This is Drama Masks, a Bay Area performing arts column from a born San Franciscan and longtime theatre artist in an N95 mask. I talk venue safety and dramatic substance, or the lack thereof.
I can’t tell y’all how much a relief last Sunday’s Castro Street Fair was. I stopped by every booth, picked up way too much free candy (and condoms), and had to convince myself not to buy every t-shirt I saw.
I wasn’t alive for Harvey Milk’s first fair half a century ago. As I scrolled through the photos of this year’s event, I laughed to myself imagining what naughty pix he would’ve developed at his Castro Camera storefront. It was comforting seeing so much bare flesh, given how tenaciously Scott Wiener tried to have the neighborhood’s nudists arrested.
I genuinely wonder how Harvey would have responded to everything that’s happened this year? Would he be terrified that a sitting president wants to send US troops into our city, or would he welcome the fact that our information age would mean every horrible beating would be recorded? What would he say about Denim Danny sticking his head in the sand as marginalized folks—trans folks, in particular—oscillate between “scared to death” and “take to the streets!” every minute? Hell, how would he react knowing that The Castro Theatre is now only a theater in name only?
I ask this rhetorically, of course. Everyone I’ve ever met who knew Harvey made it clear exactly what he’d do: He’d lambast a sell-out like Wiener, he’d make life hell for the militarized police force, he’d want to fly to DC to heckle the Supreme Court trying to un-ban conversion therapy. In short, he’d make a spectacle of himself. He’d do that because it would put a face to the people the Dan Whites of the world want to have erased.
He’d make himself seen and let others know he saw them.
It was comforting going to the Fair. I saw old people, young people, cis people, trans people, church elders, drag stars, and even families. Walking up the hill towards the Haight afterward, I saw a family of four—two fathers and their grade-school-aged kids—decked out in lawn chairs on the empty street, simply watching the massive crowd gathered below.
A pessimist would say they were watching the calm before the federal storm. An optimist might say their very presence was proof that Harvey’s legacy was still relevant. As near as I can tell, the quartet themselves just wanted to see their neighbors. Nothin’ wrong with that.
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The Hot Wing King at NCTC
There’s something about finding “your place” that can never really be put into words. It’s not simply finding adequate shelter or people who make you feel comfortable, it’s the indescribable feeling of being able to let down your guard. There’s nothing better than finding that place that flips the switch in your brain from “defensive” to “tranquil”. The more marginalized identities you have attributed to you, the harder it is to find a place like that.
Katori Hall’s Pulitzer-winning play The Hot Wing King (through October 19 at NCTC, SF) is about walking the balance between found and biological families. It’s practically based around the old Black American saying “jus’ ‘cus they skin folk don’t mean they yo’ kin folk.” That it does so through subversion of the Black American stereotype of eating fried chicken is inspired.
Our story finds us in Memphis, Tennesse, where Cordell (Bradley Kynard, a familiar face to SF Opera fans) is preparing for an upcoming hot wing contest the way Scwarzkopf prepared for Operation: Desert Storm. He lives in a lavish home with his boyfriend, hotel manager Dwayne (James Arthur M.), despite the fact that Cordell is technically still married with two sons. Housemates weed-lovin’ Big Charles (James Arthur M.) and ultra-fey Isom (Omar Stewart) complicate matters.
Tensions begin to rise as the contest approaches. Then comes the arrival of Dwayne’s nephew EJ (Taylor Ryan Rivers). Cordell sees this as proof that Dwayne can’t say “no” to anyone with a sad story, since he thinks the boy is a thief. It doesn’t help that EJ’s criminal father, TJ (Kennzeil Love), has a habit of stopping by unannounced.
All of this happens before a shaker of pele-pele peppers is introduced.
The best way to understand The Hot Wing King is the way it takes well-worn clichés and makes them its own. It’s not just the tropes of family secrets and gay BFFs (which is practically everyone in this play), but even the old “dance to a classic tune” scene that became of staple of ‘80s and ‘90s flicks where white people danced to Motown. It’s low-hanging fruit that anyone can grab, but this play’s use of Luther Vandross’ “Never Too Much” speaks to such a specific demographic (Black folks who lived through Reagan) that it’s practically a secret code. It’s not surprising that the mostly Black crowd with whom I saw the show couldn’t sit still.
It’s those kinds of allusions, and the skilled direction of ShawnJ West, that give The Hot Wing King the sort of atmosphere that makes this ensemble’s comfort with one another believable. It’s how one instantly grasps that Cordell considers EJ an invader to their safe space, when EJ is actually looking for a safe space of his own. It’s a universal story that resonates by how many specificities it makes. In short, it’s the sort of fly-on-the-wall show that allows you to, indeed, let your guard down.
My Flo Mask, however, was firmly attached the night I went to see it the week after opening. Maybe 1/3 of the half-sized audience were masked. Given that there’s no Enhanced Safety Performance schedule, it was good to see that NCTC’s HVAC kept my Aranet4 from picking up CO² levels higher than 556ppm.
Not every joke in The Hot Wing King is a gut-buster, but every scene holds a sincerity that’s easy to recognize and pleasant to watch. Had I made it opening night, no doubt there would’ve been a title-appropriate feast afterward. I’m sorry I missed that, but I’m glad I got to see the show my kind of weary heart needed.
THE HOT WING KING runs through October 19th at the New Conservatory Theatre Center, SF. Tickets and further info here.
Terror Vault presents Hexed at The SF Mint
It’s safe to say that when Kat Robichaud welcomes you into a production that the show is more than likely to be enjoyable. I wasn’t expecting to see her as one of the goth-y ghouls inside Peaches Christ’s latest Hallowe’en horror, but an in-character Kat greeting we opening-night patrons was a good sign.
It just added to the atmosphere of Hexed (through November 1 at the SF Mint), the occult-inspired new version of the annual terror tour. This version finds we travelers moving between time and space in a fight against the Coven of Three, a trio of child-eating hags who, naturally, want to take over the world. Doing so will take us through the icy Himalayas, radioactive Chernobyl (a reference that seemed uncomfortably timely), and even “ordinary” suburbia as we search for the missing shards of a crystal that will stop the trio, or fulfill their wishes.
There’s definitely less overt gross-out humor this time around. Sure, there’s a dining table full of bloody entrails, this year’s audience needn’t worry about being squirted by an aenema. Also, this year has a much better balance of round-the-corner shocks and story details, making it much easier to follow the latter. If there’s one strike against it, it was that there was much more noticeable sound-bleed between tour groups. The group I was with were invested in the story and paying attention to every noise, so they’d occasionally be pulled out of a scene by hearing another scene in the next room. Fortunately, there were plenty of rat-people and yetis to pull them back in.
I seemed to be the only one masked in my group. Looking at my Aranet’s numbers afterward, there was a point early on where CO² levels topped 2,214ppm, though most of the tour hovered between 800-1,700ppm.
Having access to the VIP elements, I spent both pre- and post-show in the secret lounge to be entertained by Sam Witch’s dancing and Minerva Moans’ drag-tastic showcase. As always, it was a relief to escape the increasing horror of the outside world for Joshua Grannell’s stylized scares.
TERROR VAULT’S HEXED runs through November 1 at The San Francisco Mint. Tickets and further info here.
