Mind Over Splatter

Then again, how else do you satirize low camp? Putting aside a few
masterworks, like The Bride of Frankenstein and Psycho,
most cheaply made horror movies where the queens have to scream
already brim with self-parody. It allows the viewer to enjoy a minor
thrill of sadistic pleasure, some of it trending into soft porn, and
feel superior to it at the same time. Scream Queens inverts this
rhetoric. If the movies where the girls do the screaming really are
trash (most are), this show allows you to relish the slumming, guilt
free.

In case some audience member shows up never having seen the kind of
movies we’re talking about (many of them direct-to-video dreck),
director Dan Tursi has the queens repair to a vintage VCR showing
freshly made VHS copies of the product line. The first one of these is
titled The Texas Mix-Master Murder, in which the killer
has to make the most of an available kitchen utensil.

Composer-lyricist Martin appears to have borrowed his premise from
Stephen Sondheim’s Follies, and to have spoofed Sondheim
in one of his numbers. The over-the-hill girls are trying to rescue
their careers at the seventh annual international GlamaGore ScreamiCon, a
convention of Star Trek-like devotees. They reminisce, celebrate
triumphs and offer advice. One of them, Nadine (Dorothy Lennon), could
have been Playmate of the Year—in 1977. They’re meeting at the luxurious
convention center in Parma, Ohio, the only three-star motel in the area
with its own bowling alley. Both coasts sneer at flyover, middle
America and, sure enough, five out of the six girls hail from
NASCAR-loving red states, although one of them had appeared in the Blue
Pierogi Room in Saginaw, Mich.

Despite the one possible Sondheim parody (more about that later),
Martin’s usual idiom is Las Vegas brassy. Big production numbers, with
lots of cleavage and leg showing, all of it well-choreographed by Jimmy
Wachter, dominate the first act and conclude the second. As expected,
these tend to be upbeat, if not actually swaggering: the title song,
“Scream Queens,” “I Got All the Talent I Need,” I’m All Right, Momma”
and “Remember the Name.” Some of these come with visual surprises, like a
quick costume change into polyester waitress uniforms or Diana Ross
black wigs.

Even though we’re given the names of the six queens early on, they do
not emerge as separate personalities for about 20 minutes, more so when
they get their own solo numbers. Ultra-bosomy but naive Tonya (Korrie
Strodel) just yearned to be an admired star like her heroine, “Fay
Wray,” grandmama of all the silver screen’s screamers. Her opposite
number Dee Dee (Colleen Wager) in “Don’t Open That Door” complains about
the many cliched plot devices directors use to get the girls in such a
bind that they have to scream their way out. Canniest of the queens, Dee
Dee is the first of the six to claim a ringing cell phone so that she
can keep up on her side business: erotic telephone messages, at $5.95
per minute.

Although all the queens spout vaudeville-like gags throughout the
evening, with more hits than misses, curly headed Bianca (Erin
Williamson) drives the most sarcastic edge, culminating in her
roast-as-tribute to the master schlockmeister of the genre in “Roger
Corman.” And while all the queens have to be sexy, the hottest tamale of
them all is Alexis (Cruz Gonzalez Cadel), who is usually seen in a
waist-cinching bustier. That flies off in her second-act opener, “South
of the Border,” to reveal a scarlet bra. Not quite a strip-tease,
though, as Alexis immediately gives the act a comic turn with a Carmen
Miranda headdress.

It’s the more experienced queens who give the show its much-needed
variety of tone. Nadine, admittedly the oldest, has gained wisdom from
years of the grind, but she doesn’t want to give it up. Her first-act
number “Still in Demand” is the Sondheim spoof, a softer version of “I’m
Still Here.” Astonishingly poignant is the solo from Richelle (Aubry
Panek), who’s been around the track but is younger than Nadine. Her
ironically titled “Happy Endings” laments all the losers her career has
attracted. It’s the musical topper of the show.

Keyboardist Michael Stephan and an unnamed bassist, both in
theme-appropriate costumes, mimic a half-dozen instruments, enhancing
the queens without ever drowning them out.

Up until the early 20th century the term “burlesque” did not denote
displays of female skin but rather irreverent or raucous entertainment,
with nonstop gags, not confined by stultifying good taste. And that’s
what West Coast satire is. Chuck your snobby aesthetics at the Jazz
Central door and wallow in the laughter.

This production runs through June 19. See Times Table for information.