When I heard that Tim Curry had died yesterday, the day after the death of Dolly Parton, my first thought was as tacky as Dolly’s rhinestone bustier — or, for that matter, as cheap as the one Tim Curry wore in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show." I thought, “Wow. Two famous drag queens in two days.”
Dolly referred to herself that way for decades, but Tim Curry might not love being remembered just for having played Dr. Frank-N-Furter in Richard O’Brien’s globally beloved rock musical. Although we all first met him in "Rocky Horror," Curry had, of course, gone on to an estimable stage and screen career. He famously played the fast-talking butler in the mystery film "Clue;" Rooster Hannigan in the movie version of "Annie;" and of course his terrifying Pennywise the Clown in the screen adaptation of Stephen King’s "It."
On stage, he had leads in Broadway productions of "Amadeus" and "The Pirates of Penzance." And there was his brief foray into rock-and-roll with a trio of delicious albums on A&M Records in the '70s and '80s.
A lot of us who came of age in an era of don’t-ask-don’t-tell needed an icon. Keep in mind that this was at a time when no one was coming out of the closet. No one was standing up for gay kids — or gay adults.
And then, all of a sudden, twice a week in the 1970s, at midnight, there was Tim Curry in fishnets and a merry widow, singing joyfully about being a weirdo and marrying a humpy guy in a tiny gold bathing suit.
Kids in the '50s who needed an excuse to cut loose had Elvis to help make that OK. In the '60s it was the Beatles who nudged a new conversation about “race music” — and race relations — by covering Motown and Chuck Berry. In the '70s, young gay people had Tim Curry, singing Richard O’Brien’s songs about how it was OK to be yourself. No matter what that was.
Like Dolly Parton and all of the other late-greats we’ve lost, Tim Curry has left us the gift of his work — songs and performances we can cherish for however long we get to stay here. But he’s given us another, more rare gift. It’s something that few famous people who are forever linked to one breakthrough performance ever give us: He never distanced himself from Frank-N-Furter. Tim Curry never once refused to speak to a journalist about "Rocky Horror," never rolled his eyes when he was asked by a fan for the seven-millionth time about having played an intergalactic transvestite with 4 pounds of face makeup on. What a pleasure it was to always find Tim Curry being kind and respectful about this thing he had once created and that still meant so much to us.
As a militant gay man who came out to the "Rocky Horror" soundtrack, I’d have preferred it if Tim Curry had finally told us if he identified as gay or not. He joked about it in his recently published memoir, saying that the British never discuss such things. If I’m giving him a pass for keeping his private life to himself, I suppose it’s because Tim Curry gave us so much else, and so generously: memorable performances, magnificent rock records, and — most importantly — permission to be who we are.
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