By Elaine Liner
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
Poor little thing. She doesn't stand a chance of taking home the title of "Miss Glamouresse" (named for the contest's made-up makeup sponsor). Chest and hair both flat as Kansas, she is hardly a threat to the five other contestants who possess mad pageant skills. Coiffures lacquered into curls and flips, lips glossed to see-yourself shines, they roll over Miss Great Plains (played by the marvelous Cameron McElyea) like cyclones through a trailer park.
So why does the audience keep cheering for the tender lamb Cutlett to win?
Making the crowd pick favorites is part of the crazy fun of Pageant, the best show the gay-centric Uptown troupe has put on since A Man of No Importance over a year ago. As the parody-with-music unfolds, we get to know each determined contender as they strut through swimsuit, evening gown, spokesmodel and talent segments. Five audience members tagged to serve as judges make the final decision, meaning there could be a different "winner" every night. When the big moment comes, the announcement brings shrieks and the new queen walks the runway giving the slo-mo hand wave to her subjects. (At the opening performance, Miss Great Plains finished in the top three, bless her heart.)
The contestants vying to become Miss Glamouresse make a diverse but oddly familiar collection of crown-seekers. Their attention-grabbing gimmicks during the talent portion are the show's high point, each act bizarre but no less wacky than some of those seen on real Miss America Pageants of the past (that contest eliminated "talent"--which was the best reason to watch and mock--when the show was booted from network to cable TV this year). Anybody remember the Miss America finalist who drove a tractor to music? Or the one whose talent was packing a suitcase neatly in two minutes flat? Those were the days, my friend.
Pageant's parade features some inspired jaw-droppers. Miss West Coast bears a striking resemblance to the Sharon Stone of Basic Instinct 2 as she flings her ego through an interpretive dance titled "The Seven Ages of Me." Miss Texas eye-humps at least two of the judges when she aims her six-shooters during her cowboy tap number. Miss Bible Belt bops to the gospel of "Bankin' on Jesus" wearing a black evening frock adorned with sequined panels depicting the Last Supper. Miss Industrial Northeast roller-skates while playing on her squeezebox (that's an accordion, dirty mind). And Miss Deep South is a ventriloquist--wait, is that makeup or just a hint of heavy 5 o'clock shadow on that Dixie chick's cheeks?
There's more to these beauties than meets the eye, of course. Pageant is performed en traviste, with the cast of six "girls" hiding their candy so successfully that intermission brings on a flutter of playbill-flipping as the audience members seek confirmation that there's not a ringer without a boy's humdinger among them.
There isn't, and the scary thing is, a couple of these Adam's-appled turnovers are downright gorgeous. Chris Robinson, playing Miss Texas, bears a come-hither smile and a killer figure that could earn a decent shot at winning Donald Trump's newly slutted-up Miss USA contest. Hell, he/she could probably nail Trump himself in that cute tap-dance get-up. William Blake, in the role of Ruth Anne Ruth aka Miss Bible Belt, looks so fresh and feminine in a red Reba McEntire bouffant and slinky gown, he could take on the lead in Annie Get Your Gun and nobody'd know the difference. The token dumpy one, John Garcia as Miss Deep South, could pass for a young Elena Verdugo in more flattering lighting. Jim Lindsay doubles as over-permed Miss Industrial Northeast and as the departing titleholder who won as a 10 and leaves as a size 18.
Better than mere gaudy she-drag, these performers, under the brilliant direction of Coy Covington (a Dallas actor whose specialty is playing women's roles), do it all without ever winking at their own silliness. These gals compete. Never for a moment do they forget that the success of Pageant depends on making the audience believe in the show's central conceit: that this is a real beauty contest that will result in a real winner.
What gives us permission to laugh so hard is that there are guys in those sparkly gowns. It wouldn't work any other way. Putting an awkward girl in a swimsuit and sending her out to be judged is just too cruel to be entertaining--unless it's a reality show on Fox. But a guy in silver pumps the size of gravy boats? Slap-the-floor funny.
Sending up the ridiculously false standards of beauty upheld by the pageant and cosmetic industries is just one charm on Pageant's jangly bracelet. This show also gets at the absurdity of such things as "spokesmodeling" by having each contestant perform a testimonial for a Glamouresse product. Lipsnack, a combination lipstick and nutritious nibble is, as Miss Texas sells it, "The prettiest protein you'll ever eat." (Double-entendre intended.)