The producers of the Public Theater’s loving revival of Hair in Central Park have put aside the reality that most of us recall not the original (and far less linear) 1968 Broadway production, but instead the lean, fun 1979 Milos Forman film adaptation. I left the Delacorte Theater last Saturday night with renewed respect for the Czech movie director who took the Broadway version and re-fashioned it into a tight, endearing movie musical, mostly by cutting songs that stretched out the simple story into an epic rock-opera of emotional uplift.  But by the end of a long night at the Delacorte–one that included actors roaming the aisles for loose change, waving their hair in people’s faces and, at the end, inviting the audience onstage to boogie–I had given in, like everyone else, to the intoxicating power of a natural high. 

There’s really not much point denying the power of the dozen or so songs that make Hair a classic: this production offers near-perfect renditions of “Aquarius,” “Let The Sun Shine In,” “Where Do I Go?” and “Hair” –along with one song wrongly cut from the movie, the spectacular and haunting “Frank Mills.” It’s fun to watch well-trained actors bring to life lyrics imbedded in your brain, and hear melodies that soar; it’s a musical score as good as any ever performed on a Broadway stage, with endlessly brilliant, hilarious lyrics. And the cast assembled to stage for this production has the looks and talent to keep even the most hardened cynic mesmerized. The first act takes off so fast, and forges such a strong emotional connection with an audience who has long ago memorized the melodies, that it’s nearly impossible to let go of its pull.

And yet, to my surprise, boredom sets in quickly after intermission, when an epic hallucination sequence–wisely trimmed in the movie–strings together several songs that stop the show’s heart-stopping pleasures dead in its tracks. It’s no creative crisis–this production will move to Broadway and collect tons of awards, have no doubt–but would it have hurt the cause to cut judiciously from a show with more than two dozen songs and multiple reprises? With so many back-to-back pleasures in Hair, it seemed indulgent to restore every melody removed by Forman in his equally moving interpretation. 

This is a minor quibble with Hair, a long-overdue and mostly-inspired answer to the prayers of those who stand for hours every summer in the hopes of a wonderful bargain in a spectacular setting–and frequently end up disappointed. I loved the performance of Jonathan Groff as Claude Hooper Bukowski; even though I preferred the character’s hick-to-hippie transformation added to Hair by the movie’s screenwriter, Michael Weller, Groff managed to make sense of the original, muddled conception of Claude as a hippie to begin with.  

The point of a nostalgia trip like this is to restore sensations lost or forgotten over time, and even this flawed production succeeds on that level, especially if you’re the type to enjoy making googly eyes with actors when they come visit you at your seat. I’m not, but this show succeeds at making a human connection in other ways, most of them musical. And the epic, thrilling rendition of “Let The Sun Shine In” at the curtain call gives the audience time to revel privately in whatever pleasures they associate with those bygone days–and to enjoy the chance to sing along with the gifted, gorgeous cast under the spell of an August moon. It’s enough to justify the indulgence of brilliant artists who should have known better than to reject some shrewd, delicate editing of their timeless masterpiece.
 



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For the past four years, buxom beauty GiGi La Femme has been stripping, teasing, and making waves in the burlesque scene.  Now, she welcomes the beginning of spring at her popular monthly performance Revealed, featuring Peekaboo Pionte, Harvest Moon, Amber Ray, and more, Wednesday, April 15.  Before she takes it all off, GiGi shared a little about what she feels about the show, her burlesque performers, and what she likes to do when not hanging out in her new apartment or professionally taking her clothes off.

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Gay men have begun speaking out concerning false arrests at video stores since undercover cops have been arresting them for prostitution. DA Robert Morgenthau says most of the cases against the men will probably be thrown out. But where is the public outcry? Leave it to the porn kings to take the idea and turn it on his head. Michael Lucas Entertainment has released a film titled Entrapment. And the guy behind the "script," Mr. Pam speaks to Charlie Vasquez about where he got his inspiration:

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Miss California U.S.A., Carrie Prejean, the runner-up for Miss U.S.A., is making headlines again. Fresh off a heated dispute with Perez Hilton about gay marriage, there are new reports of nude and semi-nude pictures of Ms. Prejean. Yes, these pictures of Prejean sans-jeans (she's wearing underwear and turned away from the camera) break the Miss U.S.A. pageant rules (not the Miss America pageant rules, so don't get them confused).

Thedirty.com, which is currently not loading because of overwhelming traffic, is promising to roll out more pictures. The Miss California U.S.A. runner-up, Miss Malibu, the woman one heartbeat away from Miss California U.S.A., said she is willing and able to step into the role. 

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Twenty-one-year-old Jeffery Self has the kind of narcissistic drive that makes people famous for being themselves. He’s charming, witty and willing to spill intimate details of his life. Self is most well-known has half of the VGL (Very Good Looking) Boys. Along with his counterpart Cole Escola, the duo's kitschy videos have made thousands of YouTubers LOL by poking fun at everything from the recession to Bernadette Peters (they currently have a development deal with LOGO). This week he performs his "all-true" one-man show, People I Slept With Who Never Called Me Back Feb. 7 at Ars Nova.

I caught up with Self just before he left to perform on an Atlantis Cruise to find out how the Internet helped him gain notoriety and the consequences of airing his dirty dating laundry in public.

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The walk up the steps of Bryant Park and into the tents of Fashion Week comprises one of the more glamorous moments of my year. For the few seconds it takes to wind my way through security and girls handing out Fashion Week Dailies, I can pretend like I’m Anna Wintour. Sure, the flashbulbs may not be popping for me, but I wouldn’t want to reality of fame anyway. I like my private vices to stay private, thank you.

Once inside the tent, the craze begins. People swarm everywhere, and strangers keep trying to hand me things. I alternate between calming myself with the thought that being young and attractive can get you through any New York moment, and worrying that people are judging me because my coat is from the Gap.

The Max Azria show will start at least half an hour late, a coworker tells me. Everyone in the madhouse surrounding the catwalk is startlingly stylish and hot. I immediately want to sleep with all of them. Even the photographers are mouth-watering. 

The shuffle scoot through the crowd over to my seat yields a Wintour sighting, along with a smattering of socialites. By the time the hubbub settles down, the count is at Rihanna, Sarah Michelle Geller, Rose McGowan and Fergie.

Tucked away in my fourth row seat against the far wall, I have plenty of time to contemplate the seating hierarchy and smugly congratulate myself for being important enough to warrant a seat assignment at all. In fact, my ever-informed coworker says that the spot where we’re sitting is where Vivaca A. Fox sat at a previous show. So despite the fact that I can only see the model’s backs as they start down the runway, I feel content with my station in life. Perhaps one day I will garner a middle seat near-ish the front row.

Blip-blopping music startles me awake from my daydream of gently pelting the models with a cheeseburger to the head. The ladies who are high stepping down the runway in a variety of muted colors look like alien giraffe babies. Corset pieces and wide belts give the outfits a feminine silhouette, while a selective use of studs gives the glint of hardware. The most confusing fashion choice is the funny short-brimmed felt hats that have a piece of cloth attached to the back, covering the models’ hair. Desert wear meets a clothing mullet? On the other hand, Max Azria’s soft, slim ankle-banded pants look excellent paired with sky-high stilettos and give me hope that sweat pants will be an acceptable fashion choice one day.

As soon as the show is over, everyone leaps up like they are on fire and zoom toward the exits. It takes all of my subway-during-rush-hour skills to get out of the tent, not pass out from claustrophobia and avoid sharp-elbowed socialites.

The Max Azria collection was beautiful, yes, but the pay off of all that glamour and glitz is that I have a headache the size of a small third-world country. At least at the Dennis Basso show there were protestors and medical emergencies. Too bad fur creeps me out.



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This video from the Daily Beast is among the creepiest of the Jackson tributes we've seen. And yet, it's actually impossible to stop watching. And watching again.

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A little gay bird told us that HX, the little gay rag that has been pumping up go-go boys and queer parties since 1991, was folding. That's not exactly true. Turns out that it's being sold. When we contacted owner/founder Matthew Bank, he sent us this release:

"HX Magazine and the web site hx.com have been sold. The new owners of HX Magazine will be releasing details and information on their plans for the future of the title shortly. In the meantime, Bank and HX Magazine Publisher Gary Lacinski will be assisting them in the transition. HX Magazine issue 931 dated July 10th, which will be released on July 3rd, will be the last one produced by HX Media and its staff.

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In a slew of closings this week, East Village Cajun fixture Old Devil Moon is officially shuttering after over a decade in the business. 

While this is a shame and for some idealists, the "passing of an era," we're more concerned to know about what's going to happen to Masturbakers, the erotic cake and pastry emporium housed by Old Devil Moon. In a town obsessed with cupcakes, these were some of the best. And the frosting boobies on top didn't hurt.

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After three years of partying at gay "dance den" Mr. Black (the notorious club, originall located on Bleecker and Broadway, was busted for alleged cocaine deals but was never charged and, after reopening several times, is currently located at Rebel, on West 30th St.), the "face" of the party, The Ass, will retire next Friday, March 27.

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