House of McQueen Off-Broadway Reviews

A gloriously grotesque aluminum corset in the shape of an alien spine; a pair of pearlescent antlers draped in embroidered lace; stiletto heels, bulbous, scaly, and spiky, like armadillos balancing on their heads and tails; wraithlike models with black contact lenses or silver prosthetic jaws, or covered in feathers, chain mail, spray paint, or the shells of razor clams … These might be some of the images that spring to mind when you think of the fashion designer Lee Alexander McQueen, known to the world by his second two names and lost to it when he took his own life in 2010 at the age of 40. They are also among the near-endless array of gestures from his oeuvre that spur more excitement, more agitation, more pure feeling in their contemplation alone than does House of McQueen, the flat soufflé of a play now endeavoring to pay homage to its namesake at the Mansion, a nightclub-ish new performance space amid the glass towers of Hudson Yards.

The play, directed by Sam Helfrich, darts between eras and modes of storytelling, not really settling on a compelling through-line. We hit the major McQueen life moments and personality traits—difficult childhood, abuse, working class background, the snobbery he initially endured, drugs, homophobia, sexual expression, his taking over at labels like Givenchy, suicide—but they jangle in a baffling muddle on stage.

Cloud’s play is a series of snippets, told out of order, that are grabbed from Rick Lazes and Seth Koch’s McQueen biography. Every scene is so short and undeveloped that the title character emerges as a jumble of clichés produced by an abusive father, an adoring mother, snobbish employers, and HIV-infected lovers.

No doubt the show’s makers intend to celebrate McQueen’s ideals and achievements in the face of awesome challenges. Rather than mount an overstuffed hagiography, surely a daring, provocative artist like McQueen deserves some sort of outrageous theater treatment. Perhaps McQueen’s life might be better told as a black comedy or a surreal romp that mocks the yawns of biographical yarns. Gosh, where’s Taylor Mac when you really need him?

The large ensemble handle their versatile chores expertly, and generally look fabulous. And Newton anchors the proceedings with his obviously deeply felt performance in which he makes clear McQueen’s inner demons. “Money isn’t important,” the fashion designer insists early in the play. “All I want to do is fix ugliness.” House of McQueen makes clear, however imperfectly, how he couldn’t fix himself.

The directorial vision of the working-class tailor-turned-couture provocateur is basically absent from the show, leaving the audience to imagine a clearer picture of not only what McQueen's clothes looked like, but how they were part of an ambitious point of view that epitomized what the late designer did best: sew fashion, nightmare, fantasy, and theatre together. McQueen was once called fashion’s “closest thing to a rockstar,” but House of McQueen, written by Darrah Cloud and directed by Sam Helfrich, relegates one of the most theatrical fashion designers of all time to surface-level banality.

Ms. LeFrere gets to model a few of the eye-catching costumes designed by Kaye Voyce to accompany clips from McQueen’s shows. There’s nothing too garish or unsettling here, and Lee admits at one point, “All I want to do is fix ugliness.” Whether you’re a slave to fashion or, like me, a confirmed non-expert, you’ll likely find “House of McQueen” an intriguing and entertaining character study.

These efforts pay off in visual splendor. Yet, in part because of the great inherent promise of its subject, “House of McQueen” feels mostly like a missed opportunity.