Director Roland Emmerich is taking a lot of unwarranted flak because his upcoming Stonewall "cast a handsome white man in the film's lead role" as reported by Lila Shapiro for The Huffington Post: "more than 22,000 people have signed a petition vowing not to see Emmerich's film -- not because they object to LGBT rights, but because they believe the movie is going to present a version of history that focuses on white cisgender men to the exclusion of everyone else."
According to most historic accounts the Stonewall Inn patrons largely were young pretty white boys. For example, author Angelo d'Arcangelo a/k/a Josef Bush writes in his 1968 The Homosexual Handbook that "The Stone Wall is rather reserved . . . and has a sort of Sunset Strip or Cherry Grove flavor," and in more fully describing the crowd after convincing a friend to take him there writes:
I wanted to know if we could go there because I'd heard that it was not only a Dancing Bar, but a Dancing Bar with go-go boys. In cages, I hoped. "Oh, you don't want to go there."" "Why not?" "That's so tired. What do you want to watch a couple of bleached-out skinny faggots wiggling their much-used asses up on a bar for?" I assured him that I did anyway, and that it was like "Old Faithful." If you haven’t seen it you might as well; especially if you're in the neighborhood.
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This is a young bar. The patrons are primarily youthful and primarily good-looking. That's the premium. A haven of and for narcissists. Sex is in the air but it remains there while people preen and rubberneck about to see who is or might be watching their contortions. Median age I’d reckon to be about twenty-two.
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On the way out of the place I happened to notice that the light shows and projections were suddenly turned on and two boys at opposite ends of the bar were flouncing about to assorted rhythms. They wore little flesh-colored bathing trunks and seemed to be quite devoid of unwanted body hair. The lad to my left was much too languid to be anything more than a travesty of the tired stripper, but the right-hand boy was really working out with verve and energy. He was not without looks, but wore one of those unlived-in faces far too weary of it all for his age or even his environment. Should we ever meet, I'll thank him for being just the hard little number he is.
In contrast, Bush writes that the Bon Soir at 40 West 8th Street -- another mob-operated gay bar just a few blocks from the Stonewall -- had "a strong Spanierican flavor" from uptown, and apparently was a lot more fun:
Let me tell you they have the best juke box in town and the best stereo system for blasting it out. It gets the rock way past your ear drums and down into the marrow of your fucking bones. It is good! And the people on the dance floor are really dancing their asses off . . . doing it hard and thirsty, not like the crowds at The Stone Wall. * * * The dancing and the faggotry of the Bon Soir is "kiss my ass if you don't like it. I've got nothing to hide or lose" style. * * * It's yeastier. It's lower-class. It's a fun bar. It's the kind of place where on the slow ones you can belly-rub and grind your interforked aching bodies together and know that since it's your own thing, you can damn well do it without interference or apology.