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.

I’M OUT or WHY BROADWAY’S REVIVAL OF “TAKE ME OUT” DIDN’T STIR ME

I didn’t do it, I swear. The day after Evan and I saw the revival of “Take Me Out” on Broadway, pictures surfaced on Twitter of the star appearing naked in a particular scene. Our seats were in the balcony, allowing for decent viewing but most definitely not close enough for clear footage of an impressive extra limb, even when flaccid. Smartphone photography remains a work in progress. (Truly, it’s a shame someone opted to create a bit of a frenzy online by posting the clip. As tickets were scanned upon entering the theater, our phones were required to be shut down and placed in locked carrying cases that weren’t opened until after the show. An actor shouldn’t have to worry about his performance being whittled down to a certain appendage, ogled on social media. It’s both undignified and unnecessary. If people really want to see dangling dicks, they can find plenty of free porn on the internet.)

 

Truth is, a man’s naked body on stage isn’t a big deal. “Hair,” premiering on Broadway in 1968 was supposed to shatter that taboo. I suppose it remains uncomfortable or at least a novelty to theater viewers. What appears before them is not contained on a screen. The naked body and the viewer are in the same big room. It makes the cast of “Cats” seem ridiculously overdressed. 

 

It’s not just the star, Jesse Williams, who appears naked. “Take Me Out” is a play about a superstar player coming out as gay and most of the scenes are set in the locker room with players dressing and undressing in front of their lockers or saying their lines in a communal shower which appears and disappears as needed. All the players strip down at one point or another, most more than once. 

 

To be sure, these actors had well-sculpted bodies, easy on the eyes. Still, whenever there is nudity in a play, TV show or movie, my first thought is about whether it’s gratuitous or integral to the telling. Being a reserved person, most of the time I conclude it’s unnecessary. I feel sorry for the actors. I’m (usually) uncomfortable for them. I want the scene to end. Let’s move on to a scene where the main character suffers a career-killing shoulder injury (enough baseball talk, thank you) and tries out for a bit part in “Cats,” fully customed, of course. Keep it authentic. 

 

As a tangent, I’ll add that, while Jesse Williams can certainly be proud of his body, my eyes were fixed on him more in other scenes when he wore form-fitting ath-leisure. Alas, the clothes were not listed in the credits of the Playbill. Guess I’ll forgo an Amazon shopping spree and stick with my frumpy hoodies and saggy jeans.

 

I can make an argument defending the nudity in “Take Me Out.” I won’t go so far as to say it’s necessary, but there was a point to it. First, it might be silly to have guys standing around in full uniforms in every scene. It’s a locker room. I’m writing this at a café after having just finished swimming laps. I was in a locker room before and after my swim. There was lots of nakedness. It just happened to be the sort one feels a dire need to turn away from. I don’t need to be inundated with previews of how saggy my ass will look in—what, twenty-five years? Or is it only ten?! Grab your towel, guys, and cover up!

 

I think the nudity was supposed to convey a sense of exposure and vulnerability, the players’ posture and openness to “shoot the shit” changing once it’s revealed that one among them is gay, the straight players implicitly blaming the newly out gay teammate for instilling a sense of modesty and self-consciousness when their modified decorum is really brought on by homophobia. Sure, I can understand that argument. It’s another way to shine a spotlight entrenched man culture. That being said, I’d have preferred it if the play had been set in a dugout and perhaps a bar. I don’t think a single line would have to be amended. Still realistic settings even if it didn’t have players feeling vulnerable in their nakedness with a gay guy in their midst. How much jock-related homophobia do I really need to see?

 

And that leads to the bigger problem I had with “Take Me Out” which originally ran on Broadway in 2003 and won the Tony Award for best play. (It received four new Tony nominations last week, on the same day the nude footage appeared on Twitter, including best play revival and three acting nods, one to Jesse Williams.) Nineteen years ago, the so-called playing field for queer people was considerably more of a minefield. At the beginning of 2003, Netherlands was the only country in the world that had legalized same-sex marriage. “Will and Grace” was a hit TV show, but Sean Hayes, who played Jack, wasn’t out. The U.S. military was still thick in its muted tolerance of gays with its “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy as a means for allowing members to avoid being discharged. In 2003, a baseball team’s unease about a player being openly gay fit with what was going on in society as a whole. Coming out came with complications.

 

As a revival, the discomfort and outright homophobia that players think and feel in “Take Me Out” feels woefully dated, but it’s not presented as a period piece. There aren’t 2003 references in the script. I took it as playing out in 2022. The homophobia in sports—among fans and players—remains largely unchecked. Most gay athletes are still closeted, especially in team sports. It’s a milieu for Neanderthals. It exists, but so much of the rest of North America and Europe has moved on. I’m past the point of seeing portrayals of jocks feeling ogled by a gay teammate and hoping we can learn from it. These jocks are clunky and a play depicting them comes off as just as clunky.

 

Admittedly, there were many in the audience who found the play impactful. People, presumably straight, gasped at expressions of hatred and intolerance, as if they’d not heard these things, as if they thought everyone had moved on. Obviously, not everyone has, but the people I choose to associate with certainly have.

 

Nudity had no part of my wanting to see “Take Me Out.” I simply wanted to see a gay play. I wanted to appreciate the writing. I wanted to identify with gay characters. By intermission, I was wishing we’d chosen a different play; indeed, a different revival. It heartened me when Evan leaned into me and whispered, “Would it be bad if we just left?” My guy was equally apathetic. (I think I would have enjoyed “How I Learned to Drive” with Mary-Louise Parker and David Morse much more. Alas, my trip to New York wasn’t long enough, my pockets not deep enough.)

 

As I’d mentioned last year when country music singer T.J. Osborne of the Brothers Osborne came out as gay and kissed his partner after winning an award on a televised awards show, I was happy for him on a personal level, but I’m so far beyond the point of congratulating sectors that have clung to the Dark Ages when someone finally frees himself from the shackles. A fictional baseball player coming out, naked or not, doesn’t get my attention.