Cabaret 212 @ Riley is at street level within the Cambridge Hotel, on Riley Street, in Sydney's leafy, city-fringe suburb of Surry Hills. Or is it Darlo? I'm not entirely sure. Anyway, you get the picture. Cabaret venues are sorely needed in Sydney-town, so, in itself, it's a godsend. It's a reincarnation of the defunct, nearby room at Yipiyiyo and, as such, is a drag showcase. This 'off-Oxford' homage to Mardi Gras and all things joyously gay is, from tip to stiletto, a dazzling, dinnertime delight!
Smartly attired, yet, with a sassy, short, sweet menu, devised by Itzhak Zoaretz, a cordon bleu grad (he's cooked for 'effing' Ramsay, among other celebs and heavy-hitters), for the occasion it even sported iridescent feather boa remnants, on every table.
It's a little overlit. Not least, perhaps, thanks to the psychedelically supersized, flame-orange mushroom lamp that adorns the front corner of the space; a potentously gigantic, phallic illumination, the veritable shape of things to come, onstage. It stands proudly, unashamedly, suffused brightly, pregnant with promise; unlike so many other members, especially those in certain of our parliaments (although I have heard them alluded to as big, er, digression seems to have taken hold again.)
Apart from this irrepressible beacon, an electric expression of Viagral proportions, the scene is set with a high-camp soundtrack, including virtually inevitable inclusions, in the form of Piaf, Dusty, Nina, Bacharach, et al.
This isn't a show for the homophobic, sexually-confused or those with 'gender issues'. Parental guidance is advised. Leave the kids at home, to watch something innocent and innocuous. Like South Park. It's, essentially, a costume melodrama, in the sense of Priscilla (movie, or musical) and it will, indeed, make you misty for the latter, since it includes certain of the inescapably iconic hits therein; albeit with new, naughty and notorious lyrics, which riotously defame everyone, from Alan Jones (toilet humour) to Big Russ (propensity for fisting, or is it fisticuffs?); the merely metrosexual Thorpedo (no, c'mon, really!) to ('in the swim, with') Michael Klim. Apparently, too, juices rhymes with Philipoussis.
The star of the show is Ginger Vitas who, in keeping with the oral allusion, has a fierce, lashing tongue. She uses it to good effect, singing up a storm & twisting a knife in the back of genuinely female co-star, Alana Coke. Ginger's a real spice girl! What's more, it's her not inconsequential task to transform former Qantas hostie, Sharon, from dag to drag; bogan to Barbra; girl to 'glitterata'. In so doing, it's practically impossible to resist references to Paris' snatch (not a glossy mag), or to invoke lewd, crude (and loving it!) gags about the girl sent to Iraq who confused her Tampax with anthrax, with tragic results. Almost as arresting as the show, was the audience; some within, some without. Banker, Kyle, was a damn good sport in conceding to be a Supreme, and once frocked, in a feat of unpredictable, serendipitous comic timing, a passer-by strolled past, carrying a pizza-box. I think we can guess the likely contents! Onya 'Kenya', too, for holding the mirror-ball, & his companion, for holding his torch. Other strangers in the night stopped for a sticky, or coolly feigned nonchalant disinterest. Spilling into the night, during the terrific triplet's medley, cars were literally stopped, in the name of love. Outrageous! Uproarious! So queenly, it's as ridiculously, ruthlessly regal as QEII!
Lesley Hancock, who claims to have done who-knows-what to, or with, Dicky Branson, is the mistressmind behind the show. You might know her from Leave It To Diva, or the predecessor to this show at 212, Come Fly With Me. Trevor Ashley (Gentlemen Prefer Blokes) seemed to be M.I.A., as did Kurt Phelan, from the 'real' Priscilla, but Lucinda Shaw (Spamalot) more than held the fort, with her sympathetic comedic timing and spectacular vocals. Practically nothing fell flat, or flaccid, thanks to the theatrical timbre of this twosome, clearly implanted with more than silicone. Indeed, LH is a phenomenon. Over a decade or more, on local and international stages, she's starred in every major musical going: Phantom, Les Mis, Chicago, Sweet Charity, Funny Girl, Grease & Sweeney Todd have all succumbed to the 'cock, rewritten, raped and restaged.
P in the M is a must-see, for anyone who likes their entertainment loud & proud. A tasty traffic hazard, right 'round the corner from Sydney's primary police precinct. Holey fishnets, batman!
I dare you to go. C'mon, don't be a drag! Homo erectus!
Priscillas in the Mist
Venue: Café 212 on Riley | Cambridge Quality Hotel
Wed & Thursdays through March
Bookings: 9212 1111
