It was a Saturday night in the spring of 1968 when my folks took me to the Palace movie theater on Main Street in Danbury to see Frank Sinatra’s latest movie.Had they known in advance the subject matter I’m sure they would have left me home to watch TV.
Fourteen years old at the time and increasingly becoming aware of my sexuality I left the theater with one impression.
The only good homosexual is a dead homosexual, either murdered or one who has committed suicide.
Tough stuff for a teenager and anyone who was gay or bisexual. Herein lies the tale of one of the most gut wrenching films any gay or bi could have seen at the time or even since then in its condemnation of homosexuality.
The Detective.
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