42. CUFF ME: THE FIFTY SHADES OF GREY
UNAUTHORIZED MUSICAL PARODY!
In
CUFF ME: THE FIFTY SHADES OF GREY UNAUTHORIZED MUSICAL PARODY! one of the
characters says something to the effect of “It’s weird doing sex acts in a
synagogue.” That’s because this shoddy parody of a publishing phenomenon that
even the characters in the show demean (“the writing sucks” is one example;
another calls the book “first-class smut”) is being performed at the Actors
Temple Theatre on W. 47th Street. But judging from an audience that
seemed to be made up of over 90 per cent squealing and giggling young women
(with a few cougars thrown in for good measure), even with me and a male friend
present, finding a minion (ten men) to hold services would have been highly problematic.
Perhaps this is because, as the show says of FIFTY SHADES OF GREY, the book by
British writer E.L. James on which it’s based, it’s “the greatest piece of
literature in the women’s masturbation movement.”
Despite a couple of performers who
might do respectable work in more conventional fare, this show (conceived by
Tim Flaherty) is written, directed (by Sonya Carter), and performed in a
blatantly hit ‘em over the head style of exaggerated mugging and shouting. The book
and lyrics (by Bradford McMurran, Jeremiah Albers, and Sean Michael Devereux) seem
determined to find the lowest common denominator, so what might have served as
fodder for an amusingly dirty satire of an erotic book that every female on the
planet seems to have read comes off as tastelessness personified.
Interestingly, while the buff actors playing Christian (Matthew Brian Bagley),
the leading man, and Ana (Laurie
Elizabeth Gardner), the leading lady, get down to their underwear, there is no
actual nudity (apart from a scene in which Christian turns around to reveal
that the buttocks area on his trousers has been removed to expose his nether
cheeks). A brief sequence done in projected shadows allows for a silhouetted
man to demonstrate his cartoonish tumescence, but mostly the sexuality
displayed is a matter of mindlessly continuous bumps and grinds and mimed
sexual positions. All right, already, I wanted to shout after bump and grind
1,000. WE GET IT!!
The show’s premise is that, while a
couple of women are in a beauty parlor, they and two beauticians begin to talk
about FIFTY SHADES OF GREY. One woman (Tina Jensen) never heard of it, so the
other woman begins to explain it. I won’t bother with any more plot description
so let it suffice to say that the story is about the sexually innocent Ana’s
sexual awakening via the S&M proclivities of a handsome, wealthy
businessman named Christian. Four actors (the second male is Alex Gonzalez, who
also undertakes female roles) play the multiple roles, and there are numerous
costume and wig changes.
The set, which uses several movable
panels to create different locales, is cheap and tacky looking, the most
prominent effect being three walls covered with dildos, paddles, whips, and
other sexual implements (including, for hilarity’s sake—NOT—a rubber chicken
and a plastic flamingo). This is a musical, but without original music, so new
lyrics are set to familiar tunes. Of those I recognized (which don’t include
the hip-hop numbers), there are “Big Spender” (from SWEET CHARITY), “If I Were
a Rich Man” (FIDDLER ON THE ROOF,” “Like a Virgin” (Madonna), “Baby It’s Cold
Outside,” and so on. The lyrics are radically altered to reflect the show’s
tawdry humor, so Madonna’s anthem, for example, becomes “I’m a Virgin.”
Everything is miked and amplified to
very high decibel levels, and the actors, especially the ditzy Ana, often
scream their lines as if that somehow might makes them funnier. There are
substantial chunks of choreography (the finale, done in Bollywood style, is actually pretty good), sometimes with strobes flashing through overdone smoke
effects. Everyone seems to have graduated from Overacting University, which,
naturally, has no courses labeled Subtlety 101. Almost all dialogue is directed
straight to the audience, as in old-time vaudeville routines. The simpleminded dialogue
is riddled with such tasteful zingers as, “When I reach the good parts I touch
myself.” Or, “I wanted to finger your butthole with mayonnaise.” The characters
are caricatures of caricatures, and Ana is so dumb she doesn't know the difference between ID (identity) and id (the Freudian term).
Most members of the audience seemed to be having a grand old time. And even the Ukranian-born manager--a guy who trained as a classical trumpet player--at the Nissan dealership where I recently got a new car--recommended the show when he learned of my theatre interests. I don't know if he read the book, though. I myself have not, so my response does not accurately reflect the
degree to which the show parodies the book. Perhaps you have to read it
to appreciate what’s on stage. But if the book is as bad as even its parody
often announces, then I’d be surprised if the show isn’t even worse.
