A SHINING STAR (Review of "Starwalker")

I’m not a producer, nor a marketing guru, nor a theater critic whose words can make or break a new production. None of these roles have ever appealed to me. I don’t think they’ve ever even crossed my mind at any point in time when I wished to change careers. If only I had that kind of influence now.

 

I want to give a robust shout-out to Starwalker, a musical about a 2-spirit Indigi-queer drag queen. To be clear, I know no one associated with the production. I’d heard nothing about it until I scrolled through Facebook on Saturday morning and an ad for it popped up. My boyfriend, Evan, loves drag shows and drag brunches so I tilted my laptop his way and said, “What do you think?” It was a formality. “Let’s go!” he said within seconds and so we selected our seats, checked out and had suddenly we were set to go the theater, our first such outing since seeing Take Me Out on Broadway last May.   

 

I enjoy drag events for the costumes, for the camp, for the music, for the sass, for surveying smiles in the audience, for the joyous connection between performers and partakers and for those dang death drops. It’s the exclamatory positivity of drag events that has conservatives in such a kerfuffle. RuPaul, drag brunches and drag storytimes make people happy. It goes against their tired, desperate narrative of vilifying all-things queer. 

 

Still, I didn’t expect much from a drag musical. I figured any singing would be lip-synched. I wondered if calling the show a “musical” was a stretch. After all, isn’t repackaging a core element of drag? Wouldn’t it just be a revue, with a series of drag performances? How loose would the story be, if there was one at all, to attempt to connect “I Will Survive” with “About Damn Time”?  

 

Besides, I’ve never thought of Vancouver as having a robust arts community. It’s an outdoorsy city, influenced by the natural beauty of Stanley Park, the North Shore Mountains and gorgeous waterways. We cycle along endless bike routes, we time ourselves ascending a trail called the Grouse Grind and, in calmer moments, we take parents for a stroll along the seawall. I’ve tried to be cultured, periodically buying annual memberships for the Vancouver Art Gallery and season’s tickets to theater companies, but the fare has been more misses than hits. Hence, my renewal notices often go ignored. It’s embarrassing that I only knew of the venue, York Theatre, on account of a bike mural painted on an exterior wall. Billing Starwalker as a “world premiere” actually sounded sad.

 

Overall, my concerns were minor. I looked forward to an evening when Evan and I wouldn’t have to stare at one of our laptop screens, scrolling and trying to negotiate one another into submission for seeing another mediocre offering on Netflix, something in that vast why-bother zone between Evan’s zombie pick and my Danish drama series about acquiring oil resources in Greenland. (How many times must I toss out “Opposites attract!” when it looks like we’ve reached an impasse, also known as a Vanessa Hudgens rom-com?) This was Date Night for Evan and me. Dinner and a “musical,” made more magical by a little falling snow. 

Arriving early, we queued at the bar as a bartender prepared two rainbow cocktails with “Extravaganza” in the name for the people ahead of us. The drinks looked festive but the idea of consuming some incarnation of a liquid snow cone lost out to a safer cider. The York turned out to be an intimate theater with customary crimson seats on the main level, the balcony closed during this show’s three-week run. The atmosphere felt relaxed and friendly as a mixed crowd took their seats. By mixed, I mean in terms of age. It didn’t skew obviously queer, which was both a positive sign of acceptance and a tad disappointing. I’d wondered if our view might be obstructed by a beehived drag queen in front of us, but there was no such queen to be seen. 

 

As the curtains opened, the first number, “What They Don’t Know About You,” dazzled, an upbeat song featuring seven drag performers, dancing and singing—yes, actually singing!—about The House of Borealis, a haven for young drag queens with nowhere else to turn. I took a quick side-glance at Evan, wide-eyed, mouth open, a clear sign we were in agreement: this was already beyond some drag brunch. Leaving Vanessa Hudgens in the lurch had been the right decision. The audience clapped enthusiastically and I tried to scale back expectations, readying for some threadbare story and disjointed numbers to follow. 

 

Dillan Meighan Chiblow

There was a quick scene change to a park bench, stage left, and a large, what appeared to be a fabric-braided tree, stage right. Dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans while lugging a backpack, Eddie, known as Star or Starwalker to their family (based on a Buffy Sainte-Marie song), sat on the bench, singing “The Rebellion Song.” Actor Dillan Meighan Chiblow immediately shone, the First Nations chant highlighting an outstanding vocal talent, as comfortable in the lower register as singing falsetto. Song lyrics referred to a past in which abuse was sold as love and the character’s yearning for a sense of belonging. 

 

It is in this forest setting, presumably Lees Trail in Stanley Park, where Star meets Levi from the House of Borealis who’s in search of a hookup. The two form an immediate bond, with Levi inviting Star back to the House, a change of pace from living on the streets (and in the park) and turning tricks. Levi mentions drag, but Star comes off as respectfully disinterested. Not their thing.

 

During the first act, Star finds acceptance in the House of Borealis, love with Levi and a budding interest in becoming a drag performer. As Star struggles to truly feel their drag persona, Mother Borealis encourages them to make it their own. Star does so by infusing their First Nations heritage, leading to a strong ensemble reprise of “The Rebellion Song,” powerfully integrating First Nations chanting, drumming and circle dancing with upbeat singing and drag pageantry. The audience, clearly into the production, clapped, cheered and called out during this exuberant number, an exhilarating spot to place an intermission, everyone in the theater deserving time to catch their breath.

 

Evan and I looked at one another, our facial expressions rendering our “Wows” superfluous. “Broadway-caliber,” Evan said. I’d been thinking the same thing. This is a show that deserves to be toured and, yes, tweaked in a few spots regarding story and song. Chiblow is indeed the standout, but Jeffrey Michael Follis as Levi and Stewart Adam McKensy as Mother Borealis are very good as well, in terms of acting, singing and elevating drag. Some of the supporting cast didn’t quite match these high standards but presumably a few of these roles could be recast on tour. 

 

Lingering in the lobby, I eavesdropped on others raving. We could see snow falling outside and sticking to the ground. Since it doesn’t snow often in Vancouver, any accumulation puts people in a panic. The drive home would be a bit of a challenge. I said to Evan, “Maybe we should go. I like it so much, I don’t want to see it [pardon the pun] drag in the second half.” But we stayed and so, it seemed, did everyone else.     

 

The second half was almost as strong, still rave-worthy even as expectations were higher. This was no longer some Vancouver project. This was Broadway bound, after all. How special to witness a show’s world premiere stint! That’s right, Tony lovers, I saw it way back then, when Chiblow had less than 3,000 followers on Instagram (@dillychibz). Supporting cast members had more acting and singing lines and came off as stronger. The costuming and lighting combined splendidly for the Winter Solstice Ball scene. A key plot turn raised the stakes but needed more work in terms of establishing stronger ties to the first half and being credible.

 

Corey Payette

Regardless, Starwalker is divine entertainment. I got the impression it was a labor of love for director Corey Payette who also wrote the book, music and lyrics. (That warrants its own wow.) Payette notes in the playbill, “I started writing this musical as a way of expressing my Two-Spirit identity and the love I feel for my queer community…It weaves together Indigenous culture and drag performance into a celebration of who we are, our families and chosen families, the beauty we all share inside ourselves, and the Two-Spirit power that has always existed on this land.” 

 

Mission accomplished.

 

Starwalker’s Vancouver run continues until March 5. If you or anyone you know has the chance to see it, I offer my enthusiastic recommendation. Ticket information is here.

WAITRESS, PLEASE!

The West Coast has San Francisco, the East Coast has Fire Island. And Broadway. I have to admit I’m kind of afraid of Fire Island—all those stories and all that sand getting in unwanted places. Okay then, just Broadway. So many musicals and plays with gay storylines or with a diva to bring out the gays.

La Cage aux Folles.

Torch Song Trilogy.

The Boys in the Band.

Rent.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Angels in America.

Hello, Dolly.

But not Cats. Please, no. (Except for that one lovely song. I prefer the Betty Buckley version to Barbra’s. Is that scandalous?)

Amidst all the flashy colossal signs, the throngs of tourists, the honking taxis and opportunistic Elmos, there’s a veritable gay Mecca. And for me to say I flew from Vancouver to New York City for the sole purpose of seeing a Broadway show, well, that’s gotta make up for the Barbra slight. 

Perhaps the particular Broadway show, however, may be a head scratcher. I didn’t go to see the revival of Angels in America. I’d seen a production of it in Vancouver long ago and, well, I’m not sure I have the attention span to sit through it again. A one-time experience. Neither did I go to see the revival of Hello, Dolly. (Bette Midler’s finished her stint and now it’s Bernadette Peters whom I’ve always found annoyingly nasal. Sacrilege?) I didn’t even go for Dear Evan Hansen. Would have loved to have seen it but, frankly, I’m too cheap to opt for a show that doesn’t have discounted prices through TKTS. Blame it, in part, on a lousy exchange rate for my Canadian dollars.

(Miss you, Blockbuster.)

This trip was about the musical Waitress. I’d seen the movie with Keri Russell, Nathan Fillion and Andy Griffith years ago. (Side note: Whenever I’m in New York, I make a pit stop at a Dean & DeLuca because that’s where Keri Russell’s character on “Felicity” worked while attending NYU.) The movie "Waitress", a quiet charmer, wouldn’t have been enough to make me see it as a musical. Not in and of itself.

Over the last three years, I’ve grown into becoming a huge Sara Bareilles fan. I was already familiar with “Love Song” and “King of Anything” but Sara’s songs took on more meaning when I bought her “The Blessed Heart” CD because of the song “Brave” and then became wowed by every song on it. “I Choose You” is a joyful celebration of love I wish someone would play for me someday, “Manhattan” is a lyrically melancholy masterpiece and I could go on. Search for these songs online if you’re not familiar with them (or just click the links).

A couple her other songs took on greater poignancy after I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. “Gravity” could be a song linking someone to the wrong partner or referring to a struggle with addiction, but for me it’s all about the hold depression can have over me. Somehow I can bawl my eyes out as the song plays and it’s therapeutic. Instead of unsuccessfully trying to banish depression, the song offers a means of acknowledging it and that, in turn, makes it bearable. Then came “She Used to Be Mine”, a song Sara wrote for the musical Waitress, and the links deepened. Like that guy in Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly”, Sara flipped the gender but the words seemed to be mine:

It's not simple to say
That most days I don't recognize me
That these shoes and this apron
That place and its patrons
Have taken more than I gave them.
It's not easy to know
I'm not anything like I used be, although it's true
I was never attention's sweet center
I still remember that girl.

She's imperfect, but she tries
She is good, but she lies
She is hard on herself
She is broken and won't ask for help
She is messy, but she's kind
She is lonely most of the time
She is all of this mixed up and baked in a beautiful pie
She is gone, but she used to be mine.

It's not what I asked for
Sometimes life just slips in through a back door
And carves out a person and makes you believe it's all true
And now I've got you.
And you're not what I asked for
If I'm honest, I know I would give it all back
For a chance to start over and rewrite an ending or two
For the girl that I knew

Who'll be reckless, just enough
Who'll get hurt, but who learns how to toughen up
When she's bruised and gets used by a man who can't love
And then she'll get stuck
And be scared of the life that's inside her
Growing stronger each day 'til it finally reminds her
To fight just a little, to bring back the fire in her eyes
That's been gone, but used to be mine.

Sara Bareilles wrote the music and lyrics for all of the songs in Waitress and that’s what made the show such a draw. I knew when Waitress was to debut on Broadway: April 24, 2016. I couldn’t make it then due to work. I waited until August of last year to finally go. And I loved it! I couldn’t have been happier.

Until mid-November, that is, when I read that Jason Mraz was going to play Dr. Pomatter for seven weeks or so, beginning in early December. (I’m a big fan of his music and, incidentally, his vegan principles.) I wanted to go again but held off. It was too soon since I’d last been to New York and I chose to go to Sweden instead. (Depression finds me always needing to be on the run.)

And then around Christmas I Googled Sara because I was wondering when she’d have a new album out. No mention of new music. Drat. What I discovered instead was that she was going to play the lead role, Jenna, in Waitress for six weeks, two of which would overlap with Jason Mraz.

And that’s how I ended up feeling the pull back to Broadway. Two full days of travel—one each way—but it was entirely worth it. 

There’s a term for Rent fanatics: Rentheads. Is there one for Waitress groupies? Am I a budding Piehole? I could go once a month. There’s something about knowing the songs better and appreciating the jokes more. Even after seeing it twice, I enjoyed comparing actors in some of the other roles that had changed since August. More than anything, to see the musical with Sara and Jason together had me downright giddy, a remarkable reaction considering how profoundly I’ve struggled over the last few months. Gay again, in the Broadway way and in the old-fashioned "happy" way.

TAKING A BITE OF THE FORBIDDEN BIG APPLE

I hear the stories. Gay guy goes on vacation, imbibes in a margarita or four, hooks up with a hot local guy and returns home with a scandalous story to tell for the next week.

How Steven got his groove back.

Apparently the chances are good. Barflies get tired of the same filler material. They keep their eyes open, waiting for the first “Say, you’re not from around here” guy to walk in the club. Well, maybe not the first. It takes a while for their own liquid relaxants to kick in.

New guy + barfly. It’s a potent combination. Two men with low/no expectations. One night. Maybe just one hour. It’s practically anonymous. Go in with a new name, the one you wish your parents had given you. Remember when “Dick” was acceptable? Try it on if you can say it with a straight face. If not, there are other studly names. Dirk. Gunnar. Just not Rolfe. (He turned out bad in “The Sound of Music”.)

Go wild. What happens in Vegas and all that. So what if your holiday is in Acapulco. Or Cleveland. Conjure up your own Vegas state of mind.

And, yes, I could stand to have a Vegas moment. I’m in New York City and there are so many attractive men. Men with a fashion sense. Men who clearly seem to be gay. Especially when I’m spending all my time in art galleries and in line for Broadway shows. Of course, the boys of Broadway march two by two. I wind up eavesdropping on two old Jewish women in front of me as they kvetch about all the stars of “Glee”. (They catch me nodding as one of them says Jonathan Groff and Darren Criss make a cuter couple than Kurt and Blaine.)

On my third night in Manhattan, I should be going to a gay bar. Perhaps even a bathhouse if I don’t feel like margaritas. But I get bored looking up gay bars on Yelp. I dash out with the clear intention of picking up Steve. I cruise the aisles of Whole Foods on 7^th Avenue until I spot him: a pint of Steve’s Mexican Chili Chocolate ice cream, the perfect way to end the night after a Broadway show. Yes, that’s the kind of Steve from Brooklyn that truly whets my appetite. I'm thinking I'd love another go at Steve. He’s my sure thing.

On my final day, I decide to walk through Greenwich Village and to check out the Stonewall Inn. For a Saturday afternoon, the streets seem quiet. I don’t get any sense of a Bohemian culture. Neither do I get a sense that this is a gay area. The Stonewall Inn appears to be a teeny establishment, a big surprise since everything in Manhattan seems so big. I had told myself I’d pop in for a beer but I see no one coming or going and, frankly, I have no desire for any kind of alcohol. I move on, stopping for a moment to gaze at a subpar all-white sculpture to commemorate the Stonewall Riots. The historical milestone deserves better.

If I’m going to stumble on a fling or at least a moment of flirtation, I figure my best chances are just off Christopher Street. I stroll into Big Gay Ice Cream.

Yes, this is my kind of cruising bar.

But, alas, the stereotypes must be true. Gays don’t do ice cream. Not in broad daylight, at least. There are twenty people in the shop. All families and straight couples. I no longer feel inspired to order the Bea Arthur. The camp factor would be fruitless. I settle on the Pumpkin Gobbler instead. I get it to-go.

Two days in a row of self-soothing with ice cream. I’m definitely staying in tonight. And I’ll be doing penance when I get back home—longer jogs, harder swims, heavier weights. It’s not the kind of penance I’d hoped for.

NEWSWEEK CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT

Here we go again. I checked my calendar and, yes, it’s 2010. Yet Newsweek publishes a piece by a purportedly gay writer who asserts that Straight for Pay does not work in the acting world. Tony-nominated Sean Hayes can’t play a straight man with a female love interest in Broadway’s “Promises, Promises”. Jonathan Groff can’t play one of Rachel’s love interests on “Glee”. And knowing Rock Hudson was gay reduces his credibility in playing a male romantic lead in his classic movies. (The author cites a single scene: Hudson taking a bubble bath by himself in “Pillow Talk”. Gee, do you think the writer had an agenda?)

Now I have not seen “Promises, Promises”. My rural abode is far from the lights of Broadway. But I would posit that, if there is any difficulty in seeing Hayes act the part of a straight character, it is because of his iconic role as the flamboyantly gay Jack on “Will & Grace”, not because Hayes is a gay man. Many actors struggle to be recognized in other roles when audiences continue to see them as a particular character viewed on their TV screens from week to week over a period of years. This is especially true with over the top, comic roles. For many, Michael Richards will always be Kramer. (In his case, that may be a good thing. Best to block out his infamous standup comic tirade.) Jason Alexander has also struggled with the supposed Seinfeld Curse. What can top the role of a lifetime as George Costanza? Candice Bergen has always remained Murphy Brown in my mind. Shelley Long, Delta Burke, Jackée, Julia Duffy,…their careers stalled after achieving notoriety as memorable TV characters.

Yes, there are many exceptions. That’s not the point. I am merely trying to get in the mind of a Newsweek writer who may be lacking analytical and self-reflective skills. I don’t mean to bash; all I’m saying is it seems too convenient to completely omit the Jack factor. For some, Sean Hayes will always be “just Jack”. (Add your own jazz hands.)

As for Jonathan Groff on “Glee”, what is there not to buy about him as Rachel’s love interest? I did not know the actor is gay, but I don’t dismiss him now that I know. I am a Gleek and I would suggest that any problem with Groff’s role comes from the fact it is underdeveloped. So far I’ve gleaned that he has a wonderful singing voice, but he hasn’t had much to do in wooing Rachel. He came on strong (and convincingly), but the Rachel-Jessie storyline has been diluted as other characters have been featured more prominently and as the show’s writers have continued to pit Rachel with both Finn and Puck.

I’m not sure that anything more needs to be said about the Rock Hudson point. “Pillow Talk”, for crying out loud! I watched it years ago and the whole thing seemed like an innocuous piece of fluff. If John Wayne were in that bubble bath, it would still seem hokey and, in the Newsweek writer’s view, not very macho. Many young (or newly out) gay men like to see the entire world with rainbow-coloured glasses. I dissected George Michael’s songs and easily found all the gay references I wanted before he ever got sloppy with his bathroom habits. When I watched Barbra Streisand in “Yentl”, she was a gay man, not a woman disguised as a man. The gay factor sometimes is more overpowering from a gay person’s point of view than it is for the typical heterosexual male who is too busy ogling over Kristin Chenoweth or Julia Roberts anyway.

The writer also expressed doubt that an out gay actor could have convincingly played George Clooney’s role in “Up in the Air”. That is not the issue. What other actor, gay or straight, could have played that part? I loved that movie, but it was clear to me as I watched that it was the perfect George Clooney part. Once you make the A-list in Hollywood, certain parts are tailor made for you.

I’m done with nitpicking over the flaws in the article’s logic. The bigger concern is the underlying message, especially from my vantage point, living in a rural area where I do not know any other gay men. (Yes, my house is still for sale!) If you can’t be accepted and embraced as a gay man on Broadway, what does that say for rest of us? If your options are limited there, what does that mean for gays struggling to be seen beyond stereotype as sons, friends, teachers, athletes and car salesmen in Peoria, in Moose Jaw and in places rarely designated on provincial or state maps? And if gay men can’t see gay actors as being anything other than gay, how evolved have we become in openly accepting others and in seeing ourselves as human beings with so many other aspects to our identity?

I have to wonder what the editors at a reputable magazine like Newsweek were thinking when they decided to run the article. This will be controversial! This will steal some of Perez Hilton’s buzz!

This. Will. Sell. Copies.

Good for business. Sad for gays.