Porn Rock - The Musical
nytheatre.com review by Micah Bucey
August 22, 2009
I do know one thing: I have never experienced ANYTHING remotely resembling Porn Rock. And, if I may be so bold to assume, neither have you. But beyond those simple statements, I find it difficult to outline my complicated feelings for this huge, messy, five-car-pile-up of a show, which had me begging for more by the end of its two-hour running time.
There are those among you who will think me insane. I'm ready to accept the charge. But in critiquing a show this gorgeously off-kilter, there are only two directions from which to choose. We can either try to parse and identify exactly what went wrong here, like the jaded, hip downtown theatergoers we all purport to be. Or we can choose the more positive route and exalt this extravaganza's many gloriously happy accidents that ultimately transcend criticism and have left me with a newfound adoration of the wondrous possibilities of what theatre can be. I'm going to choose the latter. It's way more fun to love than to loathe.
Porn Rock is written by, directed by, and stars a woman named Pink Snow, who has chosen this vehicle to present the story of her ascent from yearning teen to yearning erotic dancer to yearning porn star to rocking songwriter. If that synopsis hasn't already grabbed your interest, you might do best sitting this one out. But, for those of you who remain intrigued, please humor me. The delicious and innocent abandon with which Snow hurtles herself through the retelling of the days and nights of her life is enviable. The show seems to have been directed with no eye toward pacing or clear theatrical storytelling. The script reads like those scenes in hardcore pornography through which most of us fast-forward to get to the good stuff. What results from this marriage of aimless direction and repetitive script is a horrifyingly beautiful and surreal experience that resembles watching a friend's child put on a show in the living room following a dinner party. But far from child's play, this show offers tons of nudity, features a bit of soft-core dry-humping, and climaxes in a baby-oiled romp on a plastic tarp. And, just in case you sense that this review is turning into a pan, have no fear: after my initial panic during the first jaw-droppingly rough opening moments, I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.
To continue to try and autopsy this buxom, gyrating spectacle would do you and Snow's vision a disservice. Her band plays loud music sufficiently, her backup singers twist and bend sufficiently, and her costars have memorized their gem-filled lines sufficiently. But the nakedly wide-eyed whole of Snow's theatrical orgy is infinitely greater than the sum of its parts. My date from Saturday night more succinctly reviewed the show with a text message sent to me the next evening, after we had both had time to marinate in the show's glittery juices like a pair of cheap kabobs: MICAH, I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT WE SAW.
