all kinds of writing
Last Sunday’s Observer profile of the great Armistead Maupin was headlined San Francisco’s chronicler calls time on his saga. Of course this came as sad news to those of us who have been following his series of books dealing with (increasingly gay) life in San Francisco for quite some time; in my case since the first book came out in the UK, after some years of his tales appearing first in the Pacific Sun before being taken up by the more mainstream - and better paying - San Francisco Chronicle.
But it makes sense to call a halt now. The cast of characters - gay and straight - who clustered around the fictional 28 Barbary Lane under the benevolent gaze of landlady Anna Madrigal have aged and changed enough over the years: the initially innocent Michael Tolliver surviving multiple affairs (including one with an unnamed Hollywood star quite blatantly based on Rock Hudson) ; the equally naive Mary Ann Singleton returning to San Francisco after an absence of 20 years to find Barbary Lane tarted up and barely recognisable; and Mrs Madrigal - long revealed as transgender - safely in her 90s.
You can now go on ‘Tales of the City’ tours around San Francisco. That I haven’t done. But back in 1995 we spent several days in April with Jane - bless her heart - barely protesting as I dragged her around the city following in the steps of Scotty (James Stewart) as he followed Madeleine (Kim Novak) around the streets of that city in my favourite ever movie, Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo.
And as we finally stood in front of Scotty’s house with its view of the Coit Tower I said to Jane. ‘Do you realise that Scotty lived no more than a quarter of an hour’s walk from Mrs Madrigal?’
‘Scotty never lived anywhere’, she replied. ‘He didn’t exist. And if he had, it would have been in the late 50s, twenty years before the first Tales of the City novel. Which, incidentally, also contains people who never existed. Get a grip!’.
No more Tales!
Tuesday, 7 January 2014
