Time for Everything (a show I have never heard of). Once graduating he almost immediately got a small, let me restate that by saying, more like glorified extra part in the filmed version of Gypsy in 1962 as one of Dainty June’s farm boys, truly a blink and you’ll miss it part but it was a working part of the film industry. I’m sure he was hooked. Next in 1963 he was cast in the play Morning Sun with Bert Convy and Patricia Neway….Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Good morning, queers and weirdos! Today we remember Wendy Carlos — the electronic genius who helped invent the sound of the future. In the 1960s, she took Robert Moog’s early synthesizer and turned it into an instrument of emotion. Her album Switched-On Bach blew minds and won Grammys, proving that circuits could sing with soul. Behind the studio walls, Wendy was also transforming herself. Assigned male at birth, she transitioned in a time when few could safely do so, living for years in stealth until coming out publicly in 1979. Through the fear and isolation, she kept creating: trailblazing film scores for Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange and The Shining, and later Disney’s Tron. Each soundtrack redefined what “electronic music” could be — intimate, unnerving, human. Wendy spent decades pushing boundaries most people never heard of: micro-tonal scales, custom instruments, cosmic soundscapes. She guarded her privacy but left a legacy that still vibrates through film, pop, and ambient music today. Her life reminds us that to be authentic is its own revolution — and that queerness and innovation have always been in tune. Wendy Carlos: composer, scientist, visionary, and Forgotten Queer far too brilliant to stay forgotten.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Today we remember a man who could out-quipp anyone on television and still go home alone because America wasn’t ready for his truth. Charles Nelson Reilly was more than the wise-cracking guest on Match Game—he was a Tony-winning actor, a master director, and a pioneer of coded queer visibility in mid-century America.In this episode, I dive into the life of this one-of-a-kind performer: his Broadway triumphs, his decades on television, the painful cost of being openly gay in a closeted industry, and the joyful camp he shared with millions. Reilly lived as loudly as he could, as safely as he dared, and he left behind a trail of laughter, truth, and wigs.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Peter Richard Woolnough Allen, born in Tenterfield, Australia, lived a life that swung between dazzling fame and deep heartbreak. Discovered in Hong Kong by Judy Garland’s husband, he later married her daughter, Liza Minnelli—a glamorous but short-lived union. Peter’s flamboyant stage presence and heartfelt songwriting defined an era: he co-wrote I Honestly Love You, Don’t Cry Out Loud, and Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do), earning two Oscars. Though he never formally came out, Peter lived openly with his longtime partner, model Gregory Connell, inspiring his iconic anthem I Still Call Australia Home. After Gregory’s death from AIDS, Peter continued to perform until his own passing from the same disease nearly ten years later. His story—of love, loss, resilience, and melody—reminds us of a queer artist who refused to hide, shining brighter than the spotlight itself.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Dirk Bogarde was Britain’s matinee idol turned quiet revolutionary. From his charming Doctor in the House films to the daring Victim (1961)—the first British movie to say “homosexual” aloud—Bogarde risked his career to bring empathy and truth to queer lives on screen. A war veteran, writer, and lifelong partner to Anthony Forwood, he evolved from heart-throb to acclaimed artist in The Servant, Death in Venice, and The Night Porter. Behind his polished charm was courage, intellect, and compassion—a gentleman who changed the world not with noise, but with honesty.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

What happened to Coco on the Golden Girls? One Episode there the next gone. Just like he never existed? Cover up? Or just 80’s conservatism poking through! EnjoyBecome a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Sal Mineo’s life was as dazzling as it was tragic—a story of talent, struggle, and queerness in a Hollywood that wasn’t ready for him. Born in the Bronx in 1939 to Italian immigrant parents, Mineo grew up tough but artistic, finding early success on Broadway as the young Prince Chulalongkorn opposite Yul Brynner in The King and I. His breakout, though, came on the silver screen. At just 16, he starred in Rebel Without a Cause (1955) as John “Plato” Crawford, the sensitive, troubled teenager who formed a coded, queer attachment to James Dean’s character. That performance earned him an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor and cemented him as one of Hollywood’s brightest young stars. Mineo quickly became a teen idol, nicknamed “The Switchblade Kid” for his roles in juvenile delinquent films. He was mobbed by fans, appeared on magazine covers, and sold out theaters. He followed up with high-profile roles in Giant (again opposite Dean), Exodus (1960), and The Longest Day (1962). For Exodus, where he portrayed a young Jewish refugee haunted by the Holocaust, Mineo earned a second Oscar nomination. It seemed like a limitless career lay ahead. But Hollywood has a short attention span—and an unforgiving relationship with those who don’t conform. By the mid-1960s, Mineo was being typecast or overlooked. He was too old to play the teen rebel, but producers didn’t see him as a conventional leading man either. At the same time, whispers about his bisexuality, his refusal to play the “straight” publicity game, and his increasingly daring artistic choices (he directed plays, embraced queer roles, and supported controversial art) made him a risk in an industry that punished difference. His career echoed that of Mickey Rooney: explosive child stardom followed by a struggle for adult legitimacy. Still, Mineo carved out memorable late-career achievements. He starred in and directed the shocking prison drama Fortune and Men’s Eyes (1969), helping bring discussions of homosexuality and prison abuse into the cultural mainstream. He appeared in Escape from the Planet of the Apes (1971), delighting science fiction fans with his quirky scientist. And on stage, he continued to earn praise, especially in P.S. Your Cat Is Dead in the 1970s, which was meant to herald a major comeback. Offscreen, Mineo lived more openly than many stars of his era. He had high-profile relationships with men and women, but he never hid his queer identity from those close to him. In interviews, he acknowledged his bisexuality—rare at the time—and championed queer stories. He also nurtured friendships with other queer Hollywood figures and leaned into being part of a hidden community at a time when being out could end a career. Tragically, Mineo’s comeback was cut short. On February 12, 1976, after returning home from a rehearsal in Los Angeles, he was murdered in an alley outside his apartment—stabbed to death at just 37. The randomness and brutality of his death shocked the entertainment world and robbed queer history of a pioneering figure. Mineo’s legacy lives in his artistry and his courage. He was one of the first major Hollywood actors to embody queer characters with sympathy, and one of the few willing to acknowledge his own queerness in an unforgiving era. His performance as Plato remains iconic—a haunting reminder of queer longing hidden in plain sight during the Golden Age of Hollywood. And his life, both luminous and shadowed, is a testament to how Hollywood elevates and devours its brightest stars.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Alla Nazimova was one of the brightest, boldest, and most complicated figures of early Hollywood — a woman who refused to live small. Born in 1879 in Yalta, on the Crimean coast, she survived a lonely childhood and strict Russian schooling before finding her calling on the stage. Trained at the Moscow Art Theatre under Stanislavski, she carried a fire and intensity that would soon make her a sensation on Broadway. In New York, critics described her as “volcanic,” “mystical,” and utterly unlike any actress they had ever seen. She became America’s great interpreter of Ibsen, bringing characters like Hedda Gabler and Nora from A Doll’s House to life with a ferocity that felt shockingly modern. Audiences either adored her or were unsettled by her, but they never forgot her. Hollywood came calling, and Alla transformed herself once again — this time into a silent film queen. She starred in hits like War Brides (1916), Revelation (1918), and Camille (1921) with Rudolph Valentino. At her peak, she earned $13,000 a week (nearly $300,000 in today’s money) and wielded the kind of creative power almost no woman of her era could touch. She wasn’t just acting — she was producing, shaping films, and insisting on daring, artistic risks. Her boldest gamble was Salomé (1923), an avant-garde film inspired by Aubrey Beardsley’s queer, erotic illustrations. It was stylized, sapphic, and unapologetic, filled with long gazes between women and men alike. By all accounts, nearly every major actor in the film was queer, making it one of Hollywood’s earliest queer ensembles. But audiences in 1923 weren’t ready. Critics mocked it as bizarre and indulgent, and the fact that Alla — then in her forties — played the teenage Salomé gave them more fuel. Today it’s celebrated as a queer masterpiece, but at the time, it financially ruined her and marked the beginning of her fall from Hollywood’s graces. If Salomé revealed her artistic daring, her private life revealed her defiance of social norms. Alla created The Garden of Alla on Sunset Boulevard — a lush, wild estate that became a queer Eden for Hollywood’s outsiders. Writers, actors, and free spirits gathered for legendary parties where people could dance, swim, love, and simply exist without hiding. It was sanctuary and scandal rolled into one, and for many, it was the first place they could truly breathe. Her personal life reflected the same contradictions. In 1912 she entered a “lavender marriage” with actor Charles Bryant, a partnership that provided cover for them both — until Bryant remarried a woman in 1925, exposing his union with Alla as a sham. For him it was survivable; for her, combined with the fallout from Salomé, it devastated her reputation. Women were expected to be pure, and queer women especially were punished when they broke that image. Alla was branded decadent, immoral, and dangerous — a woman who had deceived Hollywood. Yet even in decline, Alla’s influence endured. She coined the phrase “the sewing circle” as a code for Hollywood’s network of lesbian and bisexual women — a secret sisterhood that included stars like Eva Le Gallienne and Mercedes de Acosta. She may have been forced to the margins, but she gave queer women a language, a circle, a lifeline. In her later years, she returned to the stage and even appeared in small film roles — most notably in Escape (1940) and Blood and Sand (1941), where she reprised a role she had played decades earlier in the silent era. These weren’t comebacks to stardom, but they were reminders of her artistry, of Hollywood’s debt to her, and of a woman who never stopped creating. Alla died in 1945 at age 66, leaving behind a complicated legacy: stage revolutionary, silent film queen, queer trailblazer, and creator of one of Hollywood’s first queer havens. She was dazzling, contradictory, and ahead of her time.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

illiam “Billy” Haines was born in 1900 in Staunton, Virginia, the child of a working-class family in a town too small to hold him. At just 14, he ran away with another boy choosing freedom over the small-town suffocation of staying. He eventually landed in New York, where his good looks carried him into modeling, and in a twist of fate, straight into MGM’s orbit. At 22, he boarded a train west to Hollywood. Billy never trained as an actor, but his charm, sharp timing, and quick smile made him a natural for the screen. MGM put him in the role of the campus kid, the cheeky flirt, the one audiences rooted for. His big break came with Brown of Harvard (1926), and he cemented his stardom opposite Lon Chaney in Tell It to the Marines (1926). Chaney was “The Man of a Thousand Faces,” famous for playing grotesque outcasts hidden behind masks. Billy, by contrast, made his mark by refusing to wear one. When sound arrived, many silent stars stumbled, but Billy thrived. His quick wit and snappy delivery made him perfect for the new talkie comedies. He churned out hit after hit, but MGM quickly typecast him as the wisecracking, cocky sidekick. By the time Way Out West (1930) landed, audiences were tiring of the recycled persona, and critics began to say Billy was stale. Behind the screen, whispers about his private life had been circulating for years. Unlike many of his peers, Billy wasn’t hiding. He was living with Jimmie Shields, the man he’d fallen in love with in 1926. For Louis B. Mayer, MGM’s iron-fisted boss, this was intolerable. The solution? A “lavender marriage.” Mayer ordered Billy to marry a woman for the cameras and keep Jimmie in the shadows. Billy refused. Flat out. He wasn’t going to deny Jimmie, and he wasn’t going to pretend. Mayer promised he’d never work in Hollywood again,and Mayer kept that promise. Just like that, MGM dropped one of its brightest stars. But Billy had already made his choice: love over fame. And Jimmie stayed by his side for nearly 50 years. Their life together wasn’t without hardship. In 1936, they were attacked at their beach house by a mob of men throwing rocks and hurling slurs. Billy and Jimmie pressed charges, an act of open defiance unheard of at the time. Though the case was dismissed, the message was clear they wouldn’t be intimidated back into the shadows. Enter Joan Crawford. She was more than a friend; she was family. When Billy’s film career ended, Joan urged him to channel his impeccable taste into decorating. He did—and created a second career that eclipsed the first. With Jimmie at his side, Billy founded William Haines Designs. Soon, Hollywood royalty;Claudette Colbert, Carole Lombard, Gloria Swanson, even Ronald and Nancy Reagan, wanted a Haines-designed home. Ironically, the same Hollywood power players who had shut him out as “too queer” now paid him handsomely to furnish their homes. His style—modern, glamorous, airy—became synonymous with Hollywood chic and helped define “California living.” His firm, William Haines, Inc., thrived well into the 1960s, making him more money and arguably more lasting influence than he might have achieved as an aging movie star. It was, in every sense, a perfect flipping of the bird to Louis B. Mayer. Billy lived defiantly, fully, and joyfully with Jimmie. Their home was a gathering place of laughter, parties, and queer resilience. Joan Crawford once called them the happiest couple in Hollywood. But even a defiant life can’t hold off everything. In the early 1970s, Billy was diagnosed with lung cancer, the result of decades of heavy smoking. He died on December 26, 1973, at age 73. Jimmie was devastated. Friends said he drifted through their home like a ghost, unable to imagine life without Billy. Within two months, he took his own life, leaving a note that he simply couldn’t go on without the man he loved. It was a tragic ending, but also a testament: theirs was a love so deep it defied Hollywood, social convention, and even death itself. Billy Haines should be remembered not as a faded star, but as Hollywood’s first openly gay leading man. He refused to lie, refused to abandon his partner, and when the system shut him out, he built a new empire on his own terms. His story is one of courage, reinvention, and love, a reminder that queer people have always been here, living fully, even when the world told them not to.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

Dorothy Arzner may not be a household name today, but in the 1920s through the 1940s she was a rare force in Hollywood: the only woman directing features inside the studio system, a technical innovator, a champion of actresses, and a queer woman who lived openly with her partner for over four decades. Her life, career, and community place her at the very heart of forgotten queer history — and in this episode, we remember her in full. Dorothy Emma Arzner was born in San Francisco in 1897 and grew up in Los Angeles, where her father owned a restaurant frequented by Hollywood stars. As a child, she saw people like Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks dining at her family’s tables. Pickford, known as “America’s Sweetheart,” was secretly one of the most powerful women in the industry, co-founding United Artists. Fairbanks was the original swashbuckler — a combination of Chris Hemsworth’s physique, Johnny Depp’s swagger, and Antonio Banderas’s smolder, performing all his own stunts. Together, they were Hollywood’s first royal couple, and their presence gave young Dorothy a glimpse of the industry’s glitz and contradictions. Originally, Dorothy didn’t plan on Hollywood. She studied medicine at USC and even served as an ambulance driver during World War I. But after the war, the glamour and opportunity of the movies drew her in. In 1919 she started at Paramount as a typist, quickly maneuvered into editing, and within a year was cutting major films. Her most notable early work was on Rudolph Valentino’s Blood and Sand (1922), where her editing emphasized Valentino’s magnetic presence and helped solidify his stardom. Valentino was Hollywood’s first “Latin Lover,” a sex symbol whose sudden death in 1926 caused riots in New York. Yet he was dogged by rumors of being “too feminine,” mocked in the press as a “pink powder puff.” While no evidence suggests Valentino was queer, the gossip reflected America’s discomfort with his sensual, exotic masculinity. Dorothy’s contribution to his career wasn’t about scandal — it was craft. She shaped one of his defining films and earned the respect that later allowed her to demand a chance to direct. Her directorial debut, The Wild Party (1929), starred Clara Bow — the original “It Girl.” Clara embodied flapper sexuality and was beloved by audiences, but she was relentlessly hounded by the press. The cruelest rumor, that she had slept with an entire football team, was entirely false but stuck in the public imagination. Clara’s fame was as volatile and punishing as Britney Spears in the 2000s or Megan Thee Stallion today: adored by audiences, destroyed by tabloids. On set, Clara was terrified of the new technology of sound. Microphones were bulky, static, and forced actors to stay rigid. Clara couldn’t do it. So Dorothy improvised. She strapped a microphone to a fishing pole and dangled it above Clara, inventing what we now know as the boom mic. That one piece of innovation saved Clara’s performance and permanently changed filmmaking. But Dorothy didn’t just innovate; she protected. Clara trusted her. Off set, when Clara drank too much or risked scandal at Hollywood parties, Dorothy would quietly steer her away from danger. Whether or not their bond was romantic, it was deeply caring — a moment of queer solidarity before we had that language. Dorothy continued directing through the 1930s, often working with strong actresses. In Christopher Strong (1933), she cast a young Katharine Hepburn as an aviator who defies convention. Hepburn was androgynous, trouser-wearing, and rumored to have had affairs with women. Dorothy put Hepburn on screen as a woman literally soaring above men — a metaphor for her own life. Critics at the time called the film “odd” and “talky,” but decades later it was reclaimed as a groundbreaking feminist work. Her most famous film, Dance, Girl, Dance (1940), starred Maureen O’Hara as a serious dancer and Lucille Ball as her burlesque rival. In a stunning scene, O’Hara faces down a jeering audience of men and scolds them for objectifying her. It’s one of the earliest feminist speeches in Hollywood cinema, written and framed by a queer woman who knew what it meant to be watched and judged. At the time, critics dismissed the film as lightweight. Variety even sneered at its “feminine point of view.” But decades later feminist scholars reclaimed it as a proto-feminist classic, and in 2007 the Library of Congress added it to the National Film Registry for its cultural and historical significance. Behind the studio gates, Dorothy was also living a rich personal life. Her partner, choreographer Marion Morgan, led her own all-female dance troupe before meeting Dorothy. Together, they built a life that lasted over forty years — a true Hollywood marriage in everything but name. Their home became one of the great queer salons of the Golden Age, a gathering place where stars and artists could be themselves. Guests included Marlene Dietrich in tuxedo, Greta Garbo offering her infamous line “I want to be let alone,” and Tallulah Bankhead quipping, “My father warned me about men and booze. But he never said anything about women and cocaine.” These salons weren’t just glamorous — they were sanctuary. In a city obsessed with masks and secrets, Dorothy and Marion created a space where queer women could drop the performance and live freely. By the 1940s, Dorothy left directing. Some say she was tired of fighting executives; others suggest her refusal to play the game left her boxed out. But she wasn’t finished. She turned to teaching, joining the UCLA Theater Arts Department, one of the first film programs in the country. Her classes became legendary. She told students: learn every job so no one can con you, treat actors as collaborators, and above all, have courage — moral and artistic. Her most famous student was Francis Ford Coppola, who would later direct The Godfather and Apocalypse Now. He credited Dorothy with teaching him not just the craft of film but the courage to fight for his vision. That same defiant spirit echoes through the entire Coppola dynasty — Sofia Coppola, Nicolas Cage, Jason Schwartzman. Dorothy’s influence ran like an underground current through New Hollywood. Dorothy and Marion’s partnership endured until Marion’s death in 1971. Dorothy herself passed away in 1979. Though her films were often dismissed in her own time, today she is recognized as a pioneer. She was the only woman directing studio features in the 1930s, the inventor of the boom mic, a mentor to the next generation, and a queer woman who lived openly in love. And here’s the thing: without Dorothy, there’s no Kathryn Bigelow. When Bigelow won the Oscar in 2010 for The Hurt Locker, she was hailed as the first woman to do so. But Dorothy had been directing eighty years earlier, inventing tools, running sets, and telling women’s stories with power. Bigelow stood on the foundation Dorothy built. Dorothy Arzner lived boldly, filmed radically, and loved defiantly. Hollywood tried to forget her — but in remembering her now, we put her back where she belongs: among the icons who shaped queer culture and film history.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers

amón Novarro was a Mexican-American actor who rose to fame in the silent era, becoming one of Hollywood’s first Latin heartthrobs. Best known for his role in Ben-Hur (1925), he rivaled Rudolph Valentino in star power. Behind the glamour, Novarro was a gay man navigating an industry and a culture that demanded secrecy. He resisted pressure from studio moguls like Louis B. Mayer to enter a “lavender marriage,” choosing instead to protect his private life an act of quiet defiance in early Hollywood. Beloved by stars like Joan Crawford and Norma Shearer, he remained a respected performer even as sound films shifted the industry. Tragically, in 1968, Novarro was murdered in his home at age 69. The press sensationalized his sexuality in death, erasing the dignity he had fought to maintain in life. Today, his story reminds us of both the brilliance and the cost of being queer in old Hollywood and why remembering him matters.Become a supporter of this podcast: https://www.spreaker.com/podcast/forgotten-queers--6719466/support.Please follow me on Facebook, BlueSky at Gary Thoren. We must never forget our Forgotten Queers