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During the raunchy, sex-filled seventies, Tim Curry, a thespian in his twenties, was living in London when he went to try out for a fresh, low-budget musical parody entitled “The Rocky Horror Show.” The staging was planned for a small venue with sixty seats at the Royal Court Theatre; the character was Dr. Frank-N-Furter, an overbearing, corset-sporting scientist from “Transsexual, Transylvania.” Curry clinched the role by belting out Little Richard’s “Tutti Frutti,” donning boots coated with silver spray paint. “Rocky Horror” premiered in the summer of 1973 and sparked a frenzy. In 1975, Curry took the lead in the film adaptation, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” which initially underperformed at the cinema—until something unexpected took place. Devotees started showing up at late-night showings, impudently calling back to the actors on the screen; ultimately, “shadow casts” began performing alongside the film. Half a century later, “Rocky Horror” is a celebrated cult hit, hailed as the longest-running cinematic release in U.S. annals, and Frank-N-Furter endures as Curry’s defining role, and rightfully so. Behold his ruby-red lips twist with wicked delight, in “Sweet Transvestite,” as he beckons two unsuspecting visitors to “come up to the laboratory and observe what’s on the slab,” and deny that you’d be ensnared by his carnal charm.
Nonetheless, Curry’s professional path includes considerably more than “Rocky Horror.” As an especially delightful antagonist, he’s embodied Little Orphan Annie’s kidnapper (“Annie”), Long John Silver (“Muppet Treasure Island”), the Lord of Darkness (“Legend”), and the planet’s most spine-chilling clown (“It”). He’s featured in comedies as a sleuthing butler (“Clue”), a frazzled hotel staff member (“Home Alone 2: Lost in New York”), and King Arthur (“Spamalot”), and he enjoyed a wild, albeit short-lived, music career. “I have been characterized as everything from a perplexing sex symbol, to a home decorator, to a rock ‘n’ roll performer, to a pretender, to the prince of Halloween, to a paralyzed tragic figure, to a departed legend,” he notes in his latest biography, “Vagabond.”
The “paralyzed” mention arises from a stroke suffered in 2012, which hampered his ability to ambulate or control the left side of his physique. (He lightheartedly named his inactive left hand Teddy.) He’s kept his verbal sharpness and, deducing from a recent chat, his extravagant, dark humor. Now at seventy-nine, Curry engaged in conversation with me from his residence in Los Angeles, his head resting on scarlet cushions. He was under doctor’s orders to remain in bed, as he shared, though he was planning to make an appearance, in his wheelchair, at an anniversary screening of “Rocky Horror” at the Academy Museum a few weeks later. Outside lay a yard where he was cultivating banana and palm trees. “I’ve been nurturing a small jungle,” he remarked. He spoke hesitantly, with some difficulty, but at times unleashed a resonant, seductive guffaw that instantly transported me back to Transsexual, Transylvania. Our discussion, which has undergone editing and condensation, included subjects like David Bowie, Studio 54, collaborating with Miss Piggy, and others.
In your book, you state that you dislike the aspect of show business that involves publicizing your personal life. So what led you to pen a memoir?
I’ve had multiple offers to author one, and I encountered a lull in my agenda, lacking any imminent projects, so I decided to create my own engagement.
You mention that, since your stroke, you’ve struggled with short-term recollection but gained a “new connection” with your long-term recollection. When you mentally revisit the past, where do you tend to gravitate towards?
Recently, I’ve been recording the audiobook, and I realized that, in recounting an episode or setting, I pictured it effortlessly. It was baffling, to be honest, as I sensed I was still experiencing it firsthand.
Is it emotionally stirring to witness your life unfold in that manner?
Indeed, as one can never predict the lifespan ahead. Mine has already been protracted, by any yardstick, so I am grateful for that.
You possess a clear memory of your formative years, especially the time surrounding your father’s passing when you were eleven.
I was twelve upon his death—eleven when his health deteriorated following a stroke, ironically mirroring my condition. I distinctly recall him being taken into an ambulance and departing for the medical center. He entrusted me with looking after my mother. I was quite puzzled. I wondered, How am I to manage this? Yet, he was concerned for her well-being, naturally, and I presume he was suggesting, “Assume the role of the household’s leader.” Equally daunting.
It seems your mother struggled with the care of two sorrowing children. You write, “I brought a spark of playfulness into my interactions with my mother: endeavoring to make the gloom gleam.”
Well, she was quick-tempered. I suspect she was actually affected by bipolar disorder. She was undeniably intolerant of foolishness. To be sure, I had deep affection for her—and her love for me was almost excessive. I was largely the child who captured her attention, probably because I was male.
When we observe you as Pennywise in “It” or as the Lord of Darkness in “Legend,” does that represent a method of making the gloom gleam?
No, it’s merely darkness. I gained familiarity with darkness prematurely in life, upon my father’s demise. I experienced a sense of isolation. And I recognized too early that the world could be very unpredictable and bleak. There was no assurance of joy.
Your ascent as an actor did not primarily involve traditional theater at the Royal Shakespeare Company—though you did perform there—but the counterculture. Your initial job post-graduation was in the 1968 London presentation of “Hair.” I can only envision the nature of that scene in Swinging London.
It was quite the shift from university, as the production was highly popular, and we received invitations everywhere. And Swinging London lived up to its name. Individuality reigned supreme. And so did fashion.
How would you describe your personal style in the late sixties?
I was a reasonably conventional hippie. I was an environmentalist, and I consumed excessive drugs. Mild drugs, but substantial enough to—well, I’m unsure if you regard LSD as mild. I experimented with it for the first time on the Eiffel Tower. Very peculiar. I had ingested some, but it hadn’t taken effect, though I was expected at a cocktail gathering on the Eiffel Tower, commemorating the launch of Dubonnet. It felt somewhat dreamlike. There was an enormous bottle of Dubonnet, along with the Paris ensemble of “Hair,” and gazing across the Seine and the panorama of Paris, the metropolis appeared to be breathing, which was transforming. I exhibited scant apprehension regarding the potential impact on my psyche. I was naive enough to be indifferent.
Honestly, sounds worthwhile.
It was indeed. It was akin to a jackhammer demolishing my imagination, undeniably.
Let’s address “Rocky Horror.” Could you elaborate on the process of crafting the appearance of Frank-N-Furter?
I didn’t truly originate it single-handedly. I was remarkably unaware upon reading the part and commencing rehearsals that the traditional attire of Transylvania consisted of a corset and accompanying accessories. However, Sue Blane, the costume designer, had collaborated with me previously at a remarkable repertory theater in Glasgow, Scotland, referred to as the Citizens Theatre, where we staged a rendition of “The Maids,” by Jean Genet. I embodied one of the somewhat unkempt siblings, Solange. And Sue conceived that getup. For “Rocky Horror,” she explored a market in Glasgow called the Barras, a repository of diverse odds and ends, where she discovered a Victorian corset for three pounds. I donned it backward. [Chuckles.]
And you fashioned your own makeup, correct?
Indeed. I wanted him to convey the image of having been dragged backward through a bramble bush. The extensive eye makeup was intentionally blurred. I sought to avoid an overly refined makeup appearance—ensuring he still resembled a man underneath. In the film production, a makeup artist named Pierre La Roche took charge. Famously, he had shaped an appearance for David Bowie—he concocted Ziggy Stardust, the image of Ziggy. His application for me was considerably more refined and runway-ready. Initially, I disapproved. I suppose I could have smudged it with a digit, but I held respect for his craft, along with the conviction that Jim Sharman, the director, whom I esteemed tremendously, envisioned me with that polished appearance.
One of the book’s prevailing themes centers on examining contradictions, within both yourself and your roles. You note that “Rocky Horror” is “a sexual free-for-all, though beneath it lies an inquiry into power.” What variety of contradictions did you identify in Frank-N-Furter?
It was vital for the audience to grasp that he was capable of engaging in intimacy with any individual and carried sexual danger. He embodied a figure of substantial authority, relishing absolute control and dictating scenarios. Hence, during his construction, intentional imperfections were woven into the fishnet stockings. He exuded the aura of a somewhat battered street denizen.
Reflecting on your portrayal of Frank-N-Furter, you observe, “I resolved not to confine myself—artistically, professionally, sexually, or intellectually.” How did that character reshape your self-perception? Did it relate to facets of masculinity and femininity, exploring diverse aspects of yourself?
I undeniably resolved against self-restriction and embraced the conviction that I possessed limitless potential. It infused me with abundant energy—substantial conviction—to champion my personal life decisions. And I particularly refrained from sexual self-limitation. I deemed it significant at the time. I immersed myself in “the warm waters of sins of the flesh,” citing the play and film.
You have consistently maintained discretion regarding your sexuality, asserting candidly in the book’s prelude that you will not delve into your romantic affairs. Is there a specific rationale for your comfort in discussing, for example, your drug use or familial bonds with your mother, yet setting limits concerning sexual identity?
Well, I maintain that my amorous life remains private, and I articulate that position quite thoroughly throughout the book. The book contains considerable profanity, an element I somewhat regret, as my reverence for the English language prevents me from fully surrendering it to Anglo-Saxon expressions.
Naturally, you possess every prerogative to abstain from sharing information you wish to withhold. However, my inquiry centers on the premise that embodying Dr. Frank-N-Furter elevated you to a queer icon, and 1975 occurred amidst the zenith of the gay-liberation movement. I surmise that the experience would differ significantly for a gay individual versus a heterosexual individual—suddenly bearing such intense attention.
I am unsure. Multiple actors have tackled the role, with some soliciting my insights. I’ve counselled them to shun excessive theatricality at all costs. He is, at his core, a man capable of engaging intimately with any individual, an attribute that must manifest prominently in his actions, transcending the confines of the bedroom. It mirrors a form of pansexuality, truly. One person described him as an omnivore, a description that resonated with me. He spares little beyond the skeletal remains.
Did the act of singing “Sweet Transvestite” evoke feelings of extraordinary sexiness?
It did. And I also felt exceptionally empowered. I believe it pivots more on courage than any other aspect.
You remark that your chief adjustment in the film adaptation revolved around deciphering how to “seduce the camera.” How did you achieve that seduction?
I opted to confront it assertively, given that the camera functions essentially as an observer, and I ensured that it took notice of me. There’s a tale concerning an actor by the name of Akim Tamiroff, celebrated for his villainous portrayals in cinematic productions of the fifties and sixties, who purportedly embraced the camera. Someone inquired, “What motivated that action?” And he replied, “This camera, she despises me. I aspire to make her looove me.” I can’t pinpoint the precise technique. I posit that one must, paradoxically, condense oneself for the camera’s perception, an achievement mastered by the iconic movie stars of eras past. While I remain in a state of ongoing discovery, I endeavor to glean insights from each successive encounter.
What was your rapport with Meat Loaf, whom you slay with an axe in the movie?
In reality, we enjoyed a close friendship. I recall a moment when he was in New York alongside his girlfriend, subsequently his spouse, Leslie Loaf, as we affectionately referred to her, and he asserted, “Timmy, I am of greater renown than you”—owing to the immense success of his debut album. I am uncertain of the specific hotel we inhabited, yet it probably stood on one of Manhattan’s principal avenues, and he suggested, “You and I should merely stroll down the avenue and gauge who garners recognition.” I acceded, and we embarked on that endeavor. As it transpired, neither of us attracted acknowledgment. I viewed it as comical. Conversely, he didn’t. He possessed a sizable ego.
What propelled your arrival in New York during the late seventies, and where did you reside?
I harbored a desire to experience it, honestly, and I took up residence in the Village, on Jones Street. I had become acquainted with Kathleen Turner, and her spouse, Jay, served as a real-estate magnate in Manhattan. He dispatched one of his underlings to procure an apartment for me. It resembled a compact loft, and I possessed a modest rooftop garden.
You relate a tale concerning an excursion to Studio 54, reminiscent of a dream evoking seventies New York.
I enjoyed camaraderie with James Taylor and Carly Simon, and one day, she contacted me, expressing her intention to visit Studio 54 and requesting my companionship. At that time, [the co-owner] Steve Rubell, as a promotional gimmick, had initiated the practice of denying entry to celebrities as a means of attracting press coverage. Consequently, she felt trepidation about gaining admittance, and sought support. She arrived in a chauffeured automobile, and upon approaching the site, she dispatched the driver to confirm her entry eligibility, a rather fainthearted gesture, truly. However, we gained entry successfully. And Steve Rubell proved to be a particularly charming host, escorting us to the d.j. booth, where Truman Capote was presiding as the d.j. He habitually engaged in that activity. Steve announced, “Behold Tim Curry and Carly Simon.” And he addressed Carly, remarking, “I knew your father”—her father was Simon of Simon & Schuster. That marked the totality of that exchange. We stayed briefly, but the experience was captivating, given the meticulous attention people dedicated to their personal appearance.
What comprised your attire?
I fail to recall. I don’t regard myself as a paragon of fashion. Presumably some version of a grungy T-shirt coupled with jeans. Yet, people habitually expressed themselves. A person referred to as Rollerena frequented the establishment, donning drag and traversing the locale on roller skates. Famously, Bianca Jagger arrived on a white horse during her birthday celebration. In truth, one could evade scrutiny for almost any infraction.
I intend to inquire about your journey as a vocalist during the late seventies and early eighties. Actually, I retain your sophomore album, “Fearless,” dating from 1979, on vinyl—a gift bestowed upon me by a friend. I derive considerable satisfaction from your rendition of the Joni Mitchell composition “Cold Blue Steel and Sweet Fire.”
Thank you. I held that song in high regard. I harbor great admiration for her. I’ve recorded renditions of several of her songs. Yet, I conceived of it as the quintessential song referencing addiction. I interpreted “cold blue steel” as a syringe.
You recount how, during that era in New York, you embraced cocaine “like a duck to water.” Perhaps my foremost finding within the entire book resides in the fact that your supplier performed within the string ensemble of the New York Philharmonic.
I suspect he played the cello. Remarkable, isn’t it? I am uncertain of how that arrangement unfolded. However, he exhibited considerable kindness, unlike the stereotypical cocaine vendors, I presume. He likely perceived himself as rendering assistance to a fellow artist, I suspect.
Did cocaine provide assistance to you as an artist?
It benefited me as a writer. It propelled me toward embarking on writing lyrics and composing music. I developed an excessive reliance on it, truly, for that objective, and I intentionally ceased usage, to assess whether I could continue without it. Thankfully, I discovered I could. And praise God that the cessation occurred effortlessly. For some individuals, such is not the case. I discovered it manageable, as I identified my rationale for ceasing: I desired a pristine intellect.
What do you believe accounted for your music career’s failure to gain momentum?
In short, because it lacked adequately substantial hits. I realized substantial album sales, yet I never achieved single sales, a near-prerequisite for a rock-and-roll career. I produced a radio success, referred to as “I Do the Rock,” which perceptive d.j.s broadcasted for a period.
What was your relationship with David Bowie? You mention him on multiple occasions throughout the book, and both of you projected a particular androgynous glam persona. He stood as a rocker who also engaged in film projects; you were an actor concurrently producing records.
I held him in high esteem. He belonged to a performance group in Scotland operated by Lindsay Kemp, which was quite provocative, and I witnessed him in one or two of their exhibitions. He attended “Rocky Horror” at the Chelsea Classic, during its debut. He was accompanied by his spouse, Angie, and a small entourage. Actually, it’s been suggested that Angie Bowie stands as the pioneer in back-talking to the performers. I commenced my entrance down a runway hoisted above the audience, and he quite conspicuously raised his hands aloft, applauding as I emerged, regardless of his inability to observe me from the rear. It’s likely that an individual nudged him, I surmise.
Were you ever rivals for roles? I can picture him as a superb Dr. Frank-N-Furter, yet I can also envision you as the man who descended to Earth, or the King of the Goblins in “Labyrinth.”
I would have welcomed the opportunity to assume either of those roles. No, I doubt he ever entertained aspirations [regarding “Rocky Horror.”] Mick Jagger sought to portray Frank-N-Furter for the film, a prospect that naturally delighted the studio. However, Jim Sharman demonstrated considerable allegiance and insisted on my casting.
I extend my gratitude for that. I posit that the film in which I’ve seen you most frequently, owing to continuous childhood replays, is “Annie.” I have come to value only subsequently that it was helmed, surprisingly, by John Huston, a titan of Old Hollywood. He was a gruff senior citizen by that phase. What do you remember about being guided by him?
I presented myself to him having already been cast, precluding him from influencing the decision, I presume. However, I convened with him at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel. I felt particularly awestruck, owing to his status as an icon by that point. And he inquired [growls], “Whaddaya envision doing with the character?” I responded that I had observed a stagehand at “Amadeus”—as I embodied Mozart on Broadway—who exhibited a fidgety nature. He projected a distinctive physicality. And he exhorted, “Well, enact it for my benefit.” And I acceded. He affirmed, “I regard that as particularly compelling.”
That mirrors an exceptional John Huston impersonation. Speaking of “Amadeus,” what caused your failure to secure the role of Mozart in the cinematic version?
Valid inquiry. I had aged past the ideal range, honestly. I had already surpassed thirty-five years. The director, Miloš Forman, was unconvinced and cast Tom Hulce, who performed admirably. Peter Shaffer, the playwright, hoped for my portrayal of Salieri in the film, prompting him to demand an audition from Miloš. Accordingly, I undertook a screen test as Salieri, which resulted in a setback. A ratty wig was forcibly affixed to my cranium, and I performed the seduction tableau with Constanze. And Miloš conveyed even greater dissatisfaction. He attended a supper at Peter Shaffer’s residence, where I was a guest. Peter prepared roast lamb, and Miloš, who I suspect forged a career out of feigning apathy, remarked [thick Czech accent], “This is exceptional. But allow me to invite you to my abode and I will prepare lamb in the Czechoslovak fashion. We fasten it on a long fork and impale it into the fire.” That never unfolded, yet I would have enjoyed it. I’m confident it would have been decidedly undercooked.
I wish to inquire about another favored cinematic role of yours, Wadsworth, the butler in “Clue.” Amidst “Rocky Horror” and “Clue,” you boast a repertoire encompassing films that failed to catalyze fervor at the box office but subsequently evolved into cult classics. Is that attributable to coincidence, or did it emanate from your distinct taste or application as an actor?
I don’t associate “Clue’s” classic status with my involvement. It essentially hinged on the genre itself and Jonathan Lynn’s screenplay, which proved highly amusing and refined. We attended the same boarding school, where he served as the school’s leading actor and a personal hero of mine. He developed a successful TV series as a writer, entitled “Yes Minister,” which revolved around the comedic possibilities intrinsic to the British governmental bureaucracy, an offering John Landis had seen. “Clue” germinated from a small faction of individuals then dubbed Baby Moguls, including John. I suspect that John had once been poised to direct it, yet he ceded the undertaking to Johnny Lynn.
I journeyed to L.A. to rehearse the part, and I procured one of those stationary bicycles, as I feared my on-camera appearance risked projecting excessive weight. My metabolism remains unpredictable, let’s say—I gain weight readily. Consequently, I exerted myself vigorously on this bike and paced about Beverly Hills. We rehearsed for a duration of two or three weeks prior to commencing filming, a relative rarity in the film industry.
It does project the semblance of a theatrical performance. Even individuals unfamiliar with the film recognize Madeline Kahn’s line “flames on the side of my face.” What insights can you offer regarding your experience with her?
I esteemed her. We shared a strong connection, likely owing to my role as an abject suitor often positioned at her feet. She improvised that specific line, and it’s become iconic. She possessed brilliance.
Let’s transition to “Home Alone 2.” It premiered in 1992, featuring your portrayal of the concierge at the Plaza, the film’s location. At the time, our future President, Donald Trump, owned the Plaza, and he also secured a cameo appearance. Could you recount your exchanges with the Trumps?
Upon Donald’s acquisition of the Plaza, he entrusted his then-wife, Ivana, with redecorating the establishment, a task she approached with questionable aesthetic sensibility, let’s say. For example, I recall that the Plaza lobby featured a gorgeous black-and-white terrazzo floor, which she then concealed with a rather tawdry-looking Persian carpet exhibiting ostentatious hues. Upon my relocation—I lived there for the duration of the filming—she rapped on my entrance and stated, “I merely seek your feedback on your satisfaction with your chamber.” I responded, “I experience profound contentment here, thank you.” She replied, “I find great satisfaction in that, as I executed a total renovation.” And I did find contentment there—albeit not specifically with the room’s aesthetic. One could have mitigated the glare with sunglasses. And I enjoyed a view of a brick facade, an element not unduly captivating.
Donald possessed a new companion by the name of Marla Maples, a part-time actress, expressed subtly. The two of them constituted regulars in the tabloids, if you recall. And Donald articulated to me [imitates Trump], “I desire Marla to establish contact with the director, owing to her considerable acting skill.” I responded, “Given that, she should initiate contact.” I suspect that never transpired, yet perhaps they did rendezvous. He displayed a limited grasp of acting, indubitably.
The director, Chris Columbus, asserted that he forcefully integrated himself into the film as part of the terms of agreement regarding utilization of the Plaza. [Trump has denied this claim.]
I posit that he held a strong resolve to fortify his rapport with the hotel, assuming the position of grand vizier.
You relate that performing across from Macaulay Culkin evinced elements of “tiresomeness, given his propensity for rapid speech.”
His father had extensively coached him in memorizing his dialogues, which he then delivered at high speed. Chris adjusted the editing to accommodate him and would occasionally recite his lines for me during my close-ups. Yet, he was a kind child. He often entered the makeup area exhibiting dazed bewilderment, owing to exhaustion—stemming from a night of television viewing.
You assert that you and Joe Pesci were incompatible, likening your dynamic to “oil and water.” What posed the impediment in your relationship with Joe Pesci?
I can’t definitively pinpoint the source of the conflict, though I believe he surmised that I lacked adequate stellar qualities to feature in the film alongside him.
A handful of years after that undertaking, you engaged in “Muppet Treasure Island.” Did you encounter friction with any of the Muppets?
I did not. They stand among my favorites, actually. One of the preeminent benefits of working alongside them stems from the emergent tendency to regard them as characters as opposed to puppets, a testament to the Muppeteers’ skill. I held affection for Miss Piggy. We forged an exceptional rapport.
She presents difficulties for sharing the spotlight.
That she does. She embodies a greedy disposition. The script established that we shared, potentially sometime in the past, a fling of sorts. And I improvised a passage that failed to make the film: “Once you’ve tasted pork, you never cast a backward glance.” [Resonant laughter.]
I intend to solicit your insights regarding your more recent existence. You suffered a stroke in 2012, occurring while receiving a massage. The months and years of convalescence must have constituted a profoundly strenuous experience.
Indeed, a trying interlude, and the strain persists. I remain engaged in recovery, attributable partly to grappling with challenges arising from the wheelchair. I have yet to regain ambulation, a frustrating predicament, as I hold profound affection for lengthy walks. I grew alongside my father and his father, both proponents of expansive ambles across the terrain. My grandfather habitually carried a wooden walking stick, brandishing it to clear the nettles—brutalizing them utterly. Above all else, that instilled in me a profound appreciation for Britain’s rural expanses.
Given the significant curtailment of your mobility, what catalyzed your continued momentum? That endeavor necessitated considerable willpower.
I presume it did. However, I inhabit my intellect contentedly. And I, heeding the words of my mother, simply persevered.
You have consistently exhibited extraordinary physicality in your performances: your strut during “Sweet Transvestite” in “Rocky Horror,” or your animated exploration of the mystery at the conclusion of “Clue.” Do you still experience that within your physique? Does that element still resonate within your being?
I suspect it does, however, it manifests as anger. My mobility yearns aggressively to be unleashed. Yet, that event has yet to transpire. I dedicate myself to a degree of physical therapy. I participated in a concentrated effort at Cedars-Sinai, and I drew remarkably close to regaining the ability to walk, I maintain. That prospect proved tantalizing. Due to considerations linked to insurance coverage, I had to withdraw. And currently, I receive visits from a physical therapist, although my capability extends primarily to exercises conducted from my bed, a rather pitiable constraint. I harbor skepticism that it will facilitate the recovery of my ability to walk.
I suspect that I am questioning the nature of contemplating your younger self embracing such electrifying, physical, dynamic roles that persist on the screen. Do those experiences retain the same resonance within you, even absent the unrestricted movement?
They do indeed. They exist as constituents of my essence. I suspect that we all harbor a particular perspective concerning our history, and I hold mine in profound esteem. ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
