By Monique Jones
By Ciara LaVelle
By Jeff Weinberger
By Monique Jones
By Travis Cohen
By Liz Tracy
By Terrence McCoy
Even though he was actually born on July 3, legendary Broadway showman George M. Cohan (1878-1942) didn't let the matter of a few hours stop him from proclaiming Independence Day his birthday. Immortalized by Hollywood's Yankee Doodle Dandy (1942) and Broadway's George M!(1968), the theatrical producer/actor/playwright/songwriter fostered America's growing nationalism with patriotic anthems such as "Yankee Doodle Dandy," "You're a Grand Old Flag," and "Over There."
For his part, playwright David Drake was born on what many gay Americans consider their Independence Day: June 27. In 1969, as Drake celebrated his sixth birthday, Greenwich Village drag queens battled police in the streets, inflamed by the cops' continued harassment of the patrons of a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. Emboldened by the Sixties' civil rights and antiwar movements, gays found strength in the Stonewall Rebellion and began a national struggle for equal rights and protection under the law.
In his autobiographical first play, The Night Larry Kramer Kissed Me (1993), now appearing at the Hollywood Boulevard Theatre, Drake acknowledges his identification with Stonewall and attempts to do for gay pride what Cohan did for the red, white, and blue. But Cohan wrote popular songs that were enjoyed by all kinds of people; conversely, Drake's mawkish, ultrapersonalized view of gay life likely won't connect with a mass audience.
Dressed in blue jeans, white T-shirt, and tennis shoes, actor J.R. Davis tells Drake's story of sexual and political awakening through a series of personal recollections and brief sketches. The printed program for the one-man show, which checks in at 70 minutes without an intermission, lists Davis's role only as "performer," yet the tales of his various June 27 birthdays make it clear that the actor is standing in for the playwright.
The play opens with the character sharing the wonder of his sixth birthday, when he realized he wasn't like other boys: For one thing, he loved musical theater. Mimicking Jerome Robbins's choreography, he recounts the emotional epiphany he experienced watching the Baltimore Community Theater's production of West Side Story. The theater also engenders new passions for him in the next scene, when, ten years later, on yet another birthday, he takes his secret high school crush to see A Chorus Line. The performer is overwhelmed to see a gay character on the stage, but the larger revelation is his friend's reaction: He confronts Davis/Drake about his sexuality and then surprises him by a kiss on the first date. His parents are less accepting when they discover his homosexuality, prompting him to head off for New York, where he joins that city's Eighties popper-and-bopper dance club scene in the final wild days before AIDS changed everything.
Spending another birthday -- his 22nd -- in the theater, he is "kissed" by Larry Kramer's The Normal Heart, which moves him with its militant, groundbreaking depiction of the then-underreported disease AIDS. The play, and a later chance meeting with the playwright/activist (Kramer cofounded one of the first medical clearinghouses for AIDS information, the Gay Men's Health Crisis, as well as the civil disobedience protest group ACT-UP!), opens the character's eyes to the ravages of the disease that had begun to decimate the city's gay population.
I understand Davis/Drake's reaction to The Normal Heart, but no thanks to the play's overwrought account of how the character fled the theater with new purpose to his life. Rather, his mention of Kramer's play reminded me of the cathartic dramatizations of AIDS found in works such as Harvey Fierstein's Safe Sex, Terrence McNally's Love! Valour! Compassion!, Tony Kushner's Angels in America, Paul Rudnick's Jeffrey, and William Finn's Falsettos, among others. While those playwrights follow Kramer's lead by offering fully realized characters in complex situations, Drake supplies only the dramatic equivalent of a plastic gay action figure who plays in Ken's "No Barbies Allowed" health club and G.I. Joe's "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" gay bar.
At the gym, the performer talks in a metronomelike beat, accompanying his curls and pumps with observations on everything from cruising for spandex-clad club members to his fears of gay bashing. Working out his frustrations regarding the medical and political plights of gays, he says he goes to the gym "to get hot, to get cold, to get numb." Getting hotter, he takes his buff bod to a dance club in the play's most explicit scene, in which he recites a litany of gay sexual preferences and practices.
From the raw intensity of the character groovin' at the club, the action shifts to a more somber form of nightlife -- a candlelight vigil at which he recalls the ill neighbor whom he saw through many hospital stays, as well as his own estranged lover who died without making it to their promised reunion. In this, the play's highlight, director Hugh M. Murphy's quiet staging slows down Davis's frantic pace as the character pauses to remember absent friends, his candle burning down steadily but its flame unextinguished.
In a prime example of the play's superficiality, Drake's alter ego never gets around to revealing his own HIV status. Such shillyshallying undercuts the final vignette, set on the eve of the next century, in which he recalls the rebellion that brought about the AIDS cure and then warns, "Get ready; it won't be pretty." Given the play's empty posturing and lack of conveyed rage, it's a hollow threat, although, with rare succinctness, the statement serves as an accurate one-line review of the play itself.