Who am I? Who, really, is Sasha Selavie? Why, only the heretic’s heretic, sweethearts, the Antichrist towards mass, automatic asshole-ism! In short, I’ll never give you a bum steer towards garbage, and, most definitely, will always call a spade a spade. Gee, no wonder I’m a sycophantic publicist’s nightmare! My mission? Brutally slaughtering sacred cows, camp, straight or otherwise, and no, I’m not being bloody-minded! In a world of shameless, sleaze-ball spin-doctors and suck-butt PR, isn’t unbiased opinion an endangered species?
Fuck yeah, so what’s the solution? Duh, try ruthless honesty, people – I do! Listen, while I may admire many acts I cover, no way do I ignore their flaws. Why should I? I’m not paid to talk stars up, and why should you, dear readers, pay through the nose for worthless tripe? Frankly, I have a moral duty to warn you beforehand!
Which brings us to Finsbury’s Park Theatre, one of a poxy rash of new-build venues boasting simply appalling upper-level seating plans. Ever attempted anal entry in an Easyjet 747 pissoir? You’ll adore this joint! Meet seat rows so narrow even terminal anorexia’s no guarantee of admittance! Christ, London, get your cram-punter’s-balls-to-the-walls act together! And once safely squeezed to your seat, enjoy the vertical viewing pleasures of a barely-possible, eye-contact performance. Sure, you’ll relish the tops of heads, maybe, but who, truly, wants to interpret star Mark Gatiss’s bald spot, even masked by a permed, period wig?
Still, gripes aside, let’s get to the Boys In the Band itself, Mart Crowley’s infamous, ensemble study of gay self-oppression. Never read the script or seen the flick, directed by William (Exorcist) Friedkin? Lucky you – you’ve escaped eight queens puking reams of Satan-worthy bitching at a birthday party! Is it quite as dire as it sounds? Oh fuck, yes! Unbelievably, in 1968, homosexuality was classified as mental illness, but today, what gay psychiatrist’s butt-lips wouldn’t dilate in delight at the first tickle of penile penetration?
Not here, however, with Crowley’s play deployed as a minimalist, pressure-cooker hell, festooned with dead screen goddesses and gay icons. Yep, all the usual suspects scream for attention – Auntie Mame, Hitchcock’s Rope and Sunset Boulevard, like memories mincing through the mind of a dying queen. For me, pig-sick of lazy fag clichés, it’s enough to trigger an urgent need for instant euthanasia, but I hang on and let Crowley’s lovely, self-hating bile intoxicate me.
‘You show me a happy homosexual’ birthday boy Michael moans, ‘and I’ll show you a gay corpse’. Ah. Bless. How could any watching, 21st queen not love him for that line? If nothing else, it screams how very far we’ve come, and this play, unintentionally, is a master-class in avoiding internalised homophobia! And the lowest butt of the insidious, self-hating pecking order on show here? Definitely, James Holmes’ super-sissy Emory, epitomising a vicious prejudice against effeminate queens still disturbingly prevalent now. Sure, we sneer at Crowley’s unevolved fags, but don’t today’s preferred, ‘straight-acting queen’ online profiles promote an almost fascistic, Alpha gay hierarchy? Exactly, so let she who is without sin cast the first stone!
But Crowley’s queens, naturally, skin each other alive in a savage game of truth or dare involving Michael’s unexpected closet-queen guest, Alan. Shockingly, they’re all dying alive, permanently caged inside their own neuroses, with Mark Gatiss a superbly snide weapon of crass destruction. Mercifully, we’ve evolved. Any sexually oppressive prisons – social, physical and mental – are ancient history, so let’s grab our freedom by both balls and shag ourselves to the edge of glory!
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