Drag kings are all the rage as of late and deservedly so. Pushing the boundaries of gender and sexuality, kings don’t feel so directly the pressure to conform to the ‘yaaaas queen’ performance type often seen on a particular reality competition show.
Kings of Clubs: Fears, Phobias and F**k Ups is a condensed version of a monthly night at the legendary Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Hosted by one of the Rebel Dykes, King Frankie Sinatra, the showcase is a platform to celebrate everything king. One hour long and thus VAULT Festival appropriate, this iteration has a narrative thread of the frightening with varying degrees of seriousness.
Sinatra begins the show with a song about kings – his velvety voice immediately captivating. Before bringing on the first act, Sinatra does a long monologue about bees – their biggest fear. This is to set up the audience interaction going forward which involves audience members picking phobias from a glittery paper bag that relate to the next act. A word of warning – the phobias are written on gift tags attached to plastic critters which did give some arachnophobes a fright.
Sinatra is a good compere and their interactions with the audience are natural. It would have been great to see them perform more but understandably time was restricted.
Richard Melanin the Third is the first of three acts and performs a silent act dressed in full sparkly clown garb. It is a sweet performance with some amusing moments such as those with a mini piano but it is relatively low energy and repetitive.
Sweet FA is second and is accurately described as ‘what would happen if Alan Bennett did Sister Act’. They deliver an energetic and varied performance – a clever mash-up of songs interspersed with live performance and lip sync. Exploring the Catholic fear of the LGBTQ+ community, Sweet FA handles the topic with good humour and satire all whilst wearing a fashionable alb.
The show concludes with Prinx Silver, a popular performer and go-go dancer on the London queer scene. Clad all in leather, Silver dances to Macho Man by the Village People as it is cut with old audio of doctors warning against homosexuality. The routine ends with Gloria Gaynor’s I Am What I Am whilst Silver waves the trans flag conveniently pulled from his underpants.
Moving from coulrophobia to homophobia to transphobia, the show takes a serious and sincere turn in its last third. Referencing new self-identification system in Scotland that has been blocked by UK ministers, Sinatra warns the audience of internal division when we should all be fighting the common enemy, the heteronormative patriarchy. To conclude, Sinatra leads all in a singsong of Stand by Our Trans to the tune of Tammy Wynette’s Stand by Your Man.
The set has a simple dressing – a spider-like structure is constructed on the backwall from colourful fabric. Stagehand Callum moves props and the mic stand on and off the stage when necessary and performers make good use of the space regularly stepping off the raised stage to interact directly with the audience. More set dressing would have been nice – even a sign to say Kings of Clubs would have added more visual interest.
Kings of Clubs: Fears, Phobias and F**k Ups is a passionate show with a clear message to tell. The pace however is too slow and needs to be tightened up to pack a punch. More polish and a longer runtime would really provide this show with the platform it needs.
“The physical reality of the production doesn’t match the stinging quality of the words.”
The publicity copy, and writer Kim Davies’ programme notes, make much of “Smoke” being an adaptation of August Strindberg’s ‘Miss Julie’. There are similarities. The characters’ names – and, more tenuously, their background. Julie (Meaghan Martin) is the daughter of a successful artist, never seen but the constant references to him serve as a reminder of his power. And there’s John (Oli Higginson); a dogsbody at the artist’s beck and call with an obsequious ambition to achieve the latter’s recognition. We are in a kitchen too, albeit a symbolic one.
Yet “Smoke” impresses as a stand-alone piece in its own right. The shackles that bind it to Strindberg’s original both detract and confuse. The setting and the themes of Davies’ writing – writing which is undeniably sharp – are smudged by expectation and the inevitable but thwarted search for comparison.
Sami Fendall’s design suggests the kitchen with an upturned fridge in a pit of black sand. Polina Kalinina and Júlia Levai’s staging makes much use of the sand, stretching its symbolism to breaking point. It is continually being sifted through the hands. It is the eponymous smoke, it is cigarette ash, it is the blunt edge of a knife that will never cut as deep as words. It is foreplay, and afterplay. It becomes limited by its own variations, and therefore a cliché. But back to the kitchen, which is where we find Julie and John. Always in the kitchen at parties, this party being a BDSM party in New York City. John is introducing Julie to the world of bondage, dominance, submission and sadomasochism. It evolves into a game that is not just cutthroat but involves other parts of the anatomy. Verbally graphic, it delves into the subjects of sexual identity, consent and assault.
The performances are as strong as they get. Higginson has a steely charisma that allows him to give his character the credibility it needs, overcoming his status with confidant dominance. Martin’s Julie is no less fierce – her submissiveness snapping intermittently to outrage. Rajiv Pattani’s staccato lighting cleverly shifts the changes of perspective at crucial moments. The play sets out to challenge the notions of consent and, in the wake of #metoo, is pertinent. Some brave choices have been made but a paradoxical backlash of the changing times that are being celebrated is that the danger is presented in too safe an environment. An intimacy director is credited in the programme but, either because their job was done too well or because they were not really needed, there is little onstage chemistry – dangerous or otherwise – between the two. The physical reality of the production doesn’t match the stinging quality of the words.
Perhaps it is a deliberate avoidance to take sides, but we are never quite sure what the piece is trying to say. Julie’s question “Do you want to fuck me?” goes some way towards epitomising the predicament. She is offended if the answer is ‘yes’ and offended if it is ‘no’. John is damned whatever his answer. As the play progresses the dilemmas darken considerably, yet the confusion remains. Perhaps there are no answers. Perhaps there is still much to be learnt. The BDSM setting seems to be a convenient backdrop to Davies’ drama, just as Strindberg is a starting point. But both seem superfluous. “Smoke” tackles important issues without breaking any real ground, allowing a certain pretentiousness to get in the way. Despite the heated and powerful performances, it shows that sometimes there is smoke without fire.
