Tim Curry, the diva who raised me

I planned to write a little something today about Dolly Parton, who died yesterday. (You knew that.) Then I got overstimulated reading all the tribute posts. A flush of doom still hasn’t left my body. It’s a nebulous, rhinestoned entity that I can’t quite get my arms around.

Today, Tim Curry also died at the age of 80. I can more easily name my appreciation for him and his work. See, Curry was for the boys who would be hams.

He wasn’t just a ham—he was a consummate diva. Dolly was, too, but the queen of country curated an immaculately busty storefront. She figured out her recipe and bottled it like peroxide. Powerful! We loved that about her.

My mutable ass can’t relate, though. Across his filmography, Curry made an array of temperaments perfectly, flamboyantly legible. He embodied the wicked side of camp. The path to the queer canon has many scenic routes. Dolly sparkled; he glinted like a butcher’s knife.

Regardless of his actual sexual or romantic proclivities (“respectfully, none of your fucking business,” he once said), Curry’s on-screen image rejected machismo. This always hit for me. As a boy, I did not want to prove how tough I was. I wanted to chew the scenery.

I don’t imagine Curry modeled this with an intention other than being himself, a deep-voiced queen with legs that didn’t quit. Likewise, I didn’t watch “Clue” as a kid and decide then and there to reject patriarchal norms. He just made it look so fun for a grown man to extravagantly express love, hate, jealousy, mischief, lust, insanity, or casually homicidal urges.

Curry followed in a fine tradition of dandies and fops, mustache-twirlers and sickos. But hey. He was our kaleidoscope of 20th century masculinity/butler from hell.

Obituaries rightfully focus on Curry’s work in the fishnet arts and the murderclown sciences. Meanwhile, I’ve been thinking about his omnipresent voice in cartoons, from “Tiny Toon Adventures” and “Darkwing Duck” to “The Pirates of Dark Water” and “Freakazoid.” He’s a type of guy who’s always been there, whether we knew it or not.

“Home Alone 2: Lost in New York” must be my first exposure to this beautiful freak. As the Plaza Hotel’s officious, smarmy concierge—apparently named Mr. Hector, a character name less powerful than Tim Curry Playing The Concierge—he stepped right out of a Looney Tune. A great honor to bestow, in my culture.

Now this, this was a man of style. The poise. The eyebrows, so arched they would drive tourism in St. Louis. The way he moans after catching Kevin’s “father” in the shower. How he pronounces “pizza” with clipped disdain. Crucially, his ability to smile like The Grinch. You can understand why a kid who loved fast-talking dames vibed with his whole deal.

Curry blazed an even wider trail for well-heeled lunatics as Wadsworth the butler in “Clue.” This one’s got all the line deliveries I hear in my head.

Growing up, how many times did I quote, “I buttle, sir”? Impossible to quantify. Curry sort of plays Wadsworth like Bugs Bunny—quietly confident, sharp as a tack, and of course, rascally. Watch him return Michael McKean’s exasperated “Will you stop that?!” with an unbothered “Nyooh.” Every bit the star quality of, say, Tom Cruise. But also, a fussy little bitch (compliment).

“Clue” also shows off how broad Curry could be, without losing his dignity or condescending to the audience. “I’m not shouting,” he bellows in that British accent that would seem offensively on the nose if it wasn’t his own. “Alright, I am—I’m shouting, I’m shouting, I’m shou-”—cue the candlestick bonking his head, followed by Curry crumpling with screwball precision.

And, well, “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.” Swing a corset and hit a dissertation about the revolutionary, reveling fluidity (and imperfect representation) of Curry’s performance as Frank-N-Furter. You could also just watch “Strange Journey: The Story of Rocky Horror,” the recent doc centering the community formed around the phenomenon.

However Curry’s strutting, sinister, sensitive turn in “Rocky Horror” makes you feel, I’d like to affirm: yes. On my most recent rewatch, his final number, the triumphantly tragic “I’m Going Home,” gave me new chills. Getting older, I guess.

If “Rocky Horror” truly offers any liberating power, it must rely on this bravura showstopper. Up until this point in the film, Frank’s been uh-oh as queer representation: manipulative, sadistic, allergic to consent. Also, sexy and fun! But if you’re trying to analyze a piece of media, can’t ignore the other stuff.

Even when brought low as “I’m Going Home” starts, this rapey mad scientist hasn’t textually earned a moment of sympathy. Sorta moot, though: While we yearn for meaning from our beloved movies, “Rocky Horror” cares about 1) titillation and 2) midnight movie homages.

Even so, Curry makes the song honest. Weapons-grade makeup smeared, bitch-ass perm soggy, eyes watery. His voice booms the title words. He swishes around with a gauzy piece of fabric like Gypsy Rose Lee past her prime. As his heels clop across the boards, you realize how much space Curry-as-Frank takes up. When he’s in the spotlight, nothing stays inside.

Even monsters might get to feel a little hope. Heavy stuff, if you’ve ever fallen outside the way you were supposed to be.

I could go on—”Legend,” “The Three Musketeers,” becoming a Muppet. What a guy. “G.I. Joe” never taught a boy how to put on a show.

📼 “Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma” (2026, dir. Jane Schoenbrun): I am a little too shy to write down how I most related to this just right now. Something something “feeling alienated from your body and your desire.” I can say that I hope god really does live in an empty Blockbuster at the bottom of a lake. (In theaters)

🩸 “Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust”: Precisely the kind of ever-escalating, crazy-making anime you want to see. Scratches an “Æon Flux” itch (the genre-bending dystopia) and a Bobby Hill itch (Pamela Adlon does a voice in it) all at once.

Loved all the fruity little man-crones. Loved the living tree diva. Loved the wolf hunk and his hairy shoulders and abdominal maw. Loved the oddly placed Jim Crow allegory. Loved fan-casting Lee Pace circa 2010 as the vampire hunter. (Not officially streaming)

🤡 “Dream Lover” (1994, dir. Nicholas Kazan): Mildly demented erotic thriller where James Spader gets ensnared by Shelly from “Twin Peaks.” If I’m Ryan Murphy? I’ve got Mädchen Amick on speed dial. But I guess that’s why he’s one of hell’s own demons, and I’m not. (Streaming on Prime Video, Tubi, and more)

🕷️ “Spider-Man: Brand New Day” (2026, dir. Destin Daniel Cretton): Obsessed with how often every character says Spider-Man’s name. If I was in Marvel’s NYC, I’d be saying “Spider-Man” any chance I got. If I was Liza Colon-Zayas, I’d even say it to myself in the mirror when I did my skin routine. Just to hear myself say it. (In theaters)

🍜 “The Ramen Girl” (2008, dir. Robert Allan Ackerman): Not me tearing up in the middle of the day at Brittany Murphy reenacting “Tampopo.” Ignore the poster, which makes this look much more culturally problematic than it is. (Streaming on Tubi, Pluto, and more)

🚲 “Pee-wee’s Big Adventure” (1985, dir. Tim Burton): Wonderful to watch this next to a 6-year-old who, when Pee Wee emerged in his rodeo disguise, asked “Who’s that?”

Really struck/affected/moved by Simone this go-round! So much communicated through such a small character and pleasingly lowkey performance. Go to your Paris, everyone. It’s not gonna happen until you make it happen. Also, if you don’t want your giant pro wrestler boyfriend, Simone, I’ll take him off your hands. (Available on digital)

I so grateful that I saw Dolly Parton twice: in 2016 at the Erwin Center and in 2022 at ACL Live during SXSW. For the latter show, I wrote a review for the Austin American-Statesman. The concert was a promotional event for blockchain, and also a James Patterson book? Very funny to read about getting an NFT from Dolly Parton.

Anyway, a bit to relive a cool night:

Dolly likes to close things out with “9 to 5,” usually. This was a high holy day, remember, so she sent the people home with “I Will Always Love You.” Do you know that feeling, when you can tell your brain is pulsing with electricity and chemicals and doing its work not quietly but intentionally, reassuring you that yes, you’ll remember this one?

It’s been a long week at SXSW. It’s been a long couple years on earth. And just when words stop making sense there’s Dolly Parton, singing an American hymn in your hometown.

“I’m as old as yesterday,” Dolly said on Friday night, “but I’m as new as tomorrow.”

Read an archived version here.

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A tab open on my phone for 1 million years: Vulture’s profile of Oneohtrix Point Never, composer of the “Marty Supreme” score. Maybe my favorite score of the decade so far?

Read it here.