The Whispers of Angels
Rousseve engages us immediately, walking out to a microphone and telling us that when he was a boy he wanted to be a superstar like Diana Ross, flashing a megawatt smile as Ross’s voice comes booming over the speakers. We know instantly that Rousseve’s character is the kind of gay man who loves the campy star power of female pop singers. But Rousseve also explains why, saying that as a boy he was “sorry,” which is Southern English for being a wimp–one step above being a punk. This meant, Rousseve says, that he was always “gettin’ my ass whupped”; superstars never get their asses whupped. Rousseve baits his hook with a combination of colorful language and vivid setting, disarming humor and honesty, and that megawatt smile.
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Problems begin to appear toward the end of the first act, however. An extended dance sequence representing the young man’s dark night of the soul is well done by Rousseve and the six Reality dancers: the movement is loose-jointed, with swinging arms and legs carrying the performers in a variety of turns, and the lifts are imaginative. But the movement, taken from a monochromatic palette, becomes repetitive. The tempo–a breathless, almost hysterical pace–is too even. Most significant, the dancers don’t really move across the floor forcefully. They seem trapped within their own circle, unable to conquer the space of the world around them. Their connections with one another are touching, but eventually a little pathetic. The movement makes the dancers seem already defeated.
