Burlesque Special: Look But Don’t Touch
RICHARD FRYER tells HIP of his own personal reaction to an evening of Burlesque.
I went to a Burlesque night at the Crown House recently. I had always been intrigued by the idea of Burlesque but had only a vague notion of what it entailed. The compere, fairly bursting out of her tight, sexy assemblage of fish net and plunging top, roused up the crowd, old-time music hall style. The first two performances were by beautiful, barely, though tastefully dressed young women; one did an erotic dance/gymnastic routine to music and the next something similar but spinning and gyrating with transparent tubular hoops filled with strings of coloured LEDs. I t was spectacular, at times resembling a living spirograph pattern and the crowd roared in appreciation.
My initial impression was, if not quite innocent, how wholesome it all seemed. This is a confusing time for men like myself, on the wrong side of middle age. Behaviour patterns which have been normal, ordinary, in the earlier part of your life become unacceptable. Whereas it was perfectly OK, in my youth to admire, with due subtlety, the form of an attractive young woman, now, were such to cross my eyeline, then I allow myself half a second glimpse at most for fear of being branded a lecherous old git … the idea of which I find utterly mortifying. In these times of ‘Me Too’, ‘white privilege’, Identity politics et al and throw in a little residual post Covid social anxiety, the world can feel like such a mine field.
Here though with burlesque, as my wise and lovely girlfriend explained, was ‘CONSENT’. These women – all of the acts were female as well as the majority of the audience – were not just celebrating and displaying their beauty, their allure, their athleticism and vibrancy, they were also saying “yes I am bloody fantastic aren’t I? look as much as you like, you’ve paid to get in after all, but if I come amongst you do not touch!”
I found it such a relief, such an easing of pressure, a sense of mutual safety. It seemed that the women in the audience had also dressed up in their best and sexiest gear, maybe in anticipation of the glamour of the performers. Over my right shoulder sat a gaggle of pleasantly rowdy thespian types , bantering with the compere or just spouting the occasional witticism. I was amazed at how at ease it made me feel, I liked these people, I sensed their lack of boundaries, I liked how they felt they could say whatever they wanted.
We sat around tables scattered throughout the venue, like a scene from a black and white film; Loungers, Flaneurs, Wags and Degenerates. All that was lacking were long gloves and elegant cigarette holders. It felt more genteel, more sophisticated than standing in a pub pouring beer down my neck all evening.
The show could be described as just a number of acts consisting of singing and dancing and acting, yet the show contained a far deeper exploration of the complex theatre of sexual attraction. Disdain, self-confidence – bordering deliciously along the edge of arrogance or cruelty – the acting out of sublime and fearsome feminine sexual power, and all done with great, great artifice. It was, at times deeply compelling and sexy as hell.
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