Theater Review - Moxie to the max
Actor’s Express gives pulp novels a Sapphic spin
A tough-talking, two-fisted pilot, drummed out of the armed forces for seducing a general’s daughter, drifts across country to a Chicago watering hole and beds a sultry femme fatale. Actor’s Express’ Pulp begins like classic film noir, except that the hard-boiled, manly hero happens to be a woman.
In Pulp, playwright Patricia Kane pays cheerful homage to the lesbian pulp novels of the 1940s and ’50s, which gave macho melodrama a Sapphic spin. Pulp lightly spoofs the genre’s high-testosterone dialogue one minute and eases into elegant, cabaret-style musical interludes the next. Though the crooners often dress as men, they infuse their torch songs with distinctly feminine yearning. Pulp’s playful action explores some intriguing ideas about gender roles, even though the production turns out to be more in touch with its feminine side than its masculine one.
Cashiered from the military, plainspoken lesbian Terry Logan (Wendy Melkonian) crosses the Midwest on a train, where she hooks up with gabby Pepper (Hope Mirlis), the bartender at a Chicago gay bar called the Well.
At the Well, Terry finds work, lodging, and a smoldering, flirtatious waitress named Bing (Katie Kneeland). The Well also serves as a cross-dressing cabaret, with Winny Cox (Meredith Woolard) ruling the roost as the lead “male impersonator.” Andre Pleuss and Amy Warren’s original songs lack memorable melodies, but effectively cultivate a smoky atmosphere.
Terry falls into a stormy affair with Bing, but loses her heart to the Well’s socialite owner, Miss Vivian (Jennifer Levison). Though affectionate to Terry, the heiress seems unapproachable, out of her league, and possibly not even a lesbian.
Levison takes the stage in white jacket and tails a la Marlene Dietrich, and her powerful singing range gives an emotional seriousness to a play that usually goes for light humor. The playwright laces the lines with innuendoes and double entendres, and certainly doesn’t let the invention of Busch Beer go unnoticed.
Director Kate Warner teasingly evokes a film noir mood. When characters exchange passionate glances, the lights quickly narrow to hot, colored spotlights. The show’s most appealing players channel classic movie archetypes. Kneeland gives promiscuous Bing the moxie of a young Lauren Bacall, while Levison, like a voluptuous Katherine Hepburn, plays an icy aristocrat longing for someone to thaw her reserves. As motor-mouthed wallflower Pepper, Mirlis perfectly fits the always-a-bridesmaid “best friend” role.
That makes Terry more or less Humphrey Bogart, but Melkonian never quite finds her stride. She always gets a laugh when she pauses dramatically before mentioning “The War.” But for the most part, funny is all she is, and her Terry never has the confident charisma you’d want in such a decisive romantic lead. Melkonian’s most authentic moments come when she’s not being gritty, like when she reveals her girlish enthusiasm at singing onstage for the first time. (It’s also a shame that such a dynamic musical performer as Melkonian only gets one song.)
Pulp betrays some fuzzy attitudes toward drag and “the masculine mystique.” Vivian gives Terry her first tuxedo jacket like it’s the symbol of a man’s mantle, and tells her to envision the man she wants to be, magnifying his characteristics tenfold when she’s onstage. But whether singing or not, Pulp’s drag kings never perform in particularly macho ways. They don’t try to emulate, say, the swagger of the rat pack crooners. And we never believe that Woolard could pass as a guy. She’s an engaging performer but looks about as butch as Belinda Carlisle.
Even in Jay Reynolds’ loving costume designs, the “ladies” outfits persistently eclipse the male fashions. Compared to Kneeland’s come-hither leopard-print miniskirt or Levison’s flowing, gold chiffon wrap, the men’s clothes merely resemble conservative versions of the Annie Hall look.
While drag queens dedicate themselves to the perfect illusion of feminine personae, Pulp’s characters show little interest in imitating superficial male traits, but would rather claim more lasting freedoms. A champion skeet-shooter, Winny longs to compete with men on a level playing field, while Terry and Bing assert the traditionally masculine right to sleep around — and settle down — with whomever they see fit.
True freedom in the play transcends gender by tearing down personal facades and bringing unspoken desires into the open. In Pulp, expressing dormant emotions represents coming out of the closet, and fortunately Kane doesn’t weight the play down with overly serious political sentiment. Pulp’s likable characters frequently dress or talk like men, but if you asked them, each one would probably say they’d rather be a girl.