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When these words are barked in abject desperation late in The Tribute Artist, which just opened at 59E59 in a Primary Stages production, the resulting explosion of laughter has two distinct sources. The first is that it's all too easy to imagine it being spoken about the play's writer and star, Charles Busch, in many contexts in which contemporary stars rather than those of the Golden Age are considered more worthy of mention for purposes of bringing in (forgive me) the "younger crowd." The second, of course, is that it's hilariously untrue by any stretch. After all, one does not go to a Charles Busch play expecting to encounter anyone other than the likes of those name-checked here: Margaret O'Brien, Norma Shearer, Mary Astor, and Rosalind Russell, just for starters. Busch, as astute and accomplished an evoker of these great actresses (and countless others) as you'll find in mainstream New York theatre, uses them time and time again not as a crutch, but to comment on the evanescence of celebrity and the mutability of identity. Why, he constantly wonders, do remain so fascinated by lights blown out so long ago? The Tribute Artist, which has been directed by Carl Andress, posits that it's because identity is even more in flux in the world we live in, and someone who embodies the legends of the past is merely giving corporeal form to what we already know but are usually afraid to acknowledge. Because this is a play in which no one is who he or she appears to be on the outside, the one who makes a job of dressing up like faded (and usually desiccated) screen sirens in a Las Vegas drag revue looks like the sanest one in the room. That would be Jimmy (Busch, naturally), who makes his first appearance in a Rita Hayworth–like wig and is scarcely seen without it, though not for the reason you at first expect. He's fled from Nevada after being fired from the revue by his producer-boyfriend (who changed the locks on their condo while he was giving his final performance), and thus won't be returning from his annual two-week stint in New York. During that time every year, he's stayed with the elderly Adriana (Cynthia Harris), and isn't sure what he'll do this time when he has to move out of her opulent Greenwich Village townhouse. With no agent, no New York career, and not even an Equity membership, it's as though he doesn't exist.
Luckily for Jimmy—er, sorry, Adriana—the memories Christina (Mary Bacon) has of her aunt are foggy at best and unflattering at worst, and she's been beset by enough personal tragedy over the last year to cloud any second-guessing she may attempt. She also must contend with her daughter, Rachel, who's transgendered and insists on being called Oliver (Keira Keeley). And they all must cope with the appearance of Rodney (Jonathan Walker), the only man who ever cracked the Faberge egg Adriana constructed around her heart, and who hasn't given up his past illicit, and far too observant, ways. The setup is delicious, promising a slam-bang collision of names, faces, histories, and costumes that can't be trusted. This, alas, is never fully delivered upon, as it is in Busch's more potent Vampire Lesbians of Sodom, Die Mommie Die!, or The Divine Sister. Though there are laughs to be found, particularly from Busch, Halston, and Bacon when Christina is most exasperated, the play fails to either reach its highest aspirations or convince you that these are likable people worth caring about. The more they all get wrapped up in the various deceits (and do the wrapping themselves), the less you want most of them to succeed, and the harder it becomes for them to distinguish the "good" con artists from the "bad" one (unfortunately a necessary element of the story). That Busch falls well short of uniting all the disparate story threads is an unrelated, though still serious, issue that ensures the play achieves, at best, muted success. Even Andress, a frequent Busch collaborator, has difficulties balancing the many lower-key moments with the lesser-grade crazy that eventually develops. Most other elements are, however, in fine form, from Anna Louizos's eye-grabbing set to Gregory Gale's costumes, and of course the performances. Halston is a barbed delight as Rita, blending squishy and brusque at the same time as only she can. Bacon makes hay of Christina's endless monologues about her woes (which include a lost job, a dead friend, and stolen credit cards), without ever lapsing into entirely depressive self-pity. Keeley is utterly convincing in her gender-bending role, as are Harris as the grand dame Adriana and Walker as the straight man (in more ways than one) who's positive he has the whole gig figured out to his advantage—until, of course, he doesn't. But without a stronger core, you too often feeling that they're spinning their wheels—it's not that you can't predict where the characters are headed (though you can't), but that they never seem to get anywhere. They spend too much time mired in questions of who they are and why they're all together to come up with the answers that might turn out entertainment and enlightenment in equal measure. Busch's best plays succeed for the same reasons he does and Jimmy ultimately manages here: However they're dressed, in whatever wigs they're sporting, they know exactly what they are and what they need to be. Even if you know the references, just a little too often the same is not true of The Tribute Artist.
The Tribute Artist
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