Theatre Review: The Rocky Horror Picture Show
A MuSt Production
28/10/2023-29/10/2023
Directed by: Lauryn Perkins-Monney
Written by: Richard O’Brian and Jim Sharman
Produced by: Kate Nolting
Review by Nicole Sellew
I never thought I would enjoy being in a room full of people yelling “SLUT!” at a half-naked woman on an elevated surface, but at The Rocky Horror Picture Show, I did. Ainsley Macfarlane’s charmingly bewildered Janet seemed to absorb the audience’s shouts as she traipsed across the stage in a pink minidress, buttoned to the neck.
I was sat next to some members of the production team. They filed into my row after they finished their pre-show introductions, which included a costume contest and a traditional humiliation ritual for Rocky Horror “virgins,” all of whom participated with aplomb. It was difficult not to be infected by the energy of the group as they led the shouts directed at the actors.
To write about The Rocky Horror Picture Show itself would be necessarily reductive, and would probably also make me sound slightly deranged, so I will instead applaud the fantastic performances. Dylan Swain as Frank-N-Furter was particularly magnetic in a sharp cat-eye and even sharper stilettos.
The show opened with Kylie Lam’s rendition of “Science Fiction/Double Feature,” which, as well as entertaining us, set the tone for the rest of the night. I was particularly impressed by Lila Patterson's costumes and makeup. Lam emerged in red knee-high boots and a matching latex corset, one of my favourite looks of the night. Rocky's (Charlie Macbeth) gold boy shorts, unveiled after he popped out of a bathtub, constituted another memorable moment.
It was refreshing, at such a repressed university, to see people engaging and having fun with unbridled sexuality. Lauren Perkins-Monney’s direction took the show’s spirit to heart, and both the actors and audience embraced the raunchiness of Rocky Horror.
However, there was a palpable awkwardness in the audience, especially in the beginning. I couldn’t help but wonder if Covid has made us all somewhat allergic to collective experience, or if the audience was just British, and therefore adverse to screaming “ASSHOLE” at the top of their lungs every thirty seconds. However, as various chants (in particular, variations of “NO NECK,” directed at the delightful and very good sport Marcus Judd) escalated, the awkwardness dissipated. My favourite moments came when actors toyed with the audience, acknowledging the inherent subjectivity of the show. At one point, Judd pushed his glasses down his nose, glared at the audience, and shook his head, a smirk on his face. It only made them scream at him louder.
