Unlike past dabbling in the sovereigntist movement only to become interim leader of a federalist party, no one need be concerned that Michel Tremblay makes no bones about being a staunch separatist. In fact, the longer his plays remain in present-day repertoire, the more the secessionist movement seems to be as “so 20th century” as anyone being shocked that drag queens and their admirers have successfully created a nation of their own without leaving the country en masse.
Written and first performed in the early ‘70s, Hosanna was both topical (the FLQ crisis still in vivid memory) and controversial (putting a gleaming spotlight squarely on a country-boy-queer turned big-city transvestite—replete with full-frontal nudity) material, nearly four decades later, most will surely wonder what the fuss was all about (coincidentally, about the same time as Peter Shaffer’s Equus came to bare life).
It’s further testament to Tremblay’s temperament, vision and craft that the rich subtext of this two-act, two-person script has more than enough universal truths to keep it relevant as long as there’s an ounce of cruelty or modicum of self-loathing left on the planet.
Director Weyni Mengesha has been blessed with a pair of fearless actors and all of the magic that the Stratford Shakespeare Festival’s design team seem to conjure up—with, deceptively, the greatest of ease.
Instead of a musical score, the cantus firmus throughout Act I is the incessant blinking (at 5-second intervals) of the neon “Pharmacie Beaubien” sign that constantly flashes into Hosanna’s (Gareth Potter) and Cuirette’s (Oliver Becker) dingy apartment (where the only set-dressing faux pas is utilizing a perfectly acceptable knockoff of Michelangelo’s David, where the called for “deformed and grotesque” imitation would have better fulfilled the intended metaphor). For someone who craves the limelight in all her sequined glory, there’s an early irony that “seeing your name in lights” can actually be so tiresome and debilitating.
Not coincidentally (Tremblay is a master of detail), the dreaded rays die a sudden death, only to cue Hosanna to shed much light on herself during the wide-ranging soliloquy/confessional that opens the second act. Marvellously, the absence of inane commercial intrusion brings extra intimacy to the coming revelations.
Much of the play centres on the effect of building false fronts in order to survive grim realities. Hosanna readily enjoys “being a girl” and has the requisite catty/caustic tongue which puts the “meow” into cat fights with her feline competitors (both for her stage appearances and her man: notably fellow he/she Sandra of whom much is heard, but never seen).
To especially celebrate Halloween, diva Sandra has arranged a costume parade at her club: all of the girls are invited to take on a historical persona. As is already well known, Hosanna “owns” Cleopatra as brought to spectacular life by Elizabeth Taylor. For three frantic weeks (so similar to the Mardi Gras Indians in New Orleans, cross-reference below) a dress is designed, stitched and accessorized, wig borrowed and a bucket of makeup applied—finally to be seen (and revered) for the beauty she knows herself to be.
Potter portrays the complex character with grit, guile and gumption, perfectly at home spending most of the show decked out in basic-black lingerie. All that’s missing is an undercurrent of wry despair that is at the root of so many other queens on the verge of manic depression.
Hosanna’s lover/live-in/no-job-in-sight (except blow jobs if the city doesn’t stop lighting up every cruising park in the metropolis—so at one with Tremblay’s multi-layered imagery) boyfriend is brought to engaging biker-life by Becker who looks equally at home in his leathers or—still another deft touch—matching black briefs of his frequently petulant partner.
A key moment comes when Hosanna—for the first time—explains just how her mother reacted upon learning that her favourite son “sleeps with men.” Those moments are playing out daily all around the world. Tellingly, mom’s solution is not to see what lies before her, assuming that all of the Cuirettes in her offspring’s world are “just friends.” Taking stage at the Halloween celebration, Hosanna uses every ounce of her fibre not to see that the whole event has been a cruel set-up to humiliate her from high heels to tiara. The juxtaposition of these both-sides-of-the-same-coin situations is a masterpiece of technique and vrai insight.
The payoff—as Hosanna finally accepts her own covered-up persona, Claude, can, literally, figuratively finally be comfortable in his own skin—is a compelling moment not to be missed. JWR