The Tailor-Made Man. Stage Door Theatre.

Claudio Macor’s tale of pre-war Hollywood homophobia The Tailor-Made Man had its first stage outing close to 30 years ago. Since then, the piece, inspired by tales from Kenneth Anger’s dubiously researched book Hollywood Babylon, has been workshopped for a TV production that never happened and spawned a radio version starring Judd Hirsch. Numerous US and UK revivals have followed as has a well-received 2013 Arts Theatre musical version.

The story of how out queer movie star William ‘Billy’ Haines fell foul of silver screen hypocrisy, embodied in the grotesque form of movie mogul Louis B. Mayer (Dereck Walker), certainly has tragic potential. But in director Robert McWhir’s solid if unadventurous reworking at Covent Garden’s Stage Door Theatre the piece succeeds best as a story of love and forgiveness. The disgraced star is certainly a victim of vindictive bigotry on Meyer’s part. But one ends up thinking the lecherous, self-sabotaging, problematic Haines is at least complicit in his own all-too-predictable downfall.

Studio executives on the lookout for “an all-America Rudolph Valentino” discover wise-cracking, twenty-something Haines (Hugo Pilcher who is the spitting image of the star) as part of Goldwyn Pictures’ New Faces of 1922 talent contest. The neophyte is subsequently signed to a $40-a-week contract as a bit part player. “You provide nothing, do nothing, say nothing” public relation supremo Howard Stickland (a deliciously venal Peter Rae) tells him by way of sage career advice.

Come 1926 Haines already has a reputation for “goosing” fellow cast members and hitting on the male film technicians. He elicits sexual favours from Clarke Gable in exchange for a studio connection, much to the chagrin of Gable’s future love interest Carole Lompard (a delightfully OTT Olivia Ruggerio). It is the kind of behaviour that would get him banned from every set in moviedom today, but “just keep it out of the papers” is all his bosses urge. “You’re a slut” newly moved-in boyfriend Jimmie Shields (Gwithian Evans in gauche country-bumpkin mode) tells the actor. “Let’s just say I’m friendly” comes the reply. Meyer pithily observes “you try to protect the low lives from themselves…  but the man can’t keep his ass to himself”.

The star’s big break comes in 1926 in a movie that establishes his enduring screen persona: an irreverent, arrogant, know-it-all destined to get both comeuppance and girl in the final reel. It is a persona tailor-made for Haines, one which neatly foreshadows real-life events to come. With the help of elocution lessons the star proves “big enough” to make the tricky transition to the talkies. By the early 1930s Haines is an unmatched box office sensation, eclipsing even the legendary Greta Garbo in ticket sales. Best friend forever and co-star Marion Davies (Shelley Rivers) offers-up moral support, histrionics, mid-morning martinis, and workplace rumour.

The self-entitled Haines is, of course, flying too close to the sun. To the frustration and barely submerged jealousy of Shields, who is by now working as an interior designer, the star keeps a permanent shag-pad at the YMCA in downtown LA. It is where he takes the innumerable sailors and rough trade that he picks up cruising La-la Land’s seedier side. Inevitably the corrupt local vice squad takes an interest. In 1933 he is caught in flagrante delicto. Meyer asks himself rhetorically “how can I take my daughters to his movies when I know he’s a fag” before killing the news story and delivering an ultimatum. Ditch Shields and marry a beard in the form of Polish sex symbol Pola Negri (Olivia Ruggerio again vamping it up), or see career destroyed.  Which choice will Haines take?

The couple stayed together for 50 years and became megastar interior decorators to amongst others Nancy and Ronald Reagan. Joan Crawford, known to Haines affectionately as “Cranberry”, is said to have labelled their relationship “the best marriage in Hollywood”. Yes, for a while these two are imprisoned in silence for the sake of career, unable to express their sexuality. But the jail feels golden and plush, and to some extent these two are the ones holding the key out.

McWhir’s direction is pacey to a fault, but Macor’s script sees an awful lot of exposition and loses momentum in numerous diversionary excursions into Hollywood gossip. Janet Huckle’s 30s costumes are gorgeous. There is obvious chemistry between Pilcher as the often predatory Haines (for whom Macor has palpable and possibly undeserved sympathy) and Evans as his long-suffering, deeply loving partner Strickling. Forgiveness is here in spades. Whether there is also tragedy is debatable.

Writer: Claudio Macor

Director:  Robert McWhir