The Off-Broadway Theatre Review: House of McQueen
By Ross
Searching and searching, online for a deadly idea. That’s what is projected with clarity across the back white wall as House of McQueen, the play, struts its stuff for all to see. Surprisingly, it’s an extra-wide short runway on which Darrah Cloud’s play about the rise and tumble of Britain’s rough-around-the-edges expert designer, Alexander McQueen, and it almost starts with a bang until the contemplation of suicide is walked off by the arrival of the others. Taking their place in pure postured pantomimes across the squared off edges of the stage, lit impressively by lighting designer Robert Wierzel (Broadway’s Lady Day at Emerson’s Bar & Grill), the unpacking begins, starting with an engagement with both McQueen’s acquired family, and his real one, capped by a straightforward question, “Are you sure this is what you want?“
The uncomfortable joke is that it’s a drunken beach wedding on the island of Ibiza, without any honest attachment to real emotion or love. It’s heartbreaking and disjointed, for the pain and disconnection are obvious. Playing a perfectly embodied, messed-up McQueen about to faux marry a handsome, almost-stranger while on a bender, Luke Newton of “Bridgerton” fame (season three) delivers exactly what is needed to make this bioplay work. He flips with clarity between the struggling, scruffy young man wanting to learn “everything, everything, everything“, to an older (but still quite young) man finding out that everything isn’t exactly enough to keep away the demons that haunt him. It’s the most solid thing about this stylistic unfolding, and if the actual play had matched the complicated unraveling delivered by Newton, the whole rise and burn dilemma would have found a greater depth within our souls. But as directed by Sam Helfrich (ART/NY’s In a Dark Dark House), the ruination stays superficial and sadly simple, which is nothing like the man himself.
Surrounded on all sides by a cast of clever pros delivering numerous parts with a clever vision, House of McQueen tries to find impact in its unraveling, within his family engagements, and in his design world. Dressed impressively by costume designer Kaye Voyce (Broadway’s Sea Wall/A Life), each and every one of those actors struts across the stage with confidence, delivering epic portrayals that keep that white walled space, created cleverly by set designer Jason Ardizzone-West (Broadway’s Redwood), moving and flowing with a rhythm that is both engaging and deliberate.
The always ingenious Emily Skinner (Broadway’s Side Show; The Cher Show) finds honesty and connection in Mother Joyce McQueen, paralleled by the other, more off-balanced mother figure, mentor Isabella Blow, delivered captivatingly by Catherine LeFrere (“Only Murders in the Building“). The play, while effectively portraying his affection for his mother, only briefly alludes to McQueen’s relationship with his older sister, but fails to capture its shifting complexity — from early compassion and encouragement to later criticism, when she dismissed his work as ugly and accused him of hating women. Her refusal to confront the possibility that her boyfriend sexually assaulted McQueen is one of many haunting shadows the production glances at but never truly confronts..
There are moments of sharp, clever use of space and design, with platforms rising and falling, playing with his framing and his career or his emotional trajectory. Backed by live and recorded projections, courtesy of Brad Peterson (Off-Broadway’s Broadway Bounty Hunter), the effect is somewhat satisfying and engaging, yet simple, with an undercurrent of wanting so much more from McQueen and his works. I found myself wishing the projections had embraced the raw power of McQueen’s early work — like his master’s collection, Jack the Ripper Stalks His Victims, which Isabella Blow famously bought in its entirety. That show announced the bloody, subversive aesthetic that defined McQueen, but here it’s reduced to a passing reference, too clean and polished. By holding back, the production keeps the visuals stylish but safe, muting the darker edge that made his artistry unforgettable, even in his and Blow’s eventual suicide.
The play undresses itself like a curious fan digging into the idea of couture, flipping casually back and forth through McQueen’s personal calendar-slash-diary, looking for clever moments to look at, but not study. There is little attempt to dig deeper into the more complex ideas around motivation and self-destruction. It all stays pretty upfront, peeking in on his feverish desire to learn everything, while giving us very little to understand. There is barely any analysis other than quick flashes of ideas and provocative ghosts suggesting trauma and disconnection. But they move in and across the stage as if they were on a timed runway, rushing to get out of this one outfit and into another.
We try with all our might to stay tuned in, grabbing at concepts and visual framings, hoping to uncover a heartfelt connection to his obvious pain, but we are left watching a presentation of ideas moving cleverly and beautifully across the stage. LeFrere, as his mentor, is the most clever window dressing of them all, beyond the simple framing of McQueen’s actual mother. It is in her deep, almost claustrophobic need for his attention and companionship that gives the piece some complex weight. But it doesn’t hold, forcing a lightening of that heaviness, even when suicide is on the table. We see all the typical downfalls of the quick-to-fame excesses, engaging in bloody battles with McQueen’s mental health, and sending him down rabbit holes of self-destruction and abuse, while barely showing how devastating it truly was for him.
Newton does his darnedest trying to find depth in his destruction, but the play just doesn’t allow it. It remains a spectacle, much like the side show exhibition of 27 original McQueen designs that are on display in the gallery attached to the cavernous theatre. In the end, House of McQueen feels like we are all flipping through a beautifully bound desk calendar: stylishly presented, carefully arranged, but unwilling to linger long enough on the darkest days. The actors strain to inject the grit and pain McQueen carried, providing flashes of honesty, but little insight. The play itself remains too superficial, too distant. McQueen’s legacy is one of blood, beauty, and provocation, a fashion house built on razor edges and slashes of brilliance, yet here in The Mansion at Hudson Yards in NYC, his story closes with a soft, casual murmur. For a man who shocked the world with daring, this theatrical portrait feels more like a neat hemline than a raw cut.
