The Mailer Review/Volume 4, 2010/Encounters with Mailer

Written by
Andrew Gordon

1972: UNCLE NORMAN AT BERKELEY

“Norman Mailer! How can you waste your time on him? He’s just a Male Chauvinist Pig, an asshole.” So said some of my friends, consigning him to the trash heap of the totally irrelevant. But Mailer was not your run-of-the-mill MCP; he had elaborated a private metaphysics and arrived at his conclusions by reasoning as tortured and complex as that of a Talmudic scholar.

It was the fall of 1972, toward the end of the Nixon-McGovern campaign. I was a graduate student at the University of California, finishing a doctoral dissertation about Mailer’s fiction, a project that had engaged me in a close scrutiny of his work and his volatile public personality. Writing a long study of someone is marriage of a sort; you do not commit yourself to it lightly. At times during those years, Mailer looked to me like an existential hero. At other times, he was an arrogant boor, a first-rate genius or a second-rate clown, a modest gentleman or an egomaniacal tyrant, a weird mixture of incompatible extremes, as various and schizoid as Mailer’s own portrait of his beloved America. So, my feelings toward him alternated between attraction and repulsion, hero worship and total disillusionment. I had never met the man, and I couldn’t make up my mind.

So, when I heard that the great man was coming to town, Uncle Norman giving a lecture at Berkeley, all the mixed feelings leaped to the surface, like Dexedrine warring with Seconal in the head. After grappling so long with his shadow, to confront the legend in the flesh—I felt as much apprehension as anticipation.

“There’s gonna be trouble,” I heard some prophesy gleefully. “Woman’s Lib ain’t gonna let him get away with it.”

The scene as I approached Zellerbach Auditorium seemed to bear out their warnings. In front of the ticket line, a handful of demonstrators were holding up their placards: “A little bit of rape is good for a man’s soul, says Norman Mailer.” Surprisingly, the militants were primarily gays, not women. Super macho meets the army of gays. It seemed to promise a classic contest: Classic Comics, perhaps.

I was surprised to find my instinct was to defend the champ. Couldn’t they picket grosser offenders than Mailer? Or was it only that he had the boldness to announce unpopular views and the foolishness to take on all comers?

“Aren’t you being silly?” I asked them.

“Oh, really?” they sniffed at me.

I was afraid the evening would be spoiled.

The audience settled in their seats. The gays positioned themselves for the battle to come, and the speaker was announced. He strutted up to the lectern, short and swaggering, dressed in black boots, blue jeans, black turtleneck and black blazer, tough but elegant, looking like a hip longshoreman or a punk professor. A schizoid balance, but on him it worked. The blue Levis seemed to say to the Berkeley audience, “I’m with you baby,” but the blazer was a touch of sartorial splendor; it put him a notch or two above us. He was looking good under the lights, ready to go fifteen rounds, a presence, close to fifty but could pass for a prematurely white-haired forty. He stood there, a celebrity, star of stage, screen, and the printed page, enveloped in a wave of cheers and boos.

He paused a second after the noise died down, sniffing the air, trying to gauge the mood. “What’s the score?” he asked the crowd, like the gangland boss from the East Side ready to parley with the mob from the West. “Are we going to have a good time tonight?” A flurry of cheers.

“We’re going to have the greatest miserable time tonight! I have the fond hope that my dear friends from the liberation are here?”

One lone female shout: “Oh, yeah!”

“You sound kind of friendly,” Mailer told them. “Hasn’t the word reached you?” He is the sort of man who actively seeks out confrontations rather than avoiding them.

The audience was ready to pick up the gauntlet. “Norman, you shmuck!” yelled a woman’s voice.

“Sweet heckler, all I heard was schmuck. I’m sure you don’t know the meaning of the word. The meaning of shmuck is cunt. And if I’m a Male Chauvinist Pig, I could not possibly be a cunt. God would not so honor me. So ‘shmuck you.’”

Cheers.

“Now I would like those dear ladies in the audience who are in the liberation and have hostile feelings toward me to hiss.”

Loud hisses, as of a nest of rattlers, or Medusa with her hackles rising. Mailer hunched toward the microphone, and through tightly compressed lips, bit out: “Obedient little bitches.”

Much laughter and prolonged applause.

I could see his strategy: he was warming up the audience, playing them and drawing them out. His mood was genial. Maybe the crowd was his.

After a series of one-line gags, he announced two topics for the evening, and it would be his task to put them together: “Woman’s Liberation and Richard Nixon.” The conjunction of these wildly disparate topics provoked more laughter. Just like Mailer to try to yoke together incompatible extremes.

But he didn’t get far before a man in the balcony moaned aloud with mock weariness, “I’m bored.”

“Oh, fuck you,” snapped Mailer, annoyed at the interruption. “You aren’t even beginning to be bored.”

“Fuck you with a telephone pole!” the guy shouted back with verve.

“You’re not man enough to hold the telephone pole,” responded Mailer.

The crowd roared; they were enjoying the repartee. I couldn’t say the same for myself; I had heard better insults in a junior high playground.

Mailer began to talk about the McGovern campaign, but again, they would not let him continue. They baited him, and when he rose to the bait, a voice in the balcony piped out, “Now, now, Norman, that’s a very childish way to reinforce your masculinity.”

As the interruptions continued, Mailer began to lose patience, like the hard-as-nails principal of a slum school, trying to deliver a lecture to an assembly full of punks while the smartasses in the balcony pelt him with spit balls. “I tell you what, gang,” said Mailer, “keep it up and we’re gonna have a showdown.”

The crowd was vastly amused by these sideshows even as I was finding them more and more tiresome. I resented the protestors for their interruptions, and I resented Mailer for encouraging them. Was he only going to play the clown this evening?