Priscilla, Queen of the Desert reviews: homophobia bad, racist misogyny invisible

Okay! The London reviews for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert — The Musical are now in and the suspense is killing me like a pair of six-inch stilettoes stabbed into my cranium. Has anyone noticed the misogyny? Does anyone care that east asians are dissed in a way that would have the blogosphere yelling "homophobia" had it been gays who were the hate figures? Are frocks and Abba the new bread and circuses? Will the producers fuck for spangles?

Beginning with one reaction to the original Oz stage production, The Age euphemises the "genitally precocious mail-order bride".

Michael Billington on the London production in The Guardian dismisses the "synthetic spectacle" and misses the point: "... it is gaudy, garish and loud and seems to be as much about costumes as content."

Nicholas de Jong gushes over "this bitter-sweet, big-hit musical, that stands up for brave sexual outsiders" in the Evening Standard. Yeah. Right on, sistah! "... Priscilla offers a joyful antidote to a world of hatred and violence." Not if you're an East Asian woman, it doesn't.

Michael Coveney in The Independent says simply, "It sort of stinks."

Benedict Nightingale waxes blah in The Times

Charles Spencer in The Telegraph writes, "It makes Mamma Mia! seem like something by Chekhov." He says this approvingly. Given my recent experience with the National Theatre's Burnt By The Sun, I reckon he may have a point.

Priscilla, Queen of the Desert reviews: homophobia bad, racist misogyny invisible

Okay! The London reviews for Priscilla, Queen of the Desert — The Musical are now in and the suspense is killing me like a pair of six-inch stilettoes stabbed into my cranium. Has anyone noticed the misogyny? Does anyone care that east asians are dissed in a way that would have the blogosphere yelling "homophobia" had it been gays who were the hate figures? Are frocks and Abba the new bread and circuses? Will the producers fuck for spangles?

Beginning with one reaction to the original Oz stage production, The Age euphemises the "genitally precocious mail-order bride".

Michael Billington on the London production in The Guardian dismisses the "synthetic spectacle" and misses the point: "... it is gaudy, garish and loud and seems to be as much about costumes as content."

Nicholas de Jong gushes over "this bitter-sweet, big-hit musical, that stands up for brave sexual outsiders" in the Evening Standard. Yeah. Right on, sistah! "... Priscilla offers a joyful antidote to a world of hatred and violence." Not if you're an East Asian woman, it doesn't.

Michael Coveney in The Independent says simply, "It sort of stinks."

Benedict Nightingale waxes blah in The Times

Charles Spencer in The Telegraph writes, "It makes Mamma Mia! seem like something by Chekhov." He says this approvingly. Given my recent experience with the National Theatre's Burnt By The Sun, I reckon he may have a point.

Priscilla Queen of the Desert review: looks pretty, tastes foul

The stage musical version of The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert opened this month in London’s West End.

I saw the original film when it opened at the 1994 Edinburgh Film Festival. I’d been looking forward to it as I’d always warmed to the men and women I’d met in the gay community who were full of the exuberance of challenging their oppression and winning major battles. I found them to be great role-models and lots of fun. Here, at last, was a movie made about them.

Imagine my surprise to see the all-white troupe of drag queens at the centre of the story looking after their own interests as a minority; cast as heroes, not against their enemies in the real world, but against Cynthia, an evil East Asian woman who is a Filipino import bride with a manic compulsion for firing ping-pong balls from her vagina. Depicted as the shrewish scourge of Bob, the beloved blue-collar mechanic, in reality the women she represents make up one of the most pitiful, least powerful minorities on the planet. Cynthia fulfils every dirty sleazy lazy stereotype conceived around the Yellow Peril and their sexuality.

What’s more, we are manipulated into identifying with Ralph/Bernadette (Terence Stamp), a solid-built pre-op male when he savagely beats up a woman in a bar. But that’s OK, it’s a butch bull-dyke he’s so bloodily putting in her place.

With both of these women, their differences puts them beyond the scope of our sympathies and legitimises them as targets. They are a far cry from the model “normal” woman the film finds acceptable: the white businesswoman, also a gay mother, possessing all the confidence her class and colour confer. You can be a lesbian but you must be feminine and able to thrive as one of the bourgeoisie. If you are feminine, as Cynthia unmistakeably is, then no jungle-fucking allowed: you must have control over your sexuality. The message is clear: transgressive outsiders are objects to be feared, hated and bashed up. Conform or suffer the consequences.

A passing group of Aborigines is let off because they agree to dress up in the heroes’ tranny garb, revealing yet more egotism from the filmmakers; they’re alright because they are like me.

The film can squeal and flaunt its self-proclaimed courage on the surface all it likes: it screams to me of cowardice and failure, of picking on those weaker than yourself, of a desperation to be taken into the fold as “one of us” rather than standing proudly by your identity and taking the consequences. A film that’s supposed to celebrate the cult of individuality is undermined by its deeper message that you must conform to some pretty basic sheepherding. Underneath the flamboyence there is a reactionary thrust to its values. It uses fear of Other to condition its audience which I find quite hypocritical when you consider who’s making this film and about what.

Madam Miaow as Suzy Wrong

The 1994 Edinburgh film festival coincided with the fringe festival debut of my solo show, Suzy Wrong — Human Cannon, in which I’d directed maximum firepower at some of the nastier stereotypes of East Asian women littering the joint: happy hookers Suzy Wong and Juicy Lucy from Virgin Soldiers, dragon ladies Madam Mao and Imelda Marcos, and assorted sex myths. The show’s climactic “coup de theatre”, following a wind-up where I hinted that I might put out ping-pong balls, was my appearance with a kapok-stuffed sex-doll, cunningly concealing a pump-action ping pong ball gun whose muzzle fired out of the business end of my blow-up friend: Suzy and her Uzi. Night after night I enjoyed reversing expectations and mowed down the expectant audience who were gagging for it, dahlings.

But I had been wondering whether in 1994 it was still worth bothering satirising stupid outmoded depictions of us Pacific Rimmers.

Priscilla was a sharp reminder that the battle was still on.

Oh, I would have liked a Q& fuckin’ A session with writer and director Stephan Elliott that night, all right.

This was gay liberation lite. The original Gay Liberation movement had a connection with all the other groups struggling for their emancipation. There was a sense of purpose, a political and philosophical basis to their activities and outlook. You can see the vestiges of that golden age in Peter Tatchell, whose political nous and humanity puts many of us to shame.

Now, if you’re East Asian, or the wrong sort of woman, you can be portrayed as a monster deserving of beatings and abuse with hardly a dissenting murmer. You don’t count. The characters in the film and those involved in the making of the film may be part of a minority that’s suffered, but they’re OK – the boot is now on the other foot and in everyone else’s face. Their comradeship only extends to anyone who happens to be built in their image. Screw empathy and compassion, it’s their turn now and they’re going to enjoy kicking down from their elevated status a rung or two up the ladder.

But it looks pretty and spectacular and we can ignore the sick messages pouring out.

So. There I sat in the Edinburgh Filmhouse — dehumanised as a woman, dehumanised as an East Asian, dehumanised as a human being. But audiences will love it and make Mr Elliott a shedload of money. After all, We Will Rock You is still running against all good taste.

UPDATE: London reviews of Priscilla, the Musical here

UPDATE Tues 15th January 2013: One thing learned from the Lobstergate row — currently engulfing Suzanne Moore, Julie Burchill and now Julie Bindel, all strong women and nice big juicy targets — is that "trannie" is now deemed to be an insulting term for trans-women. As language moves around (I feel uncomfortable with "oriental" and "Chinaman" but gleefully use "Pacific Rimmers" whenever possible) I am happy to be sensitive to to the use of "trannie" which appeared in the comments. This is something we can agree on — but it shouldn't detract from the core of the argument of this piece. Solidarity is a two-way street.

Priscilla Queen of the Desert review: looks pretty, tastes foul

The stage musical version of The Adventures of Priscilla Queen of the Desert opened this month in London’s West End.

I saw the original film when it opened at the 1994 Edinburgh Film Festival. I’d been looking forward to it as I’d always warmed to the men and women I’d met in the gay community who were full of the exuberance of challenging their oppression and winning major battles. I found them to be great role-models and lots of fun. Here, at last, was a movie made about them.

Imagine my surprise to see the all-white troupe of drag queens at the centre of the story looking after their own interests as a minority; cast as heroes, not against their enemies in the real world, but against Cynthia, an evil East Asian woman who is a Filipino import bride with a manic compulsion for firing ping-pong balls from her vagina. Depicted as the shrewish scourge of Bob, the beloved blue-collar mechanic, in reality the women she represents make up one of the most pitiful, least powerful minorities on the planet. Cynthia fulfils every dirty sleazy lazy stereotype conceived around the Yellow Peril and their sexuality.

What’s more, we are manipulated into identifying with Ralph/Bernadette (Terence Stamp), a solid-built pre-op male when he savagely beats up a woman in a bar. But that’s OK, it’s a butch bull-dyke he’s so bloodily putting in her place.

With both of these women, their differences puts them beyond the scope of our sympathies and legitimises them as targets. They are a far cry from the model “normal” woman the film finds acceptable: the white businesswoman, also a gay mother, possessing all the confidence her class and colour confer. You can be a lesbian but you must be feminine and able to thrive as one of the bourgeoisie. If you are feminine, as Cynthia unmistakeably is, then no jungle-fucking allowed: you must have control over your sexuality. The message is clear: transgressive outsiders are objects to be feared, hated and bashed up. Conform or suffer the consequences.

A passing group of Aborigines is let off because they agree to dress up in the heroes’ tranny garb, revealing yet more egotism from the filmmakers; they’re alright because they are like me.

The film can squeal and flaunt its self-proclaimed courage on the surface all it likes: it screams to me of cowardice and failure, of picking on those weaker than yourself, of a desperation to be taken into the fold as “one of us” rather than standing proudly by your identity and taking the consequences. A film that’s supposed to celebrate the cult of individuality is undermined by its deeper message that you must conform to some pretty basic sheepherding. Underneath the flamboyence there is a reactionary thrust to its values. It uses fear of Other to condition its audience which I find quite hypocritical when you consider who’s making this film and about what.

Madam Miaow as Suzy Wrong

The 1994 Edinburgh film festival coincided with the fringe festival debut of my solo show, Suzy Wrong — Human Cannon, in which I’d directed maximum firepower at some of the nastier stereotypes of East Asian women littering the joint: happy hookers Suzy Wong and Juicy Lucy from Virgin Soldiers, dragon ladies Madam Mao and Imelda Marcos, and assorted sex myths. The show’s climactic “coup de theatre”, following a wind-up where I hinted that I might put out ping-pong balls, was my appearance with a kapok-stuffed sex-doll, cunningly concealing a pump-action ping pong ball gun whose muzzle fired out of the business end of my blow-up friend: Suzy and her Uzi. Night after night I enjoyed reversing expectations and mowed down the expectant audience who were gagging for it, dahlings.

But I had been wondering whether in 1994 it was still worth bothering satirising stupid outmoded depictions of us Pacific Rimmers.

Priscilla was a sharp reminder that the battle was still on.

Oh, I would have liked a Q& fuckin’ A session with writer and director Stephan Elliott that night, all right.

This was gay liberation lite. The original Gay Liberation movement had a connection with all the other groups struggling for their emancipation. There was a sense of purpose, a political and philosophical basis to their activities and outlook. You can see the vestiges of that golden age in Peter Tatchell, whose political nous and humanity puts many of us to shame.

Now, if you’re East Asian, or the wrong sort of woman, you can be portrayed as a monster deserving of beatings and abuse with hardly a dissenting murmer. You don’t count. The characters in the film and those involved in the making of the film may be part of a minority that’s suffered, but they’re OK – the boot is now on the other foot and in everyone else’s face. Their comradeship only extends to anyone who happens to be built in their image. Screw empathy and compassion, it’s their turn now and they’re going to enjoy kicking down from their elevated status a rung or two up the ladder.

But it looks pretty and spectacular and we can ignore the sick messages pouring out.

So. There I sat in the Edinburgh Filmhouse — dehumanised as a woman, dehumanised as an East Asian, dehumanised as a human being. But audiences will love it and make Mr Elliott a shedload of money. After all, We Will Rock You is still running against all good taste.

UPDATE: London reviews of Priscilla, the Musical here

UPDATE Tues 15th January 2013: One thing learned from the Lobstergate row — currently engulfing Suzanne Moore, Julie Burchill and now Julie Bindel, all strong women and nice big juicy targets — is that "trannie" is now deemed to be an insulting term for trans-women. As language moves around (I feel uncomfortable with "oriental" and "Chinaman" but gleefully use "Pacific Rimmers" whenever possible) I am happy to be sensitive to to the use of "trannie" which appeared in the comments. This is something we can agree on — but it shouldn't detract from the core of the argument of this piece. Solidarity is a two-way street.

Burka Blue: Afghanistan's first female band

Over at Slacker Chic, Mrs M makes this extraordinary find: Afghanistan's only all-female musical group, The Burka Band.

It's amazing how art finds expression under the most oppressive circumstances. The music has a hypnotic almost dopey effect parodying the internal world these women are expected to have. "My burka it is blue". How safe is that? And yet ...

Strangely subversive. Brilliant.

UPDATE: CSM suspects this is a clever scamming work of satire by an equivalent of The Flying Lizards. I say print the legend.

Burka Blue: Afghanistan's first female band

Over at Slacker Chic, Mrs M makes this extraordinary find: Afghanistan's only all-female musical group, The Burka Band.

It's amazing how art finds expression under the most oppressive circumstances. The music has a hypnotic almost dopey effect parodying the internal world these women are expected to have. "My burka it is blue". How safe is that? And yet ...

Strangely subversive. Brilliant.

UPDATE: CSM suspects this is a clever scamming work of satire by an equivalent of The Flying Lizards. I say print the legend.

John Sinclair, Charles Shaar Murray, Buffalo Bill: Crossroads

More John Sinclair ...

John Sinclair performs "The Crossroads", his poem about Tommy Johnson (not Robert) who is said to have acquired his mojo when he met a dark stranger at the Crossroads at midnight.

John was the visionary manager of the MC5 who founded the White Panthers when the Black Panthers called for support from the white population. Having caught the eye of the authorities, he was arrested for giving — not selling — two joints to an undercover cop, and served two and a half years of a draconian ten year prison sentence. John Lennon wrote a song about him (it's the one called "John Sinclair"), and a number of luminaries (including Stevie Wonder, Yoko Ono, Bob Seger, Allen Ginsberg, Abbie Hoffman and Bobby Seale) campaigned for his release which happened days after Lennon headlined a benefit Free John Now Rally.

He now lives and works in Amsterdam.

John is accompanied by Charles Shaar Murray on resonator guitar and Buffalo Bill Smith on harmonica. Recorded by Madam Miaow at the Café OTO in Dalston, North London, Saturday 14th March 2009.

UPDATE: New video from the same gig of John Sinclair reciting Twenty-One Days In Jail, accompanied by Gary Lammin and his band.

March 29th, Charles Shaar Murray article on John Sinclair in The Sunday Times:

John Sinclair, Charles Shaar Murray, Buffalo Bill: Crossroads

More John Sinclair ...

John Sinclair performs "The Crossroads", his poem about Tommy Johnson (not Robert) who is said to have acquired his mojo when he met a dark stranger at the Crossroads at midnight.

John was the visionary manager of the MC5 who founded the White Panthers when the Black Panthers called for support from the white population. Having caught the eye of the authorities, he was arrested for giving — not selling — two joints to an undercover cop, and served two and a half years of a draconian ten year prison sentence. John Lennon wrote a song about him (it's the one called "John Sinclair"), and a number of luminaries (including Stevie Wonder, Yoko Ono, Bob Seger, Allen Ginsberg, Abbie Hoffman and Bobby Seale) campaigned for his release which happened days after Lennon headlined a benefit Free John Now Rally.

He now lives and works in Amsterdam.

John is accompanied by Charles Shaar Murray on resonator guitar and Buffalo Bill Smith on harmonica. Recorded by Madam Miaow at the Café OTO in Dalston, North London, Saturday 14th March 2009.

UPDATE: New video from the same gig of John Sinclair reciting Twenty-One Days In Jail, accompanied by Gary Lammin and his band.

March 29th, Charles Shaar Murray article on John Sinclair in The Sunday Times:

John Sinclair, Charles Shaar Murray and Buffalo Bill Smith: The Delta Sound

Last night, Charles Shaar Murray and Buffalo Bill Smith played at The Oval Tavern, Croydon, UK (12th March 2009). With a special guest appearance by MC5 legend John Sinclair who recited his poem, The Delta Sound.

CSM playing slide guitar (a resonator and Telecaster), and Buffalo Bill on harp, recreate the Delta Blues experience for those of us too young and too British to have had much contact with the original. It was a great little gig; big on atmosphere and enjoyed by an appreciative audience.

John Sinclair, in town for a series of gigs, came to watch but stayed to play. And most welcome it was, too.

UPDATE: John Sinclair performs this afternoon in Dalston's Café OTO with various guests including Charles and Bill, and our good mate Gary Lammin. 2pm, Saturday 14th March 2009. 18-22 Ashwin Street, E8. Silverlink Rail: Dalston Kingsland

John Sinclair, Charles Shaar Murray and Buffalo Bill Smith: The Delta Sound

Last night, Charles Shaar Murray and Buffalo Bill Smith played at The Oval Tavern, Croydon, UK (12th March 2009). With a special guest appearance by MC5 legend John Sinclair who recited his poem, The Delta Sound.

CSM playing slide guitar (a resonator and Telecaster), and Buffalo Bill on harp, recreate the Delta Blues experience for those of us too young and too British to have had much contact with the original. It was a great little gig; big on atmosphere and enjoyed by an appreciative audience.

John Sinclair, in town for a series of gigs, came to watch but stayed to play. And most welcome it was, too.

UPDATE: John Sinclair performs this afternoon in Dalston's Café OTO with various guests including Charles and Bill, and our good mate Gary Lammin. 2pm, Saturday 14th March 2009. 18-22 Ashwin Street, E8. Silverlink Rail: Dalston Kingsland

Viva Palestina aid convoy in Gaza

Guernica. Twinned with Gaza

I'm not normally a fan of George Galloway but he's done an amazing job getting aid to the Palestinians in Gaza while the world remains mute.

The Viva Palestina convoy of 110 vehicles carrying a million quid in aid, has borne arrest, threat, assault and humiliation, not to mention a near complete press blackout. They've finally achieved their goal and entered Gaza, a splinter of land crushed between the state of Israel and the eastern Mediterranean Sea and inhabited by 400,000 desperate human beings.

The cargo represents a fraction of the resources needed to get the Gazans anywhere near what we think of as normality. But it presents a powerful example that world leaders might follow, and let's the beleaguered population know we're thinking about them.

Well done, Viva Palestina.

Viva Palestina aid convoy in Gaza

Guernica. Twinned with Gaza

I'm not normally a fan of George Galloway but he's done an amazing job getting aid to the Palestinians in Gaza while the world remains mute.

The Viva Palestina convoy of 110 vehicles carrying a million quid in aid, has borne arrest, threat, assault and humiliation, not to mention a near complete press blackout. They've finally achieved their goal and entered Gaza, a splinter of land crushed between the state of Israel and the eastern Mediterranean Sea and inhabited by 400,000 desperate human beings.

The cargo represents a fraction of the resources needed to get the Gazans anywhere near what we think of as normality. But it presents a powerful example that world leaders might follow, and let's the beleaguered population know we're thinking about them.

Well done, Viva Palestina.

What technology can do: gigacam pic of Obama's inauguration

Click here for the Gigapan picture of Obama's 2009 inauguration in which every face in the vast crowd can be made out using the sort of sci-fi technology you see in Google Earth satellite shots.

And the police are bleating because we might capture their pretty faces on our cameras? What a total diversionary cheek!

John Williams together with Yo-Yo Ma on cello, Anthony McGill on clarinet, Gabriela Montero on piano and Itzhak Perlman on violin.

The inauguration, if you can stretch your memory back that far, was where in best Milli Vanilli tradition it turns out the classical band were miming to a soundtrack. Itzhak Perlman looked like he was in some sort of ecstatic reverie, so overcome with the sense of occasion was he, and the pianist, Gabriela Montero, wore mittens to protect her hands on an icy midwinter's day. Yes, the whole pantomime was most impressive. But unlike the Beijing Olympics when one little girl was lip-synced by another little girl, and the whole of the west rose as one to condemn it, we heard very little about this subterfuge.

At least the glorious Aretha was keeping it real.

Bad taste, bad timing

Just saw this as I was flicking through the cable channels. How's that for an unfortunate juxtaposition?

Bad taste, bad timing

Just saw this as I was flicking through the cable channels. How's that for an unfortunate juxtaposition?

Tony Blair's payback: raking in the rewards

Tony Blair not mugging for the photographers. "I do not practise posing in the mirror."

Virtue as its own reward is all very nice but you can't beat money and power. Who’s this with the dead eyes and the shark smile cutting through finance and politics like a big eating machine?

Thanks to Splinty whose browsing found this item in the Daily Mail. Hold your nose, keep a bucket by you, and read about the insane avarice of the former holder of the highest office in the land.

We suspected that Tony Blair was bought and paid for but now he's collecting his payback with a single-mindedness that is a marvel to behold. It's like watching someone in swivel-eyed frenzy on a supermarket sweep knocking everyone out of the way while stuffing his trolley with as much crap as possible. Oops! There goes the British taxpayer. Oops! There go the Iraqi people. Oops! There go the Gazans.

No way am I ever having a go at the Jade Goody circus or Jonathan Ross’s greed or any other entertainment figure’s inflated income while Blair’s alive and collecting. At least showbiz celebs give some sort of pleasure and don’t get people killed. The Blairs’ almighty mania for acquisition and power has made them buddies with some of the nastiest despots around.

And now it’s payback time.

Although, something appears to be preying on his conscience. At a recent prayer meeting with Barack Obama, "Mr Blair made no fewer than 31 mentions of God, declaring: 'In surrendering to God, we become instruments of his love.'"

Watch out for excessive washing of hands. No, Tony, that won't wash out the blood. It might serve you better in the wee small hours of the night to ask yourself: what profit a man that he gain the world and goes loony-tunes?

What did you have to do for that, Tony?

Hey, leave the Chinese out of this