Watching this rare revival of the leading French-Canadian playwright Michel Tremblay's early, memorable play Hosanna tested my memory of its brilliant Broadway premiere in this apparently inspired English translation in 1975. First of all, I thought I'd seen it in the 1960s, because its unblinking portrayal of a flamboyant young transvestite fighting with his/her older biker lover in their bizarre apartment seemed newer and more daring than it does now. Secondly, I do remember the late Richard Monette's incomparably dazzling performance, so achingly moving and so utterly real even in its excesses that I assumed that he was type-cast. But I don't remember many physical details other than his lead character, and after knowing Monette as actor, director, and the longest- termed artistic director (14 years) in Stratford's history, I can no longer imagine that man playing Hosanna. But, believe me, he did with supreme authority.
This production may be influenced by the director's stated emphasis on its humanity and timeless relevance in terms of the persecution of homosexuals. She does not seem as interested in its original political allegory for the social and political ostracism of the Quebecois separatists, but she mentions their struggle for "identity." So I didn't find the shocks of the first act very grabbing much less shocking -- in Weyni Mengesha's toned-down playing. But the conclusion of the two men's facing up to an unvarnished realization of their actual identities and to a recognition of their love for each other does justice to Tremblay's beautiful play.
We first see Hosanna in full make-up and gaudy costume as she returns from pretending to be Elizabeth Taylor in "Cleopatra" and furious at the humiliation she has just received from other drag queens. Their subsequent fights, recriminations and re-enactments need more intensity and authority than they get in this production. Even the décor and lighting seem more designed than telling. But Gareth Potter's second act begins more broadly and grows into a wrenching portrait of a drag queen unsure of her "fabulous" queenliness. Oliver Becker seems also tentative in his posturing as a leather-man, but he, too, is touching in their final embrace as lovers.
Basically, after all sorts of carrying-on, full nudity and transformations, what they face up to is their identity as men. That has resonance, and it is theatrical proof that this remarkable play is still worth making an effort to see.
