“Climate Cabaret hits all the notes but misses the punch”
Set in Vegas at “Club Fistfight”, three saucy showgirls blend activism with spectacle in their weekly ‘Big Bad of the Week’ shows, attempting to rally the crowd against the crooks of climate change. In classic cabaret corsets, they perform numbers like The IceMan Come-dy, where one showgirl gives birth to an ice cap which immediately melts getting everything wet (but not in a good way); The Pescatarian Nun, who can’t resist fish despite her devout intentions (singing “Aaah fish” instead of “Aaahmen”); and Lukewarm, a cautionary tale of politically apathetic men (“if he doesn’t care about Mother Earth, better believe he’ll treat you like dirt”).
We meet them at a turning point. Having failed to fully (a)rouse their audience to climate action, club owner Scarlett and fellow showgirls Eliza and Jane, decide it’s time to reveal the true story of Scarlett’s love affair with a man named Tony. Between gorgeous show tunes, entertaining euphemisms and silly puns Scarlett, played by Madison Mayer, skillfully shifts between narrator and protagonist while Emory Kemph and Aila Swan take turns playing Tony with sharp character acting and delightful stick-on moustaches.
Despite a disastrous first date of obnoxious mansplaining and foraged food (“Mother Nature is the best restaurant”), Scarlett’s longing for love gets the best of her. After all, she “likes being liked.” Still, it’s hard to understand why she moves in with Tony — a suspiciously posh, self-assured environmentalist with seemingly no redeeming features. As their relationship progresses nonetheless, Tony starts influencing the Fistfight shows with increasingly terrible writing and reckless suggestions. The show ends quite abruptly with a mildly surprising twist, a somewhat disconnected change of form, and a slightly muddled message.
As ice caps melt and summers get hotter to the beat of Musk and Trump patting each other’s backs, the idea of a cabaret about climate activism makes me want to roar “Yes please!”. However, Bombshell doesn’t quite deliver the political punch it promises, relying instead on surface-level points and general associations around climate change, misogyny, and inequality. As audience members we sit safely in our seats, including in moments where audience participation is threatened but not followed through – a missed opportunity for real provocation. The story carries on with plenty of laughter, but without any real surprises or big dramatic shifts. Associating cabaret with underground queerness and burlesque brashness that pushes against the edges of our comfort zones, I find myself longing for something more daring.
Still, Bombshell makes for an entertaining night and is well worth seeing, not least to revere the performer’s high level of skill. Mayer, Kemph, and Swan are all very impressive triple threats. While minor bits of the choreography could be tighter, it’s more than made up for by killer vocals and detailed character work. Where the story is a bit banal, the performers compensate with crisp changes of rhythm and buckets of joyous commitment, never missing a beat. Even more impressive is that they are also the creators: Mayer’s text is witty and playful; Kemph’s direction is effective and well-judged; and Swan’s music shines with exquisite harmonies and satisfying winks to familiar tunes. I leave energised and with newfound appreciation for the comedic potential of a stick-on moustache mixed with sweat.