By Anna Merlan
By Keegan Hamilton
By Albert Samaha
By Darwin BondGraham
By Keegan Hamilton
By Anna Merlan
By Anna Merlan
By Tessa Stuart
With black makeup caked around her eyes in a raccoony fashion, and hair askew, electrocution-style, Dynasty Handbag indulges in neurotic rituals and interior monologues that are hilarious, brave, and a little scary.
The creation of performance artist Jibz Cameron, Dynasty is jazzing up Dixon Place's Hot! Festival with VERTititGO, a hyper-noirish tale of a woman pressuring a private dick to find a missing person, though she's not sure who that person is. (Could it be all women? Food for thought.) Rather than call security, the largely lesbian audience has been eating up the piece, which dares to be grotesque and silly, with the nimbly funny Cameron coming off like a human Gumby with a head injury that liberates her soul.
The California-born performer went to art school, but ended up on the San Francisco music scene, where her between-songs musings led her to the New York performance world and the birth of the daffy Dynasty. The character has made such inroads—like winning downtown's Miss LEZ contest in 2005—that Saturday Night Live has ripped off the name for their own recurring character, and while Cameron's attempts to find legal recourse have left her incredibly frustrated, hopefully she can use the extra rage in her work.
Our recent talk went like so:
Me: Congrats on the show, Jibz. Are you striving for profundity or just trying to be wacky?
Jibz: I don't know what that word means. "Seriousness"?
Me: Reaching for a larger message.
Jibz: I know exactly what I'm trying to say, but I don't care if people say, "It was hilarious," and that's all they get out of it. It's a feminist message. I know a lot of women in my mom's generation that had a lot going on and got stuck in weird social structures that killed their dreams. To not do that, you have to be a lesbian or an innovative bitch that no one gets along with.
Me: Or both! In the show, you play a flower who boxes and a dream-filled waitress serving "crapple pie," among other possessed creatures. Do you ever get embarrassed up there going to such extreme places?
Jibz: Yes. I'm ashamed of my feelings. [Laughs.] I feel like that's what I like in other artists—what they think and feel, and the truth. If that can be funny, that's awesome.
Me: You're almost like a teen girl putting on a show in her bedroom for her dolls and accessories.
Jibz: It's pretty much how I was and still am. I was the kid that thought she was in a movie, with the camera always following her. It didn't come from a creative place, but from a weird, terrifying place. I was never shy. I didn't get what I needed, so I was desperate. But I was always naturally able to be onstage. I had to go through negative, shitty times of depression that killed that spirit of wanting to perform, and then it came full-circle.
Me: Ooh, negative, shitty depression? Do tell!
Jibz: I had some behavior that was dysfunctional—bad relationships, drinking too much. I still performed, but I feel the more at peace I am, the more I can focus on my work. Otherwise, you're just talking about how shitty everything is.
Me: Did you ever attempt suicide?
Jibz: Sort of. One time, I bought a bottle of pills. But slow death is something I look forward to.
Me: How did you get out of the depression?
Jibz: I take a lot of drugs.
Me: As long as you're still here, tell me how you feel about Dynasty being described as a "schizophrenic nut ball" in Dixon Place's program. "OCD" also leaps to mind. Is she?
Jibz: No. The character is more like my thoughts and feelings. Saying "OCD" is putting a label on it after the fact. I just do what comes out of me. It's a heightened version of myself. The stage seems safe. You can do a lot of shit. It's exciting to mess with people that way!
Woman, Thou Art Loose
In lieu of crapple pie, let me serve you a slice of the lesbian family dramedy The Kids Are All Right, particularly one plot aspect that initially made me queasy in my pants. (Spoiler alert! Do not read the next graph—though it's all in the trailer anyway.)
At one point, Julianne Moore's character starts cheating on Annette Bening by engaging in wildly passionate sexual activities with a male person. (Yes, the sperm donor wants to donate again!) This seemed improbable since her character had been established as lesbian—not bi—and I've never known someone in a same-sex couple to stray for a hot opposite-sex encounter. It really doesn't happen any more often than Mel Gibson buying a share in a kibbutz. Was this movieland's way of pandering to the hets by watering down a gay story courtesy of a schizophrenic nutball? Well, Moore later explains to Bening that she's still a lesbian and her indiscretions weren't about the sex at all; she just felt neglected and needed to be appreciated. I sort of bought the contrivance. Do you?
Meanwhile, the kids aren't all right in Kisses, a gritty but sweet film in which a put-upon boy and girl run away from the horrors of home to find an even bigger hell in the streets of Dublin. The pint-size actors have nice chemistry, but at the premiere, writer/director Lance Daly told me that, in reality, they can't stand each other. Having to kiss onscreen was just the beginning of their mutual discomfort!
The onetime "angriest RV salesman in the world," Jack Rebney made a career out of mouthing off about his discomfort, becoming a Howard Beale–like hero for people too polite to say, "Fuck off!" Rebney got famous via leaked, foul-mouthed outtakes from an instructional film, and now in Winnebago Man, he's followed by a documentarian capturing all new foul-mouthed outtakes that will make him even more famous and angry.
But fear not. It turns out the man isn't Mel Gibson—he was just hot, bothered, and trying to save his ass through irritable perfectionism; he's actually a highly decent person who's stunned to find himself a viral video icon. "I'm a nice enough man," he assured the crowd at the doc's premiere last week. "I've just got a vile, vituperative mouth." Fortunately, he unleashed it on Dick Cheney and that whole administration, saying he'd love to "hang them by their goddamn necks," much like what was done to Goebbels and the gang.
The film was presented by its biggest supporter, Michael Moore, and funnyman Jeff Garlin made an appearance, too, claiming that Larry David once told him he loved Rebney's wrath so much that he was planning to do a show called Curb Your Enthusiasm based on him.
Now kindly curb your eyeball-rolling as I tell you the latest developments in gay clubbing. On Sundays, the boys come crawling back from Fire Island and start compulsively rooftop-hopping, going from the High Bar's smallish, ambient roof to the larger, more pumping one at Hudson Terrace, where they couldn't possibly get any higher. If they haven't jumped and they're still around by Wednesday, they take the opposite trajectory and descend to the basement party at the Marcel Hotel's Polar Bar, courtesy of the High Bar team Michael Cohen and Kevin Wiltz. It's very gays-take-over-daddy's-rec-room, with lots of boutiquey chic-ey.
By the way, between that party and the lounge Vig27, my neighborhood is suddenly Chelsea East and almost gay-livable. I'm heading out in search of a private dick as we speak.