Wow. Just. Freaking. Wow.
Did you see what Patti LuPone did last night to Alexander Dreymon? With that bathroom cleanser enema? I mean – holy mother of all that is freaking unholy that was – I was entirely breathless. It’s been clear since meeting him that Luke was a bottom – and so cleanliness is not just next to godliness, it’s its freaking right hand (so to speak) but douching with COMET? That’s a LITTLE MUCH. But, when Patti LuPone arches those eyebrows – gaymen all across the country bow down – so to speak. Damn girl. And that wasn’t even the MOST shocking part of the evening.
I have long loved Ryan Murphy. I think he is all sorts of genius and have been completely devoted since the late, lamented “Popular” which I own on DVD and watch regularly. That show featured Mr. Murphy’s patented gorgeous, quirky casting and – as with every show he does – at least one male with whom I fall hopelessly, ridiculously in crush. From “Popular” it was Bryce Johnson, although Christopher Gorham came in a close second.
Since then – which was when I “discovered” Mr. Murphy, he has gifted us with many other worthwhile and worthy shows which – for one or another reason – resonated with me. His “Glee” spoke to all the years I spent teaching people acting and directing musical theatre and creating my own “shows” using other people’s music and semi-borrowed-showbiz plotlines. And “The New Normal” made me quite happy, and I mourned its cancellation.
And now, “American Horror Story: Coven” which was ENOUGH with just Miss Jessica Lange. Every freaking word she says is an exercise in brilliant, transparent technique. Her performances are transcendent, the sort of thing one imagines people were speaking of when they would describe Sarah Bernhardt or Laurette Taylor. Since we no longer really have a healthy touring theatre in this country, we have Mr. Murphy to thank for creating a place where genius can come to exercise itself and be shared with all of us. “AHS” is a repertory company, really, and so gloriously done.
And now … this season, in addition to the flamingly outrageously beautiful balls-to-the-wall work of the returning Miss Lange and Sarah Paulson and Lily Rabe and Frances Conroy and Denis O’Hare and Taissa Farmiga and Evan Peters, this season Mr. Murphy has added Angela Bassett and Kathy Bates and Christine Ebersole and … yes … I can barely type the name because I am so completely flabbergasted by the wonder of it … Miss Patti LuPone.
And last night – WHAT THE FUCK? I mean – wow – the gushing of warm feelings of joy and catharsis I felt watching the delicious deliriously decadent and vile goings on were – well – not unlike what Dreymon’s character Luke must have felt when that comet douche went hurtling up his anus. All I really needed was for Patti LuPone to start singing some sort of religious belting hymn right then – you know, with some barely repressed sexual fervor as she held her son while he screamed?
But I guess even Ryan Murphy won’t go quite as far as I would – which is why I’m here writing about the episode and he’s there – producing the show. Thank goodness for that though.