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Theatre in Review: Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (Palace Theatre)

Photo: Joan Marcus

When they work at all, jukebox musicals function less as works of narrative and more as parties. Usually outfitted with the feeblest of librettos, they prefer to coast on their playlists of golden oldies, which tend to be enough to get audiences singing and dancing in the aisles. (Robust liquor sales don't hurt, either; think of all those waiters scurrying up and down the aisles at Rock of Ages.)

This is why, compared to so many other jukebox shows, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert can be fairly described as having it all. Fitted out with a tunestack of '80s disco classics ("Material Girl," "I Love the Nightlife," "I Will Survive," etc.) a trio of outrageous leading characters, a production design calculated to make Mamma Mia! look like a revival of The Lower Depths, and a libretto that, in addition to a full complement of catty comments, actually allows you to care what happens, it seems practically guaranteed to send audiences out into the streets humming "It's Raining Men" for the foreseeable future.

The thing that separates Priscilla from many more desperate examples of the jukebox genre is that, in addition to its glittery accoutrements -- histrionic feats of lip-synching, cupcake-clad chorus boys, a trio of airborne divas, and audience-participation hoedowns -- it has the benefit of a workable structure, borrowed from the cult hit film of the same name. (The libretto is by Stephan Elliot, the film's director and screenwriter, and Allan Scott, one of the musical's producers.) Indeed, Brian Thomson's show curtain reveals the musical's dependence on its road-movie origins, as it depicts a map, drawn in lipstick, that traces the story's itinerary, from Sydney, Australia to the Outback resort of Alice Springs. As in the film, the road trip is organized by Tick, an unhappy drag queen who is lured to Alice Springs by his wife -- they're estranged, but friendly -- who runs a casino there. Her motivations are twofold: She needs an act for her showroom, and she thinks it's high time Tick got to know their six-year-old son. For moral support, Tick brings along Adam, an immature, self-aggrandizing muscle boy who performs under the moniker Felicia Jolly Goodfellow, and Bernadette, once the queen of a glitzy nightclub revue and now an aging transsexual, whose latest lover has just shuffled off this mortal coil. (It's a measure of Priscilla's determined high spirits that even this sad event cues a boogie-down chorus of "Don't Leave Me This Way.") To get there, Tick obtains a distressed van, which gets a complete interior makeover complete with Madonna dolls, giant plastic flowers, beaded curtains, and a cocktail bar.

In truth, the authors of Priscilla don't so much dramatize the film as they pour dollops of floor-show fabulousness over it, plotting out plenty of amusingly overscaled production numbers while leaving room for the requisite mix-ups, bar fights, touristic encounters - in this show, even the aborigines crack wise - bitchslapping verbal contests, and tearful moments of truth. Missing is the acid edge that gave the film much of its kick; then again, to its credit, the show never forgets that all three characters live on society's margins, one step away from prejudice and peril.

Still, given the high priority placed on gleefully overdressed production numbers, the show might have descended into chaos were it not anchored by three strong lead performances. Will Swenson, best known, the airhead metal rocker in Rock of Ages and Berger, Hair's leading put-on artist, offers nuanced work as Tick, who struggles with self-acceptance even as he works at making a spectacle of himself. He makes Tick's anguish real without being maudlin about it, and when he finally meets up with his son, the moment is a guaranteed tear-jerker. Nick Adams, a top Broadway chorus dancer making his debut as a leading man, nails the role of the shallow, occasionally self-destructive, but essentially lovable Adam; he brings considerable sang-froid to his first entrance, flying in on a dollar sign, and to the sequence in which, resting on a giant shoe placed atop the bus, he is extended out over the audience, lip-synching to "Sempre Libre" from La Traviata> .

The revelation of the evening, however, is Tony Sheldon, well-known in Australia, but a fresh face here, as Bernadette. With his carefully shingled hairdo and full lineup of flowing, flowery dresses, Sheldon looks rather like the actress Sian Phillips, carrying on in a gracious-lady manner that suggests an over-familiarity with the films of Norma Shearer. (On the other hand, when Bernadette staggers out of the broken-down bus, clad in a turban, harlequin sunglasses, and leopard-print dress, you'll swear that Gloria Swanson's Norma Desmond has escaped from the madhouse.) This is not to say, however, that she isn't capable of a scorching, foul-mouthed insult or a quick kick to the groin when necessary. Sheldon's warmth and his skill at balancing moments of farce and drama give Priscilla an emotional center that makes it seem more than the sum of its production numbers.

There's also solid work from C. David Johnson as the unhappily married mechanic who might just be Bernadette's dream man, although the show's one real misfire is the depiction of his wife, Cynthia, an Asian mail-order bride and former entertainer, whose specialty is shooting ping-pong balls out of various orifices. Jacqueline B. Arnold, Anastacia McCluskey, and Ashley Spencer keep things lively as the trio of divas who often hover above the action, providing vocal support. Nathan Lee Graham, as Miss Understanding, another drag queen, provides a Tina Turner imitation to end them all. And Jessica Philips is warmly likable as Tick's astonishingly understanding spouse.

It would have been a crime if Brian Thomson, who practically pioneered the concept of outrageous Aussie camp with his work on The Rocky Horror Show (on stage and film) and so many of Dame Edna's entertainments, had not been allowed to design Priscilla. His chef d'oeuvre here is the bus, its exterior covered with 30,000 LEDs, making it a mobile video display for flames, sunrises, soap bubbles, and other goofy imagery; the bus' interior, with its mad-queen décor, is equally amusing. Thomson also provides a number of seedy Outback interiors and, in a flashback to Bernadette's youth, a glamorous Lido-de-Paris-style nightclub set, complete with steep staircases and an electrified Eiffel Tower. He also backs many of the musical numbers with an LED curtain that displays various abstract images, color combinations, and even song lyrics.

Tim Chappel and Lizzy Gardner, the film's costume designers, repeat their tasks here, and they outdo themselves with planet-sized wigs, enormously flared bell-bottoms, a bathing suit made entirely of flip-flops, a line of human cupcakes, and uncountable numbers of beads, sequins, and feathers. (The designers have plenty of fun contrasting Bernadette's relatively naturalistic form of drag with Adam's I'm-a-boy-and-I-know-it approach.) Nick Schlieper's lighting caresses every glittery surface of the scenery and costumes, but his approach can turn muted and gritty, with some disturbing pattern work, during the sequence in which Adam is menaced by a bunch of rednecks. The sound design, by Peter Fitzgerald and Jonathan Deans, strikes the right club atmosphere from the start -- with plenty of thumping bass -- while leaving room for the vocals to soar.

Nobody is every going to accuse Priscilla, Queen of the Desert of advancing the musical theatre form, and, given its likely success, I shudder to think about some of the shows that will attempt to duplicate its winning formula. But resistance is futile: Priscilla is irresistible, a go-for-broke evening of bitchy hilarity, campy self-affirmation, and a few well-placed tears -- all set to a beat that you can dance to. It's party time at the Palace. -- David Barbour


(21 March 2011)

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