Messy White Gays ★★★★

Sunday Brunch is being served in Messy White Gays, but be warned, mimosa lovers: it ain’t bottomless.

Nope, and that’s because one of the invitees is Thacker, a Broadway chorus-boy bottom who delusionally believes he’s still in his twink prime. Played to the absolute hilarious hilt by Pete Zias, this unforgettable character arrives wearing an après-gym pink ensemble and sporting a coiffure that can best be described as a badly bleached Björn Borg circa 1978. From the moment Thacker enters, he will, like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, not be ignored. “What the fuck is happening, y’all?”

That respectable question is directed to brunch hosts Brecken (James Cusati-Moyer) and Caden (Aaron Jackson), who are standing over the dead body of Monty, whom they have just killed when the play begins. Monty had been the third member of their throuple but had outstayed his welcome, especially with Brecken, whose blood seems to run cold except when he’s shooting vids for his OnlyFans:

“Saying you love Jean Smart is like saying you love sandwiches — or rimming. And he didn’t say he loved Jean Smart. He said he liked her. He couldn’t even be bold enough to say he loved her. Or anything. He was just so fucking medium about everything! And this is New York, bitch. Nobody survives on medium.”

And survive Monty did not. But a phalanx of fellow gaysters are on their way to Brecken and Caden’s “stunning, hatefully-rich” Hell’s Kitchen loft for brunch (finger snaps to designer Alexander Dodge for the gorgeous set), and they are coming for views of Central Park, not a smelly, murdered boyfriend, so Brecken, Caden, and Thacker hide Monty’s body in a Jonathan Adler Talitha credenza and hope to get through the brunch without getting caught.

Fortunately for the dastardly trio, the usual brunch bunch is turned away by text except for vegan himbo Addison (Derek Chadwick), whose phone has died and needs to be charged, and an uninvited downstairs neighbor, Karl (Drew Droege, also the show’s playwright), who has come not to dine and dish but to purchase the now very occupied credenza.

Not to be the reviewer equivalent of a barbiturate, but at this point in Messy White Gays, just when the delectable stage had been set, it became impossible to ignore the glaring storyline similarities to Alfred Hitchcock’s Rope. In that 1948 psychological crime thriller, Farley Granger and John Dall play two rather close chaps who murder one of their former schoolmates and hide his body in a large, ornate wooden chest, then proceed to host multiple guests for dinner in their Manhattan penthouse. The victim’s crime: ordinariness.

The film Rope was itself adapted by Broadway legends Hume Cronyn (story) and Arthur Laurents (screenplay) from a 1929 play by Patrick Hamilton, which was originally set in London. Hamilton’s play is thus in the public domain, and the risible idea of updating the work and making the gay subtext outrageously, wickedly obvious is grand fun. This show nails the conceit, but it feels odd that the production never tips its hat to acknowledge the extravagant homage, especially by Karl, the fast-thinking elder gay who would certainly know his classic film references and remark as such with at least one brilliant quip. In brunch terms, it’s like spreading peach apricot jam on a plate of chilaquiles. It may be tasty, but is it optimal?

Fortunately any reference to ropiness feels like a minor oversight as opposed to a major transgression, especially since Messy White Gays is so damn hilarious. As the play ramps into high gear, and as Thacker does more and more coke, the one-liners come so fast and furious that some are missed amidst the roars of laughter from the audience.

For a play so farcical, there is a noticeable dearth of slamming doors (almost no one leaves the stage after entering), but nonetheless director Mike Donahue makes sure this 80-minute show never loses its zip. He draws an especially strong performance from Cusati-Moyer, a Tony nominee (Slave Play) who tackles the toughest, meanest role with believable gusto.

Playwright Droege has also created a glorious part for himself, and that’s no shade, because he delivers the verbal goods with exquisite comic timing. On whether Freddy Krueger is gay: “Please. That nasty chicken hawk who comes scratching into your nightmares, looking like a wet giggling penis in a fedora? Dressed like Christmas? Are you kidding me?”

Thanks to Droege’s astute, often scathing critiques of the titular community he’s satirizing, Messy White Gays transcends the trappings of a raunchy sitcom. Within the avalanche of satiric barbs are probing questions about privilege, identity, disposability, consumerism, and shallowness. As Thacker sums up the meaning of Monty’s death with a shrug: “You know, the pandemic really taught me that everyone dies, so we just have to make the most of it while we’re here, gurl.”