As an actor, playwright, and screenwriter, Harvey Fierstein has always been a deft observer of the human condition. Now the six-time Tony recipient turns that lens inward, inviting readers along a wry and incisive journey from his childhood in New York to his Hollywood turns to his Broadway triumphs. Everything you would hope for is here—the making of his Tony-winning Torch Song Trilogy and La Cage aux Folles, the creation of Edna Turnblad in Hairspray, his improvisation of possibly the most famous line of Mrs. Doubtfire—but there is much that is new. I Was Better Last Night will be published by A.A. Knopf on March 1, 2022, but you can read some of it now:

On Befriending Robin Williams & Making Mrs. Doubtfire

Working on Mrs. Doubtfire was a dream. Director Chris Columbus devised a brilliant system of capturing all that was Robin Williams. We did each shot over and over again as scripted until Chris was sure he had what he needed, and then Robin was set loose to improvise. This was especially fun when we worked on the scenes transforming him into Mrs. Doubtfire. But the shot I remember most was the one where Robin knocked on my door and asked me to make him into a woman. I did the line as written a few times until Chris told me he had what he needed. Now it was my turn to improvise. I cannot tell you how many times Robin knocked, said, “Can you make me a woman?” and I reacted. Dozens of takes, dozens of lines . . . until Chris finally said, “Cut. We’ve got enough.

We were just about to step off set when I was struck with an inspiration. I screamed out, “Just one more.” Chris was game. We went back and I delivered the line that has become a meme for all occasions: “Oh, honey, I’m so happy.”

Losing Robin was impossible for all who loved him. Cliché be damned, he was like a brother to me. Always generous, supportive, inclusive whenever we could get together. I don’t know why, but some people just walk right into your heart and make themselves at home. That’s the way it always felt with Robin. As with any true friendship, it was our private time that I cherished most. We were once having dinner in San Francisco when I told him I needed to get back to L.A. in the morning. As it happened, a studio was sending its private jet to bring him to Hollywood for a meeting. He invited me to come along. We were the only ones in the plane’s cabin besides a flight attendant. For reasons I don’t recall, there was a guitar on the floor. Robin picked it up and began to improvise. Nonsensical as it sounds, for the next hour I took on the role of Spanish actress Charo and he assumed the role of a chihuahua as we fought over which one of us Xavier Cugat loved best. It was a musical. We were in cuchi-cuchi heaven.

Of all questions the press asks I am most often queried about Robin. He is so beloved. People only need to hear his name and they automatically smile. I confess, that was never my reaction to him. Even before considering the torment he must have been experiencing to end his life the way he did, whenever we were together my heart reached out longing to comfort him. My brain reasoned, What the hell do you think he needs from you? He’s got a wife, beautiful children, a great career, more money than he can ever spend, terrific buddies, and a world of strangers who would kill to be his friend. The audacity to think he needs anything from you!

But that feeling was always there. A tiny voice from deep within called out in pain, and I was never sure he knew that I heard it.

On Madonna and Warhol legends Holly Woodlawn, Jackie Curtis, and Candy Darling

Holly Woodlawn sent me the galleys of her autobiography, A Low Life in High Heels, and asked me to call. “My diva daaah-ling, only you! Only you can turn my life into the Technicolor dream it was meant to be! Please, my daaah-ling, you must.”

Of the three legendary queens of Warhol, Holly was always my favorite. I could never catch what Candy Darling was talking about, and when I did, it wasn’t worth the effort. Jackie Curtis was a genius—absolutely—but she’d steal your lipstick, eat your sandwich, smoke your last cigarette, and get pissed that you didn’t have more to swipe. Jackie was a pain. I remember Harvey Tavel arranging for Halston to do a dress for her to wear in Amerika Cleopatra. The crazy queen set it on fire, put it out with a glass of white wine, dried it on a hot radiator before deeming it fit to wear. Holly, on the other hand, was genuinely fun, harmless and outrageous and ready to have a good time whenever. This book of hers wasn’t awful. It had a lot of gossipy details, and thinking about it, I could imagine the story of the three of them as a kind of insane, How to Marry a Millionaire. And Lou Reed’s “Walk on the Wild Side,” which mentions all three of them, was a built-in record deal. I sent the book over to Howard Rosenman, and he was on it!

“Madonna!” he said. It was 1991. “Madonna is looking for projects for her film company, Maverick. Do you think you could pitch this to her?”

“Wow! I can just imagine her playing Candy Darling. Right?” Howard agreed and immediately booked a meeting.

We walked into Madonna’s Central Park West apartment and I was blown away to see that every white wall of the living room held a magnificent Tamara de Lempicka portrait of a woman. I was impressed. I couldn’t imagine many pop stars understanding the importance of this artist’s deliriously deco vision of the female persona as machine-age form.

Madonna came in, and after the usual chitchat I described the adventures of Holly, Candy, and Jackie, giving it all the energy I could. She asked what her role in the project would be. I said, “You’d play the gorgeous, glamorous, glorious Candy Darling herself! She was the most commercially successful of the three—she even had Tennessee Williams tailor a stage role for her. And she’s the one who gets the big dramatic tragic death scene.”

I was working it!

Madonna thought for a moment. “But do you really think I could play a drag queen?”

“Of course,” I said. “Everyone’s already seen your pussy. It’s time to show them your dick.”

The movie rights are still available.

On the late Stephen Sondheim

On the occasion of Stephen Sondheim’s birthday in 2005—as on all of his birthdays until his death last year—an all-star tribute concert was being planned. Each of these outings instigated the same Battle of the Divas over which of them got to sing “Rose’s Turn.” The musical director, Kevin Stites, asked if I’d end the battle before it began by taking it on myself. How could I refuse? He came up with a stupendous musical idea. I dressed as Tevye and Kevin led the orchestra in the “Rich Man” vamp as I entered: *BOOM bada-boom-bah, BOOM bada- boom-bah…*The audience laughed, unsure what was happening. Reaching center stage, I looked up above the balcony to speak to God as Tevye would but, instead of his usual lines but still in Tevye’s rhythm, I launched into “Rose’s Turn”:

Why did I do it?

What did it get me?

Scrapbooks full of me in the background . . .

By this time the house was mine, totally into it, as I belted “I had a dream . . .” with all of my heart.

Sondheim was famous for answering every letter written to him and sending thank-you notes whenever due. I have the note that followed this performance framed and I’ve kept it in every one of my dressing rooms since that day:

“Thanks for contributing so hilariously to the occasion. So why did it make me cry?”

Coincidentally, I’d gotten to sing “Everything’s Coming Up Noses” on Sesame Street the year before.

Even in our casual run-ins I always felt Steve held some sort of bad feeling toward me. I guess I can figure why, but the fault is not mine. As previously noted, La Cage opened the same season as Sunday in the Park with George and took the Best Musical Tony. Those things happen. But the first revival of La Cage opened the same month and year as the revival of his Pacific Overtures, and again La Cage came out on top. And then, in the 2009–10 season, Steve’s A Little Night Music was revived with a glittering cast of stars. That same season was the third coming of La Cage, which amazingly made it three for three in the Tony department. I just want to say that I am not a Tony voter. I have never been asked to be a Tony voter. I’ve never been asked to be on any Tony committee. So, Maestro Sondheim, I can only offer a quote from some play of mine in apology: “In matters of taste there is none.”

On Woody Allen

Back in 1976 I’d improvised a scene with Woody Allen in Annie Hall. Danny Aiello and I were arguing at the counter of a Coney Island diner when Woody came to break up the fight. Recognizing him as a TV personality, I ran off camera to get a pen for an autograph. Not finding one, I returned with a butcher’s knife and handed it to Woody.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked.

I pulled up my sleeve, exposing my arm. “Give me your autograph.”

“Do you think there’s enough room?” he quipped.

I shrugged. “Just write over the stretch marks.”

The scene did not make it into the movie. Years later, when filming Bullets Over Broadway I asked one of Woody’s trusted crew members about it. He said the outtake often shows up in their Christmas reel, so I’m glad someone gets to see it.

On Ed Norton, Jon Stewart, and Death to Smoochy

I was positive that Death to Smoochy would be a huge hit, which proves how little I know. It was a satirical comedy with a cast led by Robin Williams and Edward Norton, both big draws at the time. The script was dark, dumb, fun, allotting plenty of opportunities for both leads to go wild. Also featured was Jon Stewart in a rare acting gig. I was most impressed with the movie’s lighting design. Shooting in shadowy locations, the designer used saturated color in complementary hues to transform the world of children’s television from rainbow happiness to the unnervingly conflicted. Being on set was visually exciting. But then, when I saw the movie, the colors had been diluted and dulled. Maybe it was all too much when they viewed the footage.

I remember filming in Times Square, right outside what was then the Toys “R” Us megastore. It was an all-night shoot, which costs plenty, so there’s no canceling even if you get hit with a blizzard. We got hit with a blizzard. We needed to shoot a scene in which I, a tough gangster type, threaten the life of Edward Norton, a wimp, in the back of my stretch limo. They put it off as long as they could, hoping the snowfall would let up so you could see something beyond the car windows, but it was not to be. The sun was about to rise and the snow showed no sign of stopping. [Director] Danny [DeVito] soldiered on and shot the scene, and then my close-ups, but by the time he turned around for Edward’s singles, everyone was exhausted. Danny took me aside and said, “Poor Edward’s in the back of the car, practically dead. All I need is a close-up of a truly frightened look on his face and we can wrap for the night. I’m counting on you. Get in there and say something really scary so I can grab the shot and we can get the fuck out of here.”

“I’ll try,” I said, racking my brain for something that would frighten an actor who’d played opposite Marlon Brando, Robert De Niro, and Frances McDormand. Danny put me in place, almost on top of Edward, squeezing him into the corner of the car’s back- seat. I brought my face inches from his, as close as I could without getting in the frame, and as soon as Danny called “Action,” I began to darkly hiss into this mouth:

“You so pretty. I wish’t I had a doll of you. I wish’t I had a doll of you and I would fuck it.” Edward’s face turned white. Danny hollered “Cut!”

Edward sprang out from under me and bolted from the car, off into the blinding snowstorm. Not that we run in the same circles, but I don’t think he’s ever spoken to me again.

Danny does like the look of danger. In another scene, which I think was excised from the movie, he had me threaten Jon Stewart by standing on his privates. He laid poor Jon on the ground and had me tower over him, the heel of my shoe dangerously close to his genitalia. Of course, they placed rails for me to lean on so I wouldn’t accidentally slip and destroy his future lineage; but it was still a scary prospect for Jon, and, just as soon as Danny called “Cut!” Mr. Stewart sprang out from under me, and although we don’t run in the same circles, I don’t believe he’s ever spoken to me again.

On Making La Cage aux Folles, Arthur Laurents, and Shirley McLaine

What a gutsy little queen I was. Still in my twenties, I had the nerve to claim a place at the table with two of the theater’s greatest talents: director Arthur Laruents and writer Jerry Herman. Unbelievable! Arthur proposed a structure for our sessions. We’d work scene by scene, meeting once a week at Jerry’s. We began each session with me reading aloud the new scene I’d just written. Arthur would edit it on the fly, barking out, “No jokes— cut that!” He demanded that all dialogue be true to the characters, without setups or punch lines. I teased Arthur, telling him he sounded like a barking dog. From then on, his order became “It’s a dog. Take it out!”

Second item of business had us discussing how Jerry might musicalize that particular section. Sometimes it was a totally new idea, as with “The Best of Times,” but more often he would cannibalize my dialogue into his lyrics, as with “I Am What I Am” or “Cocktail Conversation,” resulting in the song and the scene melding into one.

Next, we’d discuss where the plot was going and what the next scene should be. Arthur was a genius at construction. Whatever he didn’t know instinctively he’d learned at the knees of great directors and producers like Jerome Robbins and Hal Prince. Believe me, I listened to every word the man said, knowing full well that it came from the best in the biz. I was privy to lessons you could not get from any textbook or college class. The man knew his shit. Following his lead, our show took very few wrong steps.

When I got the call about Arthur I had immediately phoned his old and my new friend, Shirley MacLaine, with the exciting news.

“Call them back and tell them no!” she snapped.

“But why?” I asked. Arthur had written The Turning Point, one of my favorite of Shirley’s films. I thought she’d be ecstatic for me. “Let’s say it’s your birthday and a hundred of your favorite people are throwing you a party. You’re surrounded with love and sup- port and appreciation. Then the door opens and in walks Arthur, who, for reasons you will never understand. is cross with you. The love and support of one hundred friends will not protect you from the cruel intent of that man. By the time he’s done, you will be sorry you ever thought of having a birthday.”

Fast-forward three years to find us all standing together on the stage of the Uris Theatre, where La Cage has just won six Tony Awards. It’s the finale of the broadcast, and everyone who’d participated in the evening is lined up together on bleachers singing “The Best of Times” from our show as the credits roll. On this happiest occasion I turned and gaped in horror at what was happening right in front of me, right in front of America, on live television. There, center stage, stood Arthur giving Shirley MacLaine notes on what was wrong with the one-woman show she’d done earlier that sea- son. Forget a hundred friends. Millions of eyes could not protect her from Arthur.

A photographer from the New York Post heard me tell this story and sent me this photographic evidence. My favorite detail is Raquel Welch wondering what the hell was going on.

On losing his virginity—and losing friends

It wasn’t that Michael was loose. He was handsome and flirtatious and raging with the hormones of a sixteen-year-old whose gaydar was fine-tuned to the forbidden fruit of older men. He discovered that being a pretty boy got you lots of attention. Wherever we went, if there were gay men around, they were drawn to him. Hence, we never went anywhere that there weren’t gay men around. The West Village was a favorite haunt. Like a “Homes of the Stars” tour guide, he led me on an expedition to see all of the gay hot spots.

“This is Julius’. Forget it. Nothing but old men . . . And you can eat at Mama’s Chicken Rib . . . Down those stairs is the Bon Soir, where Barbra Streisand tries out new material . . . The Ninth Circle is over there, and just around the corner is the Stonewall.”

We were too young to patronize any of the bars, but sidewalks are open to everyone.

There was a bookstore with a carpeted seating ledge under its window on Eighth Street—a perfect spot for me to people-watch and Michael to manhunt. We’d sit and chat until some nice-looking gentleman noticed Michael. They’d usually pass us by once or twice before stopping to examine some interesting book in the win- dow behind us. Michael would lean back into the gentleman’s focus and . . .

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What are you boys up to?”

“Not much.”

“You’re together?”

“We’re friends.”

“I live across the way . . .”

The first few times I sat and waited for Michael to return. He rarely did. I usually walked back to the subway alone. . One day while waiting I looked up to see my idol Buffy Sainte-Marie walk- ing hand in hand with her boyfriend. I wanted to scream. I worshipped that woman with the long black locks, distinctive vibrato- , and ringing guitar. I had every one of her albums and had even seen her perform at Carnegie Hall. Before the day of the concert I drew a large portrait of her and carried it to the stage door. Shockingly, the guard let me in and I voicelessly presented my gift to her. She smiled at me before being swept into a circle of congratulating friends. And now here she was right in front of me. I didn’t dare speak to her. Instead I followed the couple down the street, in and out of shops and boutiques, occasionally catching her bewildered eye, which then became an embarrassed eye, and eventually one of annoyance, at which point they took refuge in a movie theater, the Greenwich. I had no money for admittance, so I gave up the chase and floated home. However hot Michael’s guy was, I highly doubt he’d remember the guy as vividly as I recall my almost-run-in with Buffy Sainte-Marie.

Michael made friends easily. Scott lived right down the street from school. He was a little older than us, a high-school dropout who still lived in an apartment with his divorced mother. His father had left them well off, and no way was Scott going to waste his time working when he couldn’t fathom how he’d spend the funds already at his disposal. Scott’s Fifty-Seventh Street apartment made a convenient place to hang out on the days we cut school and the weather kept us from wandering Central Park. I loved school and rarely cut, but there were days when I simply couldn’t face a math exam or when Mr. Ginsburg was out and some saccharine sub- stitute who loved being around artistic kids showed up and told us how lucky we were to be talented. Anyhow, Michael saw Scott much more than I did and, in my absence the two of them had devised a plan.

I had barely walked through Scott’s door when Michael snatched my jacket and pointed behind him: “Joey is waiting for you in the guest room.”

“Joey?”

Michael took a half-smoked joint out of Scott’s mouth and shoved it into mine.

“You know Joey. My friend from Gravesend. The one we went for pizza with that time.”

“Oh, right,” I said, having no memory of this boy.

“It’s time. And it will be good for you. You can’t sit around wait- ing for someone to magically appear. That’s not the way the world works. You want something to happen, you make it happen. And Joey volunteered.”

I still had no idea what he was talking about. “Suck,” he said. I realized he was referring to the reefer in my mouth. I took a long, deep toke. He snatched the joint back and ordered, “Go! He’s waiting.”

Finally, the fog was lifting . . .

“Have fun and make me proud” were Michael’s last words as I entered the room.

Joey was lying on the bed, already naked, and grinning as he rocked his head back and forth and said, “Hello”.

He was kind of adorable, I must admit. A very different type of Italian boy than I’d grown up with: his body was almost hairless, and his head was a mass of golden curls. And his penis . . . I’d seen penises all my life: in my own home, at the Sunset Park pool locker room, in the JCH swimming pool when everyone bathed naked on Men Only nights. But I’d never seen an uncircumcised one before except in statues and paintings. Even porn stars were circumcised, which made me stop to wonder if they were all Jewish.

Joey reached out and pulled me to him. It was a small bed. It was a big deal. He kissed sweetly, guiding me along, and when we were done, I bolted from the apartment as quickly as I could, making my escape back to Brooklyn by subway. As it was Friday night, my mother and father volunteered to pick me up at the station to save me the walk from the elevated train. They’d be out anyway, driving my Uncle Paul home from dinner. Uncle Paul had been coming to our weekly Sabbath dinner meals for decades. My grandfather’s brother, he was a postal worker whose wife went mad soon after their honeymoon. He’d returned from work one evening to discover her under their bed screaming. Their apartment windows looked out over the elevated train tracks, and family folklore said that it was the people looking in her bedroom window as they passed by that drove her to madness. I guess that’s as good a reason as any, although hundreds of thousands of others, in cities all over the world, have endured passing trains without becoming Ophelia.

Refusing to divorce her, Uncle Paul placed Cecile in a facility, where he visited her weekly for half a century. Under such care, she outlived him by a decade.

Uncle Paul was already standing outside the car waiting when I bopped down the staircase from the train. I got in back with him and faced what felt like a barrage of questions about my evening. I don’t know if it was the pot or the penis, but I was way too lost fiddling with my jigsaw pieces to come up with any sensible responses. My father shook his head dismissively. My mother shifted the rearview mirror to get a better look at me. And Uncle Paul gently burped and said, “You missed a wonderful brisket.”

My brain kept rushing back to Joey buried in Scott’s guest room’s sheets, but then I’d suddenly catch myself grinning or breathing hard and quickly looked up to be sure my parents hadn’t caught me. I tried disguising any inexplicable sighs I might have unwittingly emitted by humming softly to myself. I pulled the collar of my coat around my face to check my breath. The taste of Joey lingered on my tongue. Could they smell it? I rode home in all the silence I could manage and spent the night expelling memories into gym socks until I fell asleep to dream.

This was 1967 and I was fifteen.

I saw Joey only once more. It must have been the early eighties. I recognized him right away, although the club was dark and he was in full drag. We barely chatted. We were both with friends. Not long after I heard he’d passed with AIDS.

As for Scott, his mother became involved with a very high-profile politician, who proposed marriage with one condition: she had to do something about her layabout fag son. So she did. Scott was committed to an asylum to undergo conversion therapy. Neither Michael nor I was allowed to visit for months, and when we finally made the trip uptown, we found that Scott was no longer the care- free youth we’d known. Bloated by medications, his skin yellow and blotchy and covered with scratch marks, he chattered and giggled mostly to himself, like a character out of a medieval morality play, and asked us to join in his happiness; he’d at last found love and planned to wed. We were then introduced to the object of his affection—a very large and most unattractive nurse who was nevertheless very understanding of Scott’s condition. She was able to gently deflect his physical advances as he tried time and again to kiss her. Michael and I did not stay long, and I have no idea what became of the boy.

For the record, as of this writing, conversion therapy is still legal in many of the United States and throughout most of the world.

From the book I Was Better Last Night: A Memoir by Harvey Fierstein, to be published on March 1, 2022, by the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. Copyright © 2022 by Harvey Fierstein.

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