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OUT AND ABOUT WITH SIR IANWhy the world's foremost Shakespearean actor, Sir Ian McKellen, who is touring the U.S. as Richard III, considers gay-rights activism to be his finest role.BY BEN BRANTLEYVanity Fair, June 1992It was the sort of languid afternoon one gets in London in the early spring, and the browsers who had wandered into the large, sun-emblazoned Nash Room of the Institute of Contemporary Arts exuded a contented aimlessness. Students on holiday casually cruised the eclectic assembly of artworks, from decorative abstracts to extremely topical cartoons. ("Everyone knew I was gay," read the caption on one. "I had to write to the newspaper to say that I was also an actor.") Two young men in standard-issue single earrings and denim nuzzled each other lazily on the balcony overlooking a verdant St. James's Park. But when the portly man in banker's pinstripes, who seemed surprised to find himself there, started to make a fast exit, he was summarily stopped by a courteous but fierce supplication. "You will at least buy a T-shirt, won't you?" The speaker—a lanky, rumpled professorial type who had been fastidiously rearranging the exhibition brochures on the information desk—had an intensely purposeful gleam that promised to overcome any refusal. Moreover, the businessman had recognized the face behind the rectangular spectacles and blushed. "Well, seeing as it's Sir Ian who's telling me to, I suppose I must, mustn't I?" he stammered. He handed over the five quid. All afternoon, in fact, Sir Ian McKellen — England's pre-eminent interpreter of Shakespeare and the first actor of his generation to receive a knighthood — sustained a brisk, hucksterish energy, reminding everyone who passed him, like a tightly coiled conscience, of the reason for the exhibition: to raise funds for the Iris Trust and the Stonewall Group, the lesbian-and-gay lobbyist organization he co-founded in 1988. And if no one was going to plunk down the £100,000 asked for David Hockney's "Red Flowers and Blue Spots," each of them could at least manage a fraction of that sum for a T-shirt or a poster with its image (a pound extra if McKellen autographed it for you).
Two nights before, a black-tie-clad McKellen had, amid a roaring ovation, accepted his fifth Laurence Olivier Award for actor of the year, for his performance in the National Theatre production of Richard III, getting in, as usual, a dig at government apathy to subsidized theater. (Not that those awards mean anything, he told me brusquely when I congratulated him on it.) Now, in baggy pants and Beatle boots, he was pushing T-shirts, posters, and gay rights. The next day, assessing milestones in his personal and professional lives, he singles out his decision four years ago, at the age of forty-eight, to publicly declare his homosexuality:
The fact that he had spent much of his life as a publicly closeted gay man—though always very comfortably "out" in the theater community and never given to telling interviewers he was simply "waiting for the right girl"— is something for which he continues to flagellate himself. It was, he whispers dramatically, simply "lying."
When Ian McKellen comes to the States this month as producer and star of a sixteen-week tour of Richard III — which has been staged by National director Richard Eyre as a dark allegory of twentieth-century fascism, and has previously toured Europe and Japan — he will be presenting not only a stinging portrait of an ice-blooded tyrant but a public persona that America is largely unfamiliar with: a mainstream star who is openly, insistently homosexual. What's more — unlike the outspoken Vanessa Redgrave — he seems to belong to, and be embraced by, the middle-class establishment. Since coming out, in response to the introduction of Clause 28 in Parliament — a piece of legislation with strong anti-homosexual elements — he has, as the most visible representative of Stonewall, arduously worked the conventional corridors of power: keeping in touch with a network of sympathetic "moles" in Parliament; writing crisply worded pieces on homophobia for the dailies; appearing on network television as a morally indignant visitor to the Isle of Man while homosexuality was still illegal there; and, most dramatically, meeting with Prime Minister John Major at 10 Downing Street as a spokesman for lesbian and gay rights.
Asked about his personal identification with Richard III — the embittered, ambitious "crookback" who became a king — he answers tellingly, and with his customary academic caution: "You mean, do I think of myself as a misfit? I mean, you know, I think it would be up to somebody else to write this. But I could make a case for saying a gay man who has a mainstream career and is recognized by the Establishment as being one of them is akin to a man with an abject deformity, an abnormality, who is determined to rise to the top of the heap. But — here, his rough-featured face creases into a mask of exaggerated skepticism — "a misfit? I don't know. I've not felt a misfit in quite a long time." Correspondingly, McKellen's public role, as he sees it, is the gay "communicator with the straight population," embodying "the point of view of a gay man who has functioned in a straight society successfully in the last thirty years." This implicitly non-threatening presence — and McKellen's willingness to deal with the conservative powers that be — has antagonized more radical elements of the English gay community. When he accepted the knighthood during Margaret Thatcher's administration a year and a half ago, Derek Jarman, the polemical filmmaker who has been a gay activist since the sixties, wrote an incendiary letter to The Guardian, accusing McKellen of having been co-opted by a government inimical to the queer cause. While a dramatic, famous-name-studded letter of support from eighteen British lesbian and gay artists was printed soon after, Jarman remains adamant in his objections. "Yes, Ian has done a great deal of good, but he's also done a great deal of bad," Jarman says today. "Accepting a personal knighthood from Mrs. Thatcher, who's done more to put back the clock of gay rights than anyone in my lifetime . . . was an extraordinary misreading of the role of the activist." Jarman also resents what he sees as the "exclusivity" of Stonewall — a twenty-member organization which does not hold open meetings — and says of McKellen's interview with Major, "Actually, the great and radical thing, if you're going to call yourself Stonewall [named for the 1969 riot in Greenwich Village, initiated by trans-vestites], would have been to have gone to see the prime minister in a dress." McKellen wore a suit and tie, of course. He defines himself, after all, as "a conventional sort of person," and says his life-style has been, in many ways, "straight, heterosexual: the two men I had longish [eight-year] relationships with were, in a sense, marriages . . . based on two people living together in the conventional straight way." But he will also tell you, with a hissing vehemence, "I hate to be manipulated by authority. I hate authority. I'm part of the Establishment and all that so I can help dismantle it."
The seeming contradictions inherent in this earnest insider-outsider stance are part of the larger paradox that has always been Ian McKellen, a man who, his colleagues will tell you, seems to belong to the theater more completely than anyone they've ever met, yet who periodically draws back to ponder the legitimacy of his profession. "He has to know what the motivating force of life is on an everyday basis," says Sean Mathias, his ex-lover and the director of his recent, triumphant portrayal of the title role of Chekov's Uncle Vanya at the National. He is also a bravura performer with a star's instinctive narcissism and desire to dominate who nonetheless has twice set up "democratic" actors' companies in which he would play small as well as leading roles; a born politician seemingly made for leadership (it has for years been rumored that he will eventually head the National Theatre, the pre-eminent State-subsidized institution, which Olivier established in 1963) who is ultimately reluctant to take the reins. Sitting, appropriately, in the office of Richard Eyre, the National's current head, where we have our first formal interview, McKellen says, "I think if I'd pitched for it, I would have run Richard rather close. . . . But it never crossed my mind to run this building. I don't mind coming here and sitting in his chair while he's not here. But never, never, never. I'm the head boy, not the headmaster. That's how you have to see me. I'm not an initiator. I'm the man who carries the standard. I'm not the general."
Peter Hall, who ran the National during McKellen's first stint there, in the mid-eighties, and who directed the actor's stunning Broadway debut in Amadeus, for which he won a Tony in 1981, believes McKellen "loves to hide behind the will of a group, when in fact it is his will. . . . I don't think he enjoys the inevitable unpopularity that comes with leadership. . . . Like all of us, he wants to be loved.'' McKellen himself, speaking of his "personal connection" with many of Shakespeare's protagonists, offers, "They are people who, however central they might be to the life of the nation they are leading or wanting to lead, feel somehow inside that they are inadequate to the task.'' In fact, McKellen's strength, both onstage and off, has been as an interpreter rather than an initiator —someone who follows an established precedent with a boldly individualistic style that transforms, and exalts, the familiar. "There's nobody better at carrying the torch once it's been lit," says Richard Eyre. Just as McKellen has brought new life to an endlessly rendered gallery of Shakespearean heroes, he came out as a homosexual in the wake of earlier declarations by such established British actors as Simon Callow and Michael Cashman, but with a monumental dignity that instantly made him the cause's leading figure. ("My coming out was absolutely, directly linked to his," says Antony Sher, his Vanya co-star.) And McKellen admits he needed the external dynamic the movement provided: "I suspect if I hadn't eventually come out because I was gay, then I might have pretended that I was. I was a person looking for a cause."
Accordingly, he seems most comfortable following a script of sorts, bringing his peerless energies and keen, Cambridge-trained powers of textual analysis to pre-existing forms. He is, as Peter Hall notes, "a very complex man who acts a part in public.'' Offstage — or outside the context of his role as a theatrical spokesman — he is touchingly ungainly. Addressing the subject of McKellen the man, he is given to stammers and long, reflective pauses; his face sheds its charismatic cohesiveness, becoming weary and befuddled; his furry North Country voice booms and fades like a randomly programmed organ; the immense hands seem suddenly like cumbersome props, and he often covers his face with them between sentences. As his friend the actress and director Sheila Hancock notes, "Onstage he can convert himself into anything. In Coriolanus, he was like a steel rod. And yet offstage he flops about sort of like an overgrown puppy." McKellen himself says he is not "an adventurer, not an explorer. And there's been one place in the world that I've taught myself to be not just at home but to be in total control of myself. And that is in the theater. It isn't just that you rehearse a play so that nothing can go wrong, but also having the confidence that I would risk making a fool of myself, cutting myself open and then going out on the stage and showing everybody. . . . But for years that was the only area of my life when I was like that, and that was therefore the only area of my life in which I was fulfilled. . . . That must be connected, mustn't it, with someone whose sexuality is finally undeclared? So if I'd been out — as so many kids are these days, bless their hearts — at eighteen or nineteen, maybe I wouldn't have needed the theater as much as I have done."
As to how, or if, coming out has affected his acting, McKellen is guarded, noting simply that he is a more "self-aware person than I used to be. . . . But that might have happened anyway." Friends and colleagues, however, detect a definite sea change in McKellen the actor, effected, they believe, by the incongruous dual events of his coming out and his receiving the knighthood. Though always known as atypically generous and instructive with the actors he works with, offstage, his friend Peter Eyre (no relation to Richard), the actor and director, notes, "Ian's been quite competitive about other actors who are much, much less good than him but who might be on his territory. . . . And I think, funnily enough, that getting a knighthood is going to do him a lot of good psychologically. Because he doesn't need to be competitive anymore." Richard Eyre thinks that since coming out McKellen has seemed to locate in his performances "a greater range and a more palpable humanity." For years, the principal reservation about his acting has been that the pyrotechnic virtuosity has sometimes masked a central vacuity — a tendency to "indicate," in actors' parlance, rather than be. Eyre believes that McKellen would have been incapable four years ago of the poignant, "naturalistic" portrayals of life-beaten losers he gave in the National productions of Napoli Milionaria and Vanya. "Ian has never been less than a thoroughly dazzling, effective actor," he continues. "But being humane and accessible and moving you is different from being dazzling and effective." McKellen admits that in rehearsals for Vanya, "the instruction was always 'Will you stop acting, please, and feel.' And so, in not overtly characterizing, Uncle Vanya seemed to be coming from inside me."
Peter Hall describes McKellen as belonging to "the Olivier tradition — a performer of genius who will do anything. He has great daring. You can also see, as you could with Olivier, the wheels going round. . . . It is only in the last few years that Ian has started to reveal bits of himself that were private and personal. I can best describe it by saying that to me Ralph Richardson was an actor of genius — someone who seemed to be switched into the most complex of human emotions —whereas Olivier was a performer of genius. Ian has been like Olivier, but I think he is moving into the great-actor class as he shows more and more of himself. . . . I believe that now that his public and private honesty is one we may be going to see his greatest years." Accordingly, though well into middle age, McKellen still speaks with the self-searching rigor of a particularly puritanical adolescent. As Toby Robertson, the former director of the Prospect Theatre Company, where McKellen became a star, puts it, "There's the funny feeling that Ian — at fifty-three — is still in many ways very much a young man. You don't feel here's someone of great maturity: the man is yet to come."
The knottily linked identities of performer and reformer were forged early in McKellen. He grew up in smalltown northern England, the son of a borough engineer, and the grandson, on both sides of the family, of Nonconformist ministers. His parents, he says, lived their lives, with quiet obduracy, "on a level of principle." (His father was, daringly, a pacifist and conscientious objector during World War II.) Though now an atheist, McKellen says he was deeply influenced by "the Nonconformist conscience." He was also mesmerized by the music-hall entertainers who would perform locally, as well as by the metamorphic genius of performers he saw at Stratford, such as Peggy Ashcroft. By twelve he was acting regularly in productions at the Bolton School, where, true to form, he became head boy. Though he had identified his attraction to men well before adolescence, "at a time when other children were experimenting sexually, I was learning about the technicalities of acting. . . . It might have been a lot healthier for me if I'd been, you know, having sex" — something which would not occur until he was at university. Of his mother, who died of breast cancer when McKellen was twelve ("God knows what that did to me"), he says, "My feelings about her were of absolute adoration. She was the emotional center of my life, which was never replaced by my father. He died [in a car accident] when I was twenty-four, just at the point at which I ought to have been getting to know him.'' McKellen went on to Cambridge, where his fellow students included such future luminaries as Derek Jacobi and Corin Redgrave — and played twenty-one parts in his nine terms there. Already he was attracting national critical attention, and he slid into professional status with uncommon facility. But it was working with the fabled director Tyrone Guthrie, in Nottingham, that he learned to "dare to do something which would fill a theater." Those who remember watching McKellen throughout the sixties describe him as a breed apart from the dominant school of minimal, realistic performers then in vogue. "He had at that time a kind of bravura thing as an actor which was very different from anybody else," says Peter Eyre. When he appeared, in the late sixties, with the Prospect company, in performances of a defiantly large-scaled emotional intensity as Shakespeare's melancholy Richard II and Marlowe's flamboyantly gay Edward II, he was heralded as a new, fearless theatrical titan. "The ineffable presence of God Himself enters into Mr. McKellen's Richard," wrote Harold Hobson, the legendary dean of English critics. When the production moved to London, Frank Sinatra was calling to see if someone could possibly get him tickets; Noel Coward and Rudolf Nureyev were showing up in the star's dressing room; John Gielgud sent a congratulatory telegram. And the cries began that here, at last, was a worthy successor to Laurence Olivier.
McKellen himself is studiedly modest about his successes. As Peter Hall observes, "He has an instinctive understanding of how unattractive the necessary ego of a performer must be." McKellen sloughs off the New Olivier moniker, admitting that he has measured his classical career against that of Sir Laurence but saying that he couldn't possibly be what Olivier was. "He was a Hollywood star, he was a film director, he was a theater impresario, and he was married to the most beautiful woman who ever existed. What have I done? Yes, I played a few of his old parts." Still, like Olivier, McKellen established his own companies, albeit according to his own Utopian lights. In 1972, with fellow actor Edward Petherbridge, he created the idealistic Actors' Company, a democratic venture run by actors, in which the star roles would be equally shared. McKellen admits that he left it, in part, because he got tired of playing the small roles. A joke from the time: "Did you hear? Ian McKellen's playing the third waiter in the new Actors' Company play." "Really? What's it called?" "The Third Waiter." He and Petherbridge would repeat the attempt — within the institutional structure of the National — in the mid-eighties, an experience he admits drove him to total exhaustion.
From the beginning, he seemed uncannily sure of the direction of his career, always shaped, he insists, with the goal of perfecting his craft. It still seems to rankle him a bit that he never made a great success in films ("Do I envy Albert Finney, or Alan Bates, their careers? Do they envy me? We're just different"), and he allows that he wouldn't mind the film actor's salary. (Working six-performance weeks at the National earns him the equivalent of roughly $1,300.) But the theater, McKellen's friends will tell you, is unconditionally his natural element. This was evident the afternoon I watched McKellen during technical rehearsals for Richard III as he blithely ran the portrayal through an astonishing number of performance levels — from underplayed austerity to Quasimodo-like gargoylishness —periodically breaking off to become McKellen the producer ("Can I just say I think the boots of the soldiers should be much shinier than they are?"). Sheila Hancock notes his "ability to be giving an extraordinary performance and whispering awful things under his breath. . . . It's just like a child playing a game to him." Because he has principally known only success in the theater, he is, Hancock believes, "flabbergasted" by bad reviews or empty houses. She remembers touring with the National in the States in the mid-eighties and, after "tumultuous success" in other cities, arriving to "terrible indifference" in Chicago. "He took it personally that people weren't queuing round the block to see him. . . . And Ian went into overdrive, and he was on every radio show, and appearing in every newspaper. And of course in a week it was packed."
He applies the same conscientiousness, and gargantuan energy, to acting itself — methodically shifting between companies and directors, between grand and intimate performances. Directors say he will try absolutely anything in rehearsal and dissect text with the tireless-ness of a semiotician, "picking away," as Richard Eyre says, "at the tiny moment." This assiduity has resulted in some of the most freshly conceived, revelatory performances in recent British theater: a glamorous, incandescently power-drunk Macbeth for director Trevor Nunn in 1975; the convention-shedding gay Dachau inmate in Martin Sherman's harrowing Bent (in which he first appeared nearly a decade before coming out); and, in 1988, in Nunn's Othello, a bracingly military Iago, who plies his mechanical soldier's mind to wreak peacetime havoc. His current Richard III is presented as another out-of-work military man, but on a grander iconographic scale. Moving through a stylized world staged to suggest England in the thirties, this Richard — his defect minimized to a withered left arm and a concealed hump, and with a ruling-class lockjaw accent — is elegantly carved in ice with sly, shocking glimmers of psychopathic anger and contempt, unlike the more showily grotesque Richards of yore. Suggesting such period fascistic figures as Oswald Mosley and Edward VIII, he is a political master of hypocrisy. Playing him, says McKellen, was "unnervingly easy."
In interviews from the early eighties on, McKellen began to hint at a basic emptiness in his life, as if acting wasn't enough. He became an increasingly voluble spokesman for causes — subsidized theater, actors' rights. By 1987 (after his second starring stint on Broadway, in Wild Honey, a disheartening failure), he was tirelessly giving benefit performances of his one-man show, Acting Shakespeare, to raise money for the London Lighthouse, an AIDS hospice. And in January 1988, in a radio debate on Clause 28 with the right-wing editor of the Sunday Telegraph, Sir Peregrine Worsthome, he quietly but firmly declared his homosexuality. "He was being very rude about homosexuals, saying why couldn't they stay in their clubs? And I said, 'You mean like the Garrick Club? '—a gentlemen's club of which he's a member which I wouldn't be seen dead in. It turned out that I said I was homosexual, because he was personally offensive. And it was a very good debating point, because it shut him up. And having done it, I've not stopped doing it." It was conversations with Armistead Maupin, the American novelist, and his lover, Terry Anderson, a gay activist, during a visit to San Francisco in September 1987 that McKellen says finally convinced him of the necessity of coming out. (Maupin jokes that McKellen was, in the tradition of such expatriate Englishmen as Christopher Isherwood and David Hockney, "Californicated" into a greater sense of individual freedom.) They were discussing, McKellen recalls, the "closetedness" of certain Hollywood stars and whether an openly homosexual actor would be limited in "selling his sexuality." He began to realize, as he says, "the fact that I know that a man is straight doesn't stop me fancying him. If that was true, why should it stop a woman fancying me even though she knew I wasn't straight?" Pondering this, McKellen met with a casting director in Los Angeles, where he was up for a part in a movie, and asked her if she thought he could work in Hollywood if it was known he was gay. She answered, "Well, why not? The director's gay, and so is his wife." Here, McKellen mentions, off the record, two very famous names. "The point is, if it is true, is that a lesbian. And a gay man. Got married. And not, of course, to fool their friends or themselves, but to fool the world. . . . I went right off Hollywood."
The actual process of coming out was, McKellen says, surprisingly painless. When he called his stepmother and sister to tell them he was gay, they informed him they'd known that for thirty years. The public mail he has since received has been almost entirely positive. And while he had been counseled that his career would be damaged, it has only grown since then. The first role he accepted, "quite deliberately" and with typically strategic finesse, was the part in the film Scandal of John Profumo, the government minister undone by a liaison with a call girl, and a man "whose only distinguishing characteristic was that he was a raving heterosexual." When McKellen returned to California — to accept an AlDS-support-group award as Entertainment Industry Buddy of the Year — in September 1990, Maupin found a man "much easier with himself.'' The event itself is one Maupin, who attended with Anderson, says he will always remember. "This was a star-studded evening. Everybody in the world was in the room — Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith, Bette Midler, Madonna. . . . And Ian got up in front of every major closet case in Hollywood and told them to come out of the closet. . . that he had never felt this good. And that if anyone wanted help in coming out, that the three of us would be standing in the corner of the lobby after the event to give counsel. And there was a silence like you've never heard. He had said the unspeakable."
Three months later, he was awarded a knighthood. McKellen admits he was stunned by the ensuing controversy. "I thought it was going to be a reaction where people would say, 'How dare you give a knighthood to a poofter?' " He continues firmly, "I carry on as beforehand. I think I've got license to do whatever I want. That was what was basically wrong with Derek's argument. If you've got a knighthood, then you can do what you want; you don't start shutting up when you've got it." Indeed, McKellen continues to rail loudly against heterosexual tyranny. "Who's telling us that we've got to stay where we are? Men, you know. Who can only define themselves in terms of their sexual prowess. And that's why they're frightened of gays. Because gays say, 'We are men, and we don't fuck women.' Take away that from some mogul tycoon's image of himself and what is he left with? In female-dominated societies, there are fewer problems with being gay. . . . It's Papa who worries. Uncle Sam ain't too sure of himself. And the same here, of course," he concludes, with a delighted, deep-voiced reference to Major's female predecessor. "Because Mrs. Thatcher is a man." McKellen delivered this statement one afternoon in the garden cafe of the Lighthouse, the AIDS hospice he helped raise money to establish. Like all the places where I met him, it is linked exclusively to his public life. His house, in the Docklands section of London (financed largely by the money he made from Amadeus), and his private pursuits are strictly, he says, his own. And there is a distinction, he points out, "between saying you're gay and saying who you're sleeping with and how you sleep with them."
By most accounts, his private life has been rather austere. Sean Mathias notes that McKellen was always "too mean on himself.. . . When I met him, he was wearing old jumble-sale coats and driving a stupid old scooter, which I refused to get on. He didn't have a license to drive a motorcar. So I kind of encouraged him to take a motor test and earn some money and to buy some nice clothes. People say that I styled him." Mathias sees further evidence of the puritan in his former lover. "He's uncomfortable if people talk about sex in public. Whereas I love to do the opposite. . . . But I don't know. He's the most extraordinarily private person. Very secretive. I'm sure I prized him open a lot as well. . . . I used to have to pin him down to talk about anything that was to do with an emotion or life, really, before. Now I think he is more open." Other friends describe him as a bountifully generous man — someone given to taking friends going through hard times on holiday or writing long, supportive letters to them — and a person who loves company and parties. But Peter Eyre says, "Like a lot of gregarious people, he's very, very solitary. I think he's really quite shut away in himself." When I first spent time with McKellen, some months ago, he admitted that the energy he had poured into his work as an actor and activist had left no place for "the unexpected." He would like, he said, to live with someone again "before I've forgotten how." He continued, sotto voce, "I can't expect the pleasures of relationships to come my way. They have to be earned. But I don't earn them at the moment." When I mentioned this to Mathias, he answered, "I think he doesn't spend enough time alone. I think you can be with somebody in a relationship, or less solitary, only if you have spent a lot of time with yourself. And he spends so much time in the theater, and so much time attending to his activism, there can be very little time for reflection. So my advice would be: 'Well, hang out on your own a bit more, baby.' " This, McKellen assured me — when I met him again this March — is exactly what he has been doing recently. Though he had arrived at the National harried and irritable — having missed lunch to do a BBC radio broadcast on gay issues and spent his morning writing an introduction to a book of interviews with people with AIDS — he claimed he had rearranged his schedule in order to have "quite enough time to myself, even to the extent occasionally of getting bored. And I love getting bored — it's a great challenge."
In fact, when he finishes the States tour of Richard III this fall, he intends to take at least a year and a half off from the theater, possibly to write a book — perhaps on Shakespeare, perhaps on coming out — and to see if, finally, he can find satisfying work in film. He says he is making room for "the serendipitous, the ball from left field. It's all much, much better." Still, my most lingering memory of him comes from almost a year earlier. We had spent the entire day together, and as we sat down to a hasty, starchy dinner in the National cafeteria, he had finally begun to unwind a bit. His vast hands cradling his chin, he looked across the room at an old man sitting by himself by a window, over a steaming mug of tea. He was a caretaker, McKellen told me, who had been with the National for years. "He's my favorite man here," he crooned softly. "Isn't he gorgeous? Look at him — he's always alone." Copyright © Condé Nast 1992. |
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