Thespian rhymes with lesbian. Ain’t that a hoot? Seldom has confronting homophobia head on appeared more proudly patronizing or signaled less pleasure than here. It would be one thing were this a satire warning fatuous celebrities to stick to their craft and avoid poking their noses in politics. (Were that the case, Meryl Streep would probably have taken a pass.) What we have here is a glittering example of cecity being the mother of invention. Director Ryan Murphy’s (Running With Scissors, Eat Pray Love) camera covers the musical numbers with more thrusts and pull-backs than you’d find in a porno. His idea of opening up a play is restaging one of the film’s numerous instantly forgettable musical numbers at a monster truck rally or an Applebee’s, where the sight of La Streep dining is bound to draw titters. What can be said of his performance other than James Corden blew? It’s the same old cantankerous queen that Paul Lynde and Rip Taylor made a career out of exploiting. I’d sooner believe Dumbo flew than any of the cast’s fits of cartoonishly sincere insincerity. If Murphy had spent as much time structuring those numbers as he did cutting around his cast’s inability to dance, this leaden Broadway bump-up might have earned a spot next to the entertaining likes of Hairspray and Rock Of Ages. (2020) — Scott Marks
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