I first became aware of Dolores Hart way back in the early-1990s, when I attended a special screening of her film “Where the Boys Are” at “The Castro” in San Francisco. Walking into the Theater, I didn’t even know her name. I merely went to see the movie as it was a favorite among many in the gay community: primarily because of its abundance of partially revealed male flesh, campy costumes and dialogue, the song by gay-icon Connie Francis, and the proto-feminist manner of some of its stars. When the picture started, I immediately recognized Connie Francis, Paula Prentiss, from her turn in a 60s comedy with Rock Hudson, and Yvette Mimieux, from my favorite sci-fi movie “The Time Machine.” But, who was this Dolores Hart? She was very beautiful, but not in an obvious way. She was classic, stylish, and put-together. Right away, I took notice of her, from almost the first scene in the movie, when she stands up in her college class and blasts the antiquated and Victorian sexual mores of the old-bitty teacher. Wow, I thought: she was the first female libertine.
As the movie went on, I was a bit shocked. It took several serious turns, as the girls had to continually fight off the sexual advances of the over-eager guys - leading to the eventual rape of Mimieux’s character; see my earlier blog on the film: http://www.josephsciambra.com/2011/12/where-boys-are-reevaluation.htmlAnd, at the forefront was Hart. Her seemingly sexually easygoing and liberally minded college girl persona disappeared. Progressively, after she skillfully maneuvered around one slobbering playboy after another, she starts returning to those “old-fashioned” ideas of self-respect, courtship, and chastity. When it was over, I walked out of the theater a bit disappointed. I was expecting a Frankie and Annette type film with bouncy beach-babes and dumb songs. This was a thoughtful film; and Hart was a really adapt actress. I wanted to know more about her.
Right away, after walking back into the blinding summer daylight, I walked a couple of blocks to the local video-rental store. I asked for any films with Dolores Hart. I young guy looked puzzled. He got some huge and hulking motion-picture reference book and found her filmography. He recognized two of the titles: both old Elvis movies. I rented them, and went home. Although, she was cute and perky, I still preferred her more dramatic moments in “Where the Boys Are.” Thinking…I got the idea of visiting my friends at a San Francisco paper ephemera store. As an old movie buff, I regularly haunted the place. The shop was a gay flag-ship: dealing in ancient movie fan magazines, posters, and porn digests. My current obsession was 1960s muscle-man turned actor Steve Reeves. I took the bus down there and asked for any material on Dolores Hart. The owners were a mature homosexual couple who epitomized the idea of over-the-top gaydom. The one in the store front shouted back to the other, who was in some backroom: “Anything on Dolores Hart?” “Who” he answered. “The one who became a nun,” he said. “What!” I screamed. Then, he told me a heavily abbreviated tale about how Hart left Hollywood to become a Catholic nun. I cringed as he spoke. As I left, I thought, “what a waste.” I never thought of Dolores Hart again
About 10 years later, just before entering a monastic religious community in Pennsylvania, fruitlessly trying to flee the horrors of my past life, I made a quick tour of several Catholic holy places on the East Coast: St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, the Slaves of the Immaculate Heart of Mary in Massachusetts, and the Benedictine Abby featured in the Loretta Young film “Come to the Stable” in Connecticut. While at the Abbey, I heard another visitor in the gift shop mention Dolores Hart. Being the incurable lover of Classic Hollywood, I asked them: “what about her?” They said she was here in the Abbey. I asked one of the sisters if I could see her. They said she was indisposed. I asked for her address, and If I could send a letter and perhaps ask for an autograph. They kindly obliged. Over the next two years, I kept meaning to write to her, but I become so preoccupied with my new life that I just forgot. Anyway, I thought to myself, I will be here for many years: there is always time.
Then, as Mother Teresa so wisely said: “If you want to make God laugh, tell Him your plans.” Suddenly, I found myself in the last place I wanted to be: back home in California. After much drama and heartache, I had to leave my secluded life and reenter the dangers of living within close proximity to my former hell. For days, suffering from the lingering physical effects of a damaging life in porn, I staid locked away in my room. I had my bed, an old portable TV, VCR, a few belonging in boxes that never got shipped to the East Coast, and nothing else. I dug through some forgotten video-cassettes: all my porn films had long been tossed in the garbage. Strangely, I came across a copy of “Where the Boys Are.” I guess I must have bought a copy after seeing it at The Castro. I had forgotten. I then thought, Gee, I never wrote Dolores Hart. I decided to watch it. I watched it again, and then again. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I grew rather desperate. I felt abandoned by God.
Out of nowhere, I got a call from an old San Francisco buddy. He invited me to a party. I was so very lonely that I spuriously said “yes.” I had every intention of showing up, socializing, getting reacquainted, and going home alone. While there, I ran into an associate from my porn days. The music and conversation made me heady, and I asked if there were any roles for me. He talked about an extreme S&M shoot. What he described went way beyond anything I had done in the 90s. But, I felt like a big deal again; someone wanted me. After a night of failures, I arrived back home. I saw the video-cassette sleeve for “Where the Boys Are” sitting on top of my TV. I laughed to myself: “What would Dolores Hart do?” In a bizarre twist, I decided to write her. I told her about my failed entrance into the religious life and my continued desire for sacredness. Afterwards, I went to the hulking and antiquated computer that I left behind, that barely connected onto the internet, and did some impromptu investigation into her life. Her story was completely compelling: a beautiful young woman who gave up a lucrative film career, fame, wealth, and a handsome man who loved her. What was I giving up? Since leaving porn, everyone and everything moved along without me; I was forgotten. There was no place for an over-the-hill washed up 33-year old former twink. That night, all I got offered was a role in a sick cheapie-porno. Prospects were pretty lean for me, if I decided to return to my old life; in my heart, I knew it meant death.
That night, I thought about Dolores some more; and I called myself names: stupid, idiot, self-centered queen. I keep thinking: look at what that woman gave up – she gave up the world. And, here I am feeling depressed and wondering if I should walk-away from a dead porn career that never really was. By then, the sun was rising, and I jumped in my car, headed to a local monastery, that had 24-hour confessions, and unloaded my burdens upon the poor hapless priest. After a few days, I got an envelope in the mail. I had sent a couple of old photographs to Dolores, the ones that I had picked up years before, from the gay couple’s curiosity store, and she signed them with a special note to me. She wrote: “Be faithful and courageous and the Lord will do His part.” It was really the sign I needed: that I was on the right track; despite the huge detour God placed in my pride-filled way; I was not to be a priest, or a religious, I was to stay in the world. I had to keep fighting. I could not give up all that I had learned; for a few minutes of adulation and evil-peace. I knew that the Lord would be my guide. Thank you Mother Dolores. Although, I never met you, your example of self-sacrifice and love shown like a beacon of fearlessness to a weary soul. May God always bless you.