Review: ‘To My Girls’
Joan Marcus
If you take Mart Crowley’s 1968 play The Boys in the Band and place it into the Digital Age of Drag Race and Britney Spears, you’ll find To My Girls. JC Lee’s new comedy opened Tuesday night at the Tony Kiser Theater, being the second “gay play” of Second Stage’s spring lineup (a revival of Richard Greenberg’s Take Me Out is playing a few blocks away at the Hayes Theater).
After the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, a group of freshly vaccinated friends reunite for the weekend at a kitschy Airbnb in Palm Springs, California. Curtis, who frets about nearing 40 but looks a solid 25 at most, is a toned #InstaGay known for his bawdy brand endorsements. Castor, the comedy queen barista, exudes witty humor to mask insecurities perpetuated by the beauty norms for gay men. And there’s Leo, the sassy scholar who educates his social media following on topics of white supremacy and queer theory. Two additional friends, Todd and Jeff (a couple), are mentioned but not seen - until one of them makes a last-minute entrance that feels entirely too late.
Following The Boys in the Band’s formula, the excessive pouring of alcohol is the catalyst for each of the conflicts examined in the play. Sexual affairs are exposed as unrequited crushes are revealed. We observe the greedy secretive calculations of conditional friendship, leading us to question why these men are even friends to begin with…
Both everything and nothing happens in To My Girls. The muddledness comes from its imbalance in simultaneously celebrating gay culture while judging gay culture. It’s challenging to root for these characters when hypocrisy is such a vivid personality trait. One of the play’s major critiques is gay men’s compulsion to fulfill their egos through public validation on the internet. Likes and comments are transactional. The friends scoff at Instagram thirst traps with Maya Angelou quotes in the caption. They eye-roll at the mindless posting of a black square unmatched with any legitimate off-screen activism during the summer of 2020 - when Black Lives Matter rightfully held a firm grasp on social media. It’s a fair critique indeed. But suddenly, these same men are jumping to seize the perfect selfie opportunity or practicing choreography for a planned-to-be-viral video.
Joan Marcus
Make up your mind, girls. Are we uncovering the complicated fragility rooted in a community that longs to have their authentic selves be accepted or are we simply staging “a day in the life of gay culture”? Is the ambiguity deliberate? It’s hard to tell. Stephen Brackett’s directing, though highly anticipated for A Strange Loop, does little to provide clarity of intention. It does, however, lay the framework for strong ensemble chemistry, acted delightfully by the trio of Jay Armstrong Johnson (Curtis), Britton Smith (Leo), and Maulik Pancholy (Castor).
It’s unfortunate to see these big personalities, and their respective politics, put to waste. A liberal character ridicules the queer youth of today’s obsession with pronouns while another takes to Tik Tok to deliver a land acknowledgment to the Indigenous people of Palm Spring. Even the flamboyant Airbnb host outs himself as a Trump 2020 voter. All of the pieces were in place for a sophisticated, fiery exploration of political identities held by the gay community. But dialogue of any real substance seems to be missing from the script.
Occasionally, it does come close! Leo, who may be the most genuine friend of the group, takes his time correcting Curtis’ racist comments. It’s evident Leo cares deeply for Curtis and only wants to see an adjustment in his behavior, but these call-outs fall on deaf ears. Curtis’ white gaze is partial to blame, but the stakes are not high enough for Leo’s teachings to have any real impact. The lack of meaningful exchange allows Curtis to fall into a cyclical pattern of disappointing his well-intended friends, presumably after the curtain closes as well.
Instead, Lee offers surface-level rhetoric that most “woke” millennials have already heard regurgitated in their own echo chambers. This is not to say that an audience composed primarily of white gay men should be excused from hearing discussion of white privilege, infidelity, racial differences, and socioeconomic disparities. But such topics require a crafted nuance that works to shift perception rather than reinforce a status quo.
So despite all of the lazy arguing, the play ends with a group of gay men unchanged. The conversations, which often loop in circles, never end in resolution. When working successfully, a 95-minute play shouldn’t feel long. Bickering becomes boring. We have no choice but to imagine the group’s next boozy get-together will play out in the same high drama, low stakes fashion.
This isn’t to say To My Girls is a bad time. Any queer millennial with access to the internet will appreciate a handful of Lee’s saucy punchlines, delivered especially entertaining by Smith and Pancholy. With references to Liza Minelli, Cher, Madonna, and Lady Gaga, every generation of gay men is fairly represented. It’s also quite visually appealing. Arnulfo Maldonado has nicely curated a tacky, yet hyperrealistic vacation rental complete with a backyard patio illusion. A series of impressive sunrises, sunsets, and strobes are lit by Jen Shriever, effectively conveying the time of day.
One tender moment of the play that stuck with me is when Castor recites a poem he wrote on the evening of New York’s legalization of gay marriage in 2011. Titled “To My Girls”, Castor’s toast is a declaration of the true meaning of community, something that can only be found through shared liberation with your chosen loved ones. But just when we arrive at the location for a solid ending, a brand new character arrives with unnecessary shock factor. A broken record reminder that gossip and deceit are what lay at the core of this shallow friend group. We leave hoping that’s not the truth for our own.