Volume 33, Number 18 · November 20, 1986
The Unimportance of Being Oscar
By Jonathan Lieberson
For those who like to take things to extremes, Oscar Levant was a hero. Before he died in 1972, he had completed a great arc of self-destruction that ruined his career as a pianist, a radio and film star, and that had put him into a series of hospitals to be treated for drug addiction and mental illness. In his last years, he often appeared on television, where he boasted of his 'boss-hating attitude' and impertinence, and gained a reputation for insulting his hosts and sponsors. His impertinence extended into his private relations—or perhaps it originated there—in a remarkable way. When his ex-wife married the theater owner Arthur Loew, he telephoned them at two AM on their wedding night and asked her, 'What's playing at Loew's State tonight and when does the feature go on?' His phobias and superstitions were carefully recorded by his friends. They knew of streets he refused to walk on because of the bad associations they evoked, and how he would run out of a room if he saw Scriabin's music on the piano. Pigeons flying west, a discarded Butterfinger's wrapper, or more than two extinguished cigarettes in an ashtray were evil signs for him. His great friend S.N. Behrman described him as 'a character who, if he did not exist, could not be imagined.'
Feature, 3610 words
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