The Gay City News Review
Link : Actual review
Busch Whacked : Campy romance at Drama Dept. is broadly humorous
Campy romance at the Drama Dept. ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Even with the hilarious Charles Busch restaging his role as all of Hollywood’s glamour girls rolled into one—in Shanghai Moon—the experience is simply not new.
By F. ROGER EBNER
As the doyenne of downtown theater, Charles Busch has given New York audiences another look at his 1999 Shanghai Moon, done originally at the Theater For The New City and now presented by Drama Department under the direction of Carl Andress. It is pleasant to see him back again, reprising the composite role as all the ladies of cinema’s golden age, after the hugely successful run of his play The Tale of the Allergist’s Wife on Broadway.
Here he takes on the mysterious “Orient” as an elegant Englishwoman, Lady Sylvia Allington, who suffers frequent lapses into a broad midwestern accent. Her first entrance is in full virginal white (from picture hat to spiked pumps) with only the shock of red hair and matching jungle red lipstick to betray the steamy passions buried deep within. She and her wealthy husband, ably played by Daniel Gerroll are sent by Queen Victoria’s government to gain access to a wondrous jade mask currently in the possession of a powerful Chinese warlord, General Gong Fei played with bravado by a smolderingly sexy B.D. Wong. Against her better judgment, Sylvia is beguiled into a torrid love affair with the general, a whirlwind love affair with China (teaching the populace “There’s no language barrier when it comes to beauty tips,”) opium addictions, S&M sex, poisoning plots, mayhem, and murder.
Supporting roles are nicely played by Becky Anne Baker as a whorish house madam of dubious European birth, Sekiya Billman as the general’s vengeful concubine, and Marcy McGuigan as the cryptic Doctor Wu.
Mr. Busch trots out every cliché from Hollywood’s golden era ranging from The Mask of Fu Manchu, through Shanghai Express, Klondike Annie, The Letter, and Witness for the Prosecution. He uses Crawford’s shoulders, Mae West’s hips, Kay Francis’ lisp and Harlow/Stanwyck’s gutter talk—all with gleeful abandon. The use of thirties cinema music is skillful, and best in a honky-tonk number with Busch doing a bit of Crawford/Keeler elephantine tap-dancing.
Busch is clearly devoted to the ladies of his harem. Soon, however, you may weary of the game and your smile will begin to ache just the tiniest bit. You may then realize all the business on stage (and there is lots of it) is somewhat tired. Early on, Sylvia’s husband declares, “I’ve almost had my fill of this hot and sour nonsense,” and I am sorry to report audiences may too.
Mr. Busch has trod these boards before with his Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, Psycho Beach Party, Red Scare on Sunset, The Lady in Question, and Queen Amarantha (my personal favorite), and many others. For those who have never seen Busch and his ladies of the cinema, you are in for a treat. For those who have seen many or most of his previous offerings, there’s not much to enjoy here but a stroll down memory lane.
