The dress rehearsal for the Rocky Horror Picture Show at the Citadel Theatre in Edmonton. |
EDMONTON - “If you want something visual that’s not too abysmal ...” sings the “sweet transvestite from Transexual, Transylvania,” near the start of The Rocky Horror Show, now messing up the Citadel’s Shoctor Theatre.
Frank N. Furter’s modesty (like many things about him) is preposterous. Hot patootie. So THIS is what a lavish mainstage stage Rocky Horror Show is like!
Who knew? I, for one, have seen this cultish spoof of ’50s sci-fi B-flicks only in small, trash-budget theatres, like the 63-seater in London where it was born in 1973. Incidentally, thanks to the 1975 film over which Tim Curry presides like Moses over that whole Red Sea episode, by now there are whole generations of cultistes who yell “slut!” and throw toilet paper without ever knowing that Rocky Horror started live, and small.
Anyhow, Leigh Rivenbark’s stunningly appointed, imaginatively staged production knows exactly how to have B-flick fun with A-house resources and the best designers in the biz.
Consider the following. Very hot rockin’ band (Don Horsburgh) and great sound (Peter McBoyle) who are pearls before the swine of Richard O’Brien’s creaky pastiche pop shlock. Actual costume changes beyond the usual declension into underwear, a veritable galaxy of twinkling corsetry and fishnets and boots, and a Frank N. Furter lab that’s an multi-level, multi-layer playground of gridwork and mesh screens (by Cory Sincennes). Extravagant lighting by a master (Michael Walton). Sexy choreography (Phillip Nero) that finds a balance between “spontaneity” and expertise. Ah yes, an a star for this universe of tarnished, singing multi-sexuals.
That would be John Ullyatt. Having seen him recently in a performance of real emotional heft as Willy Loman’s estranged son Biff in Death of a Salesman, I ask you this (rhetorically): Is there anything this actor can’t do?
As Frank N. Furter, the repertoire’s most famous cross-dressing omnisexual mad scientist, he strides through Rivenbark’s production on his sparkly high heels like a fabulous force of nature — imperious, pouty, a veritable cyclone of a man, a double-entendre on legs.
He clamours up stairs, possibly lifted by his shock-pompadour ’do. He sings. He dances. He casts a whole arsenal of desperate seductive glances at his minions, his visitors, his hunky Frankenstein-ian creation. He hangs upside down from a trapeze. He trades repartee and knowing looks with the audience; in fact, he ventures forth among us and sits in our laps. Curry Schmurry.
In short, it’s a fearless performance, full of pelvic action and X-rated shadow play. And, like Rivenbark’s tweaking of the Shoctor stage with a bit of thrust, it goes some way to smashing the frontiers between do-ers and watchers that’s always been part of the Rocky Horror experience.
By now, of course, there’s nothing spontaneous about that; it’s been codified long ago into prescribed responses — confetti, the snapping of rubber gloves, the hurling of toilet paper or playing cards — at prescribed moments. The ritual, though, can be fun. And it’s fun at the Citadel, though the opening night audience there isn’t exactly famous for letting down its hair.
Thursday night’s crowd, dotted with costumed party-ers, coughed up a few fans eager to do the Time Warp again. There will undoubtedly be more on other nights.
The plot, to speak formally of something as substantial as a sequin, is set in motion by the arrival of Brad and Janet, a couple of virginal ninnies straight out of the ’50s, seeking refuge from a storm at Frank N. Furter’s castle. A major loss of inhibitions ensues.
Lanky Evan Alexander Smith and petite Josée Boudreau do the honours. They’re shockable, dopey, and funny, as required. And they’re strong singers, which is a bonus. Brad looks like a young lawyer caught with his pants not just down, but off. Janet takes to sexual liberation like she’s just been biding her time in virgin world.
The cast bristles with premium talent. As the Narrator, Julien Arnold, who presides with a pompous Dickensian air and diction that lingers over every verb, is particularly droll. The castle staff is led by Robert Markus, as Frank’s menacing butler Riff Raff. He departs decisively from the weirdo hunchback that Rocky Horror creator O’Brien made famous, and makes the role his own.
There’s a lot of codpiece acting going on. Notable, too, are Jamie McKnight as Frank’s beefcake creation, and Adrienne Merrell as the firecracker Columbia,
You’re entitled to fear for the evening to come on the basis of the forced vocals and desperate acting in the opening number, Science Fiction Double Feature (Shelley Simester). After that, though, the show takes to high-camp with great zest and invention. Garters all round.
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