There are many reasons to see Harvey Fierstein's 2014 portrait of a summer resort in 1962 where buttoned-down het males could indulge their non-binary—as we call it in 2019—sensibilities in comfort and privacy. Not only does the author's status allow him to say whatever he damn well pleases (a claim nowadays shared by David Mamet), but it pleases him to parse the taxonomic nuances of gender-fluid expression more minutely than customary even today, and, in doing so, call out his fellow sexual outlaws for their capitulation to the bigotry of their oppressors. The men who congregate at George and Rita's tourist facility do not aspire to be glamorous drag queens, you see, nor do they assign erotic subtexts to satin undies or patent-leather pumps. In fact, they dress much like the housewives, clubwomen and pink-collar retirees with whom they consort in real life, whose particular privileges are forbidden to men wielding public power. When an activist survivor of government persecution proposes open rebellion against the establishment, the others are understandably reluctant to risk losing what small sanctuary they have carved out for themselves—especially if it means throwing their less-protected peers to the bullies, in the mistaken belief that this will mitigate the threat. The production of Casa Valentina in the cramped storefront of the Pride Arts Broadway also offers a rare opportunity to see actors who normally don't do cross-gender roles slinking and swishing as if born to bouffant hairdos and bullet-brassieres. (Robert Koon could double as Margaret Dumont in an instant, and Kingsley Day is a perfect Margaret Hamilton lookalike). Ultimately, though, it's the camp-free depth and commitment bestowed by the ensemble in their portrayal of a less enlightened age that keeps us engaged even when the mood grows uncomfortably Lillian Hellman.
