The truth sank in slowly as I read on. I was reading his obituary. Richard was dead!
“Richard Schmiechen, Producer of Harvey Milk film dies at 45," the Times announced.”
I loved Richard, it is important for me to say that I loved Richard, in the best of complicated ways. As a friend, roommate, filmmaker, confidant, political and artist comrade. It was a long winding road we traveled.
We met in Chicago; Richard was dating a friend of mine. He stood out, serious, intellectual and very political. We all hung out at a bar called the Snake Pit; need I say more. Pretty soon it was time for all of us creative types to leave Chicago and get real about our art.
Richard landed a job as a film editor for the Maysle Brothers in NYC, legendary documentary filmmakers with a social conscience and politics that nurtured him.
Like a bad B-movie, I bottomed out in Hollywood working as art director for porno star and director, Fred Halsted. Very boogie nights!
One pitifully lost weekend I drank myself into a furious blackout and wound up on Richard's couch in NYC. I don't remember the plane or cab ride into the city; I didn't remember much of anything for a few weeks. Richard look care of me, and when that moment of clarity that AA keeps talking about happened, Richard was there for me.
He was the only friend who had the balls to tell me to my face I was a drunk. He walked me to my first AA meeting in Greenwich Village (Perry Street) over 25 years ago. He sat across the street for two hours waiting to walk me home after my first meeting. Richard did stuff like that for people.
Once after a film, I left Richard on the corner in Chelsea to go work in the darkroom. Six drunk Spanish guys who didn't want "fags" in the newly gentrifying neighborhood took their bottles and started smashing Richard in the face.
I took care of him for days, and once again rather then complaining about the pain, he was focusing on a film idea about fag bashing. He insisted I take photos for the film. They were too painful to look at back then, and the images have not diminished in time.
Richard always got me involved in his documentary projects for PBS. One was a film narrated by Martin Sheen about Agent Orange, and another was the first examination of atomic veterans, a film called "Nick Mazzuko, Biography of an Atomic Vet," for the Independent Focus series.
Years later I became the senior designer for a publishing corporation that produced a film magazine called Moviegoer. Vito did a cover story on Lily for the magazine. Lily later narrated Rob Epstein's film basied on Vito's book The Celluloid Closet. Karma, coincidences, fate. There are no accidents!
A few years later Richard called and was very insistent that I hop on a plane and come to San Francisco. He wanted my reaction to the rough cut of his new film project with Robert Epstein about Harvey Milk. Richard knew that Milk and I hung out years ago in San Francisco. Harvey owned the camera store on Castro were I got my film processed.
I was expecting to see a movie called the "life" of Harvey Milk, which I was not so sure the world really needed. The Harvey Milk I knew was a lunatic, a madman who drank and drugged as much as me.
I left San Francisco before Harvey cleaned up his act and transformed. I avoided old drug friends like Milk for fear of threatening my delicate sobriety. I was sorry when he was killed, but I had no idea of his life being a political statement. I watched their film repeatedly all night. I knew I was viewing something very important, but my response was confusion.
Harvey wasn't just shot by a madman on a Twinkie rage; he was a targeted political assassination. Richard always made me connect the dots and see the entire political picture. Richard made me step back and take a really long hard look. He opened my eyes. That's why the film is called The Times of Harvey Milk . It was bigger than my memories or photos, it was a time.
Richard and Robert's vision was of course, the bigger picture, the whole story in political terms. They reclaimed a queer political history that could have easily been forgotten. They recorded and bore witness. It was our assassination, our Kennedy, our King, our Malcolm X. Our bullet.
When Richard and Robert won the Oscar they turned their moment of personal glory into a political statement as well.
History was made that night. Queer history. No longer the invisible minority, two openly gay men accepting their Oscars. Richard and Robert gave us a voice that night.
I miss him, his politics and his back rubs. I miss thanking him for 25 years of politically correct sobriety, a day at a time, and forcing me forever to see the bigger picture.
Copyright © 2002 Andrew J. Epstein
