Letters to the Editor: Remembering Rex Reed |
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Letters to the Editor: Remembering Rex Reed
Friends, colleagues and fans share their memories of Rex Reed—the reviews that changed their lives, the letters he sent back, and the man who made a generation of young gay men feel seen. A compilation of tributes to the legendary critic.
At the bottom of Rex Reed's obituary a week ago today, on May 12, 2026, I invited readers to share their memories. A very close and very private friend of Rex's told me that "all Rex ever wanted was to be loved and to be famous." Maybe the call for remembrances was my way of honoring that. Maybe I wanted to know if he got what he wanted.
The emails started coming. Dozens of them, from critics, actors, writers, artists, producers, pals, lovers and fans. Many included photos—handwritten letters Rex had sent them, typed notes on his stationery, things they'd kept for years, sometimes decades.
Rex was a man who wrote back, even if you weren't his friend. To teenagers. To strangers. To almost anyone who took the time to reach him. They didn't expect a reply, but they got one (gracious, thoughtful). He was relentlessly social, holding court at parties, burning up the phone lines. Sending five-page responses to three-paragraph letters.
An entire generation of gay men grew up watching Rex on TV, recognizing something they couldn't yet name. One put it simply: "There weren't many role models for Future Homosexuals of America in the 1970s." Rex was among the few. For them, he was rarer than a critic.
Many people discovered Rex as children. A 9-year-old watching talk shows past his bedtime. A 14-year-old writing fan letters from the suburbs of L.A. A 10-year-old who saw him in Superman and became obsessed with Myra Breckinridge. A child whose single, immigrant mother found such joy in Rex's writing that the child's memories of Rex are inseparable from her memories of making a new life in America. They found him on television, in libraries, in their parents' newspapers. And they followed him for the rest of their lives. Many of them wrote to Rex. (Many got letters back.)
The reviews, of course, quoted from memory. One reader's favorite Rex pan sparked a decades-long obsession with a forgotten 1969 film; this year, that reader—now a successful screenwriter—helped restore it. Several readers noted, with sadness, that they'd been checking Observer, hoping to see his byline, wondering what happened.
In letter after letter were his eyes, his voice, the way he moved through space, the way his entire body paused, almost quizzically focused on the person in front of him. People describe Rex the way you describe someone you know and love every inch of, even from your living room, even as a child, even if you never met him.
In 1971, Rex wrote to a 14-year-old girl who'd sent him a fan letter: "I sometimes think I'm writing into a vacuum and nobody ever sees what I write. It's comforting to know I got through to somebody."
In an age when everything can be generated, here's the evidence that something irreplaceable happens when a person sits down and puts words on a page about another person. Here's what it means for writing to matter. Human writing. Writing about humans. Writing to humans.
Rex spent his life doing that. He was an Observer, in every sense, for almost 90 years.
Like most parents, I correct certain words that come out of my children's mouths. Stupid. Ugly. We're not supposed to say such things. But this past week, every time I've reflexively gone to stop one of them—mostly, my four-year-old—I pause, thinking about Rex.
There are stupid things in the world. There are ugly things. And if nobody's willing to say so—clearly, without hedging, without apology—what does it mean to call something beautiful?
Rex wasn't cruel for cruelty's sake. He believed that for words to mean anything, you have to be willing to use all of them. Even the uncomfortable ones. Especially those.
That's what I want my children to learn. Say what you see and make sure your praise is worth something—because you've proven you're not afraid to say when it isn't.
Letters to the Editor: Memories of Rex
The Rex Reed Foundation
Trapped in an Episode of 'Dynasty'
Role Models for Future Homosexuals of America
Room for Just One Southern Gay
A Fight About When World War II Started
Truth Will Find an Audience
Insane Demands Aboard the Ship
Glamour Over the Lilac Hedge
"For someone brought up in the shadow of the movie industry, you seem remarkably fresh."
Saved by Lemon Meringue Pie at the Beverly Hills Hotel
So, You Want to Be Rex Reed?
Everything Good Rolled Into One
Small, Sweet Memories
"You have a tremendous talent for knifing your way into the dark recesses of the human heart."
Lyrics as They Were Meant to Be
"I'm still in The Observer, you know."
A Jacket That Someone Threw Up On
A World of Musical Darkness
An Escalator at Bloomingdale's
Hunting Up 'Rex Stuff'
Remembered My Favorite Color (Not My Name)
"The bulk of Redditors are the unconscious stepchildren of Reed."
How to Be Your Own Best Friend
"I couldn't wait to read the next one."
Clark Gable Left Out in the Sun
Rex Reed's Guide to Movies on TV & Video (1992) in the Family Room (2026)
A Delicious Chortle-Snort
Gushing to Bomer at the Airport
Does This Make Sense?
Do You Sleep in the Nude?
Time Did Not Heal His Rage
Snarky Barbs on 'The Gong Show'
Waiting Around the Fairchild Lobby
Seven and Utterly Smitten
When Criticism Was Art
He Never Answered, But I Loved Him
Movies Were My Currency
The Mad, Movie-Loving Writer
The Way I'd Like to Remember Him
From That Point Forward
A Catalog of the Best Film Has to Offer
These messages have been edited for clarity and brevity.
The Rex Reed Foundation
William Kapfer & Eric Baker
Following the passing of our dear friend, Rex Reed, we have been moved by the overwhelming response from those whose lives he touched.In lieu of a traditional funeral, we will host a tribute celebration this autumn honoring Rex's remarkable life and legacy—in the spirit of the beautiful tribute he produced with Deborah Grace Winer and Michael Alden for his longtime friend Polly Bergen in 2015.For more than six decades, Rex Reed was one of the most influential voices in American cultural criticism. As a legendary film critic, celebrity interviewer, author and longtime member of the New York Film Critics Circle, he shaped the national conversation around film, theater and popular culture.This gathering will celebrate not only his extraordinary professional accomplishments, but also the wit, intellect and generosity so many of us were fortunate to experience personally. Friends, colleagues, artists and loved ones will come together to honor a singular life that left an indelible mark on media and the arts.We are also establishing The Rex Reed Foundation to support media, arts, journalism and cultural storytelling while nurturing future generations of creative voices.Details about the autumn celebration and foundation will be shared in the coming months. The foundation website, RexReedFoundation.org, will launch soon.We are deeply grateful for the kindness and support during this difficult time.
Trapped in an Episode of 'Dynasty'
When I saw Joan Collins move through the crowd toward Rex Reed, and by default, me, I got that special sickening feeling you get when you’re friends with a famous critic who’s known for blending unfiltered opinion with unbridled literary flair that—like nuclear fusion—creates a lot of unpredictable energy. Joan approached—coiffed, bejeweled, with a blinding smile and raising one manicured finger toward Rex. “Hi Joan,” he Louisiana-drawled.She wagged her finger and smiled even wider.(Was she mad?)“Rex, you naughty, naughty boy,” she cooed in British, patting his cheek.(Yep.)“I should be very, very angry with you.”“Oh, Joan,” he laughed. Then she kissed him while relaying unhappiness at his review of her recent one-person evening. He didn’t think he’d said anything bad. (Though there was that line, “You can accuse her of hanging on beyond her prime, but if you meet her in a dark alley, bring Mace.”)Then they embraced. They’d been friends since the 1960s.It was like being trapped in an episode of Dynasty.
I first met Rex in 1972 in Florida. I was a journalism student in my second year of college when I wrote Rex a brief, three-paragraph letter asking to interview him. He responded with a five-page handwritten letter detailing how impossibly busy he was—major deadlines, phones ringing off the hook, hundreds of letters weekly. At the end of this tale of woe, he invited me to pick him up at the Orlando airport and have dinner before he spoke at an event for Air Force wives in Cape Canaveral.I arrived at the airport and we walked to my yellow Corvette. Rex, who had no filter, immediately delivered his first unsolicited critique about my car. He was hilarious. As we drove to the motel, the second critique arrived—this time about my name.My birth name was Richard, but living in the south, I'd acquired the nickname Rikki. Rex asked how I came up with that ridiculous name and spelling. I explained my grandmother loved the childhood story Rikki-Tikki -Tavi and proclaimed that was my name.Rex sounded off: "In England, Richard is Dick. That's a no. In New York, Richard is Yo, Rich. That's a no. In the south, Richard is Ricky, and definitely not spelled like a childhood tale. From now on, it's Richard. Got it." I said OK.His motel surprisingly had a nice restaurant. Over dinner, we talked about our journeys as two young southern boys on a mission. A handsome, perhaps gigolo-type young man approached our table, probing to see if there might be interest. There was not. Yet another critique followed—Rex noticed the gentleman's expensive bracelet. My mother was a major Bvlgari customer, and I recognized it immediately. When the check arrived, Rex made no effort to pick it up. In all our years together, I never knew Rex to pick up any check, ever. I wasn't fazed—my father always paid for everyone, everywhere.Rex asked if I'd like to stay over. Not wanting the two-hour drive back to campus, I checked into the room next door. We continued talking in Rex's room, eventually falling asleep while staring at the ceiling from our separate beds.Rex's humor was profound. His constant complaining about work made me realize he truly loved it—loved to complain, and more than anything, wanted to be famous. He barked a lot about life, but I saw him as a dog barking with his tail wagging. He loved deadlines. He almost never laughed. Instead, he had a grin.I decided to have fun with his humor. I found a printing store, composed a "form letter" for Rex to use, had 1,000 copies printed, and sent them to his New York apartment—along with the exact Bvlgari bracelet he'd criticized. I knew he admired it. His response was immediate and hilarious.In 1975, I moved to New York City. At Rex's insistence, I found an apartment on Central Park West where we could be near when turmoil engulfed us. He also insisted I use his answering service, where live operators answered our phones. We shared a magnificent lady, Louise, who reminded me of Mabel King in "The Wiz." She fiercely protected us and never shared anything about our lives to anyone—not even Rex's callers to me or mine to Rex.I first learned of someone named Rick who answered Rex's phone and took messages. Once, he telephoned to probe my friendship with Rex. I've always been fiercely private, and I asked Rex about Rick, adding I wasn't cool with anyone asking about my private life. Rex said Rick was his assistant, though I suspected otherwise—he was there too late and sometimes too early. Rex never talked about Rick. I knew about Rick, but as we were not romantically involved, I didn't think twice about his edits in his life, or even mine. Years later, Rex would share more, particularly about Rick's untimely death.My friendship with Rex wasn't one where I leaned on him. He, though, leaned on me several times, especially when peril knocked at his door.I am petrified to share this, as I am not a writer, and stepping into his world in print is something Rex would no doubt greet with his notorious, mischievous grin. More than anything else, Rex wanted to be famous and loved. Rex was both.
Role Models for Future Homosexuals of America
I remember seeing Rex Reed on a TV talk show, his legs crossed, and an elbow propped on the arm of the chair. His hand would sometimes gesture, and other times cradle his chin when he listened. I must have been 9 or 10. There weren’t many role models for FHA’s (Future Homosexuals of America) in the 1970’s, outside of camp comedians like Paul Lynde, Charles Nelson Reilly, Rip Taylor. They were full of snark, confetti and exaggerated laughs. Rex's brand was different, cool. Measured. As if he knew something—not just film and literature, but people. He had all the cards and held them close to his natty suit. I always wished I’d had a chance to meet him and chat about the things we had in common: Going to LSU, writing movie reviews for The Daily Reveille (my notables were Hairspray and Moonstruck) and being a gay Libra in that sultry, conservative atmosphere—albeit 30 years apart.I can imagine myself genuflecting next to his chair, and his expressive eyes saying, “What on earth?” Rest in peace, Rex. There was no one like you.
Room for Just One Southern Gay
One of my great regrets is not knowing him better. I always thought of myself as having the "Rex Reed slot" at Vanity Fair, and maybe the reason he never got his byline in there more often. So I was not only a bit shy and intimidated to cultivate a friendship, but was also sort of gilded with a bit of guilt that there seemed to be room for only one southern gay guy who knew his way around fame and fought for his sentences. My Aunt Jo down in Mississippi turned to me when I was about 12 or 13 and said, "You know who you remind me of... Rex Reed." She thought she was being a bit unkind, but as I looked back on it in later years, I realized it was one of the kindest and most perceptive things anyone had ever said to me. Rex and I were once sitting in a van down in Louisiana, being hauled to a fancy-enough lunch at a renovated plantation upriver from New Orleans. We were both participating in panels at the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival that year. On the way home after an awful afternoon of putting up with the rising humidity and the kind of the-south-shall-rise-again queen who owned the place and could sashay while sitting at the head of a luncheon table, we kept each other in southern stitches by saying what we'd really thought about the outing we'd had to endure. During a lull in our laughter, I told him about my Aunt Jo saying that about me and how much it had meant to me. I think he was touched by that. I hope he was. Filling the silence with a fumbled sigh that sometimes our tears can form when we're trying not to let them form themselves, he turned his head to look out the van's window at the Louisiana landscape where he had lived the life that led to his longing to live a much bigger one so much farther upriver. He lived it. We are all lucky that he did.
A Fight About When World War II Started
Marcia Froelke Coburn
I met Rex when I was in college in Chicago, dreaming about becoming a feature writer, and he was in town promoting a book (his collection of movies and TV shows, Big Screen, Little Screen). It was 1970 or 1971. He was encouraging, and we kept in touch. He had a tremendous influence on me and my writing. I was a kid with a dream, and he took me seriously. He listened to everything. I have wonderful memories of spending time with Rex at Cannes and in Toronto. I spent a week or so with him in New York and then at his house in........