Arts & Entertainment
Rocking revision
Studio production cleverly reimagines Andrew Jackson’s legacy
‘Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson’
Through Aug. 19
Studio 2ndStage
1501 14th Street, NW
$38-$43
202-332-3300
studiotheatre.org

Heath Calvert in ‘Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson’ at Studio 2ndStage. (Photo by Scotty Beland; courtesy Studio Theatre)
After spending an afternoon with then-Sen. Kennedy and his young wife Jackie, Tennessee Williams said to fellow guest Gore Vidal that the American people would never send their hosts to the White House, they were way too attractive. (During the same visit, according to Gore, Williams also commented favorably on the future president’s backside).
Of course, Williams was dead wrong. The golden couple’s hotness was a boon. In the irreverent, emo-rock musical “Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson,” now playing at Studio 2ndStage, our seventh president’s political success is based largely on his own less polished physical appeal. He’s imagined as an oversexed rock god.
Early in the brisk 90-minute musical, Jackson (Heath Calvert) leers at the audience and says “I’m going to put in you” — that same classy pickup line used so successfully by the boys on TV’s “Jersey Shore.” It works for Jackson too — random women want to have his baby and at least one man, his vice president Martin Van Buren, played by Davis Hasty, is terribly smitten.
Jackson is also an outsider at a time when the adolescent country is already wary of Washington’s power elite (played here as a foppish foursome). Born and bred on the frontier, he’s an aggressively unapologetic populist hawk who plays his base like a fiddle. The electorate wants change and Jackson fits the bill.
Sporting heavy guyliner and a thatch of floppy black hair, lanky Broadway vet Calvert is terrific as the callow Jackson. He looks good and exudes irritating arrogance pierced with hints of vulnerability. Mercifully, Calvert’s comedic portrayal is nuanced. In lesser hands, the performance could be numbingly one dimensional.
And talk about an energized base: Jackson’s supporters, played by a talented young ensemble, are on fire. Athletic actors Alex Mills and Ryan Sellars literally jump off the walls. As the narrator, Felicia Curry is solid but underused. She’s especially funny reminiscing about her first love, a big-busted Wellesley girl.
Unlike a lot of rock musicals, “Bloody” isn’t sung through. Alex Timbers’ book unfolds rapidly in a series of parodic sketches covering Jackson’s hardscrabble childhood, years spent slaughtering Native Americans, marriage to the already married Rachel (the talented Rachel Zampelli) and political ascent.
Staged by Keith Alan Baker with Christopher Gallu and Jennifer Harris, the mostly fast-paced show isn’t without lulls, particularly some tedious Oval Office scenes. And while a lot of the show’s humor feels overwrought — more sophomoric than satirical — songs like “Populism Yea Yea” and “Rock Star” from out composer Michael Friedman’s first-rate, hard driving score make it all OK.
With “Ten Little Indians,” a sweetly sung number about Native American genocide, Choreographer Diane Coburn Bruning cleverly demonstrates the demise of the great nations: Humbled leaders edge toward the end of a plank where one by one they’re killed off by shots to the head and knives to the neck.
Backed by historical projections (battlefield scenes, half-built Washington landmarks), Giorgos Tsappas’s open set with its blood-smeared stage floor nicely accommodates the production’s large 20-person cast as well as musical director Christopher Youstra’s dressed-down band.
While much has been made of Jackson’s tight pants, they’re less remarkable than what you might see at Town on a Saturday night. Far more interesting are his short military jackets by Ivania Stack. Early on, his coats are dirty and decorated with bloody scalps. Later versions are cleaner, more beautifully tailored. His rise and inevitable entry in the establishment (much to his fans dismay) is reflected in his costumes and Friedman’s score with songs “I’m Not That Guy” and “I’m So That Guy.”
Toward the end, the show briefly sobers up and makes a stab at exploring Jackson’s muddled legacy. Then it’s back to what it does best: The cast closes the show with a joyous and raucously performed version “The Hunters of Kentucky.”
From the portraits of a usually shaggy Jackson hanging around town, it’s hard to know if Old Hickory was truly a heartthrob. Too bad Van Buren isn’t it around to ask.
Theater
‘Feeling Afraid’ explores life of a neurotic stand-up comic
Navigating sex, work, and possibly love in London
‘Feeling Afraid As If Something Terrible Is Going to Happen’
Through July 12
Studio Theatre
1501 14th St., N.W.
$55-$102
Studiotheatre.org
Wordily yet rightly titled, solo show “Feeling Afraid As If Something Terrible Is Going To Happen” dives deeply into the world of a neurotic stand-up comic as he navigates sex, work, and possibly love in London.
Busy arranging hookups and dates on “The App,” the 36-year-old gay funnyman juggles a full dance card; still he’s never been in a romantic relationship. While he’s willing to give love a shot, he’s not pressed about it. As he says, he harbors no fear of dying alone.
Currently making its American premiere at Studio Theatre, this darkly humorous Edinburgh Fringe import features terrific out English actor Steven Webb as The Comedian who’s about to explore what it means to spend all his time with one man.
At Studio’s intimate Mead Theatre, Kat Heath’s minimal set says standard comedy club (fluorescent tube lighting, the mic with a long cord, a single stool backed by a rose-colored curtain), but gay playwright Marcelo Dos Santos has conjured something much more than a live comedy set.
Yes, The Comedian bounces onstage in his red Converse high tops, jeans, and pink shirt with a huge mouth emblazoned on the back, but he delivers more than jokes. At times hilariously self-deprecating, then dark, and occasionally a lesson on what makes standup work, this is a layered, well-acted piece.
With Webb (a keen caricaturist of types and voices) playing all the parts while conducting The Comedian’s hilariously frenetic interior monologue, “Feeling Afraid” takes us through a summer of love. It seems after six chaste dates with The American, our nervous hero has found Mr. Right. The American is earnest, smart, hesitant to initiate sex. He’s also well built with a beautiful smile. And strangely, he’s been medically advised not to laugh aloud.
The Comedian delights in the joys of new love: dates, first kisses, sex, and then suddenly spending all of his time with the adored. Visits to art galleries become fun. Eating home cooked meals followed by grim documentaries is a thing. The Comedian is beguiled as his own boyish figure fills out, but something isn’t right. He can’t entirely relax.
Along the way we meet the Aussie doctor, our protagonist’s longtime hookup; a young runner with some exceptional body parts; the random third in a failed threesome; grumpy working comics, male and female; and an ineffectual counselor.
Webb gives a lightning-fast performance that boggles the mind (in terms velocity and virtuosity). He can be impish, very impish. He’s nervous energy incarnate, flashing jazz hands, grimacing but handsome when still. He’s likeable, a necessity when delivering a hilariously rude joke just feet away from two stone-faced audience members. (Perhaps they were laughing on the inside? At any rate, they stayed through the end the show.)
Produced by the team behind Fringe hits “Fleabag” and “Baby Reindeer,” small stage works that were developed into major TV screen successes, “Feeling Afraid” is funny for sure, and it’s also highly confessional, sexually explicit, and raw.
Written by Dos Santos during COVID lockdown, the piece was a smash hit in the 2022 Edinburgh Fringe before finding further success in London. Its depiction of a youngish queer guy navigating the big city rings entirely true. Like so much Fringe stuff, the one-man show is delightfully lewd and standup inspired.
One little moan: the show closes cleverly but too abruptly with its star dashing offstage without sufficiently basking in the admiration and applause of his thoroughly chuffed audience.
They say third time’s a charm, and regarding “Feeling Afraid,” I’d agree. After two performance cancellations (first for laryngitis and the second involving faulty air conditioning on an especially muggy June evening), I made my third trek to Studio where I found both the actor and AC in very fine fettle. And truly, Webb’s work was more than worth the wait.
The 2026 Baltimore Pride Festival, “Pride in the Park,” was held at Druid Hill Park on Sunday, June 14.
(Washington Blade photos by Linus Berggren)
















Movies
‘Stop! That! Train!’ is made for fans, but fun for all
RuPaul stars as President Gagwell trying to avert a tragedy
Before I can begin a review of “Stop! That! Train!” (the movie that’s been algorithmically dominating your queer social media feed in the form of ads for weeks now), I feel it’s necessary to provide a disclaimer: I am not a superfan of “RuPaul’s Drag Race.”
That doesn’t mean I’m NOT a fan, mind you. I’m just disclosing that I have never been the loyal viewer for whom each new episode is the highlight of the week, or followed the careers of the contestants I loved the most; I don’t know who won each season, or how many times they’ve been on the show. I barely even know any of the catch phrases. I say all this because you should know that, as someone who didn’t get any of the show references I’ve been told were laced throughout the movie, I’m probably not the person RuPaul and filmmaker Adam Shankman had in mind when they were making it.
I do, however, respect and adore the art of drag, not just as an expression of queer identity tied to a long tradition stretching back centuries, but as a powerful tool for satire. It’s a queer-eyed view that exposes the hypocritical norms and mainstream social “morality” in a form that goes right over the heads of anyone who isn’t in on the joke, and the Queens of “Drag Race” not only honor that tradition but live up to it. Make no mistake, the queer spirit of rebellion is alive and well in “Stop! That Train!” – even if it sometimes feels like it’s just along for the ride.
Mounted as a parody of old-school “disaster movies” – a genre that found its heyday in the same ‘70s and ‘80s period that also saw the success of classic movie spoofs like “Young Frankenstein” and “Airplane!” (which clearly serves as the primary blueprint) – Shankman’s film seems driven by an impulse toward the absurd as a kind of de facto social commentary, but puts the most emphasis on landing its jokes. It imagines a contemporary world where high-speed train travel is an actual thing in America (wouldn’t that be nice?) and a Black drag queen can be elected president (OK, maybe she’s a cisgender woman in context of the plot, but still), but in which everything is pretty much just as “off the rails” as it really is, anyway.
In the middle of it all are Tess and DeeDee (Ginger Minj and Jujubee, both popular “Drag Race” veterans), two “train stewardesses” who fake their way into jobs on the prestigious “Glamazonian Express” railway line and face hostility from the “mean girl” attendants who work there. The popularity contest soon takes a back seat, however, when the train finds itself speeding into a catastrophic “storm-o-ganza,” and they’re faced with the challenge of saving themselves – along with the train’s assortment of passengers – from all-but-certain doom. Fortunately, they’re not alone; under-appreciated train dispatcher Donna Dusk (Rachel Bloom) is doing her best to guide them from afar toward the least catastrophic outcome, and no less than American President Judy Gagwell (RuPaul Charles, of course) takes a personal interest in averting the disaster; after all, it could take a few points off of her popularity rating if she doesn’t. Can this plucky alliance of women-with-something-to-prove shepherd this runaway train (and everyone on board) to safety? Of course they can, and in the most ridiculous way possible.
Like the aforementioned “Airplane!” (the zany 1980 farce that was itself modeled after the popular “Airport” series of all-star disaster epics), “Stop! That! Train!” takes an approach to comedy that’s more like facing a high-speed pitching machine in a batting cage than watching a movie in a theater; it’s one joke after another, thrown rapid fire against the wall on the theory that at least some of them will stick – a time-honored tradition that, admittedly, results in a lot of them that don’t. For every belly laugh, there’s a real groaner, and a fair number of the chuckles are “polite” ones, at best; but that, of course, is part of the appeal. Screenwriters Christina Friel and Connor Wright skew their humor toward the lowbrow – something the popular drag movement fully embraces, anyway – and make most of their characters into clowns as they freely transplant plot points and tropes into their ludicrous scenario; all of it’s on purpose, and most of it works, because this is the kind of movie that is intended to be as “stupid” as possible and we wouldn’t want it any other way.
Of course, some viewers will inevitably be underwhelmed by the movie’s humor; its borrowed tropes may feel less funny for being too familiar, sometimes the “lowbrow” might edge too closely on the “tasteless,” and the overall spirit of “bitchiness” could easily come across as just plain “mean” if one is in the wrong mood. Let’s face it, though: most of those people will probably not be going to see “Stop! That! Train!,” anyway. For the rest of us, even if more of its jokes fall flat than we might hope and some of the zingers don’t have the “zing” that they should, there’s still a cumulative effect that leaves the impression of a whole being greater than its parts. After all, sometimes we just want to have brainless fun at the movies instead of having to think too much about it, and nobody was expecting an Oscar-winner, were they?
As for the disaster movie plot, it’s impossible to take seriously, of course, but it does provide the opportunity to showcase a lot of characters – and caricatures – along the way. Minj and Jujubee are essentially the stars of the show, and their easy chemistry together helps them carry the film; RuPaul, every inch the superstar as ever, strides confidently into his presidential role and rightfully dominates every scene that he’s in, yet is graceful enough not to overwhelm or overshadow the work of his co-stars, especially Matt Rogers, who, as President Gagwell’s possibly psychopathic press secretary and confidante, shares more screen time with him than anyone else.
Veteran comic actor (and “SNL” alumnus) Chris Parnell uses his hilariously deadpan lunacy to great advantage as the train’s conductor, and Brian Jordan Alvarez (“The English Teacher”) brings a smarmy charm as the co-conductor who doesn’t know how to operate a train – despite the questionable choice of using an exaggerated “Bill and Ted” era Keanu Reaves impression for his character’s voice. There’s a whole gallery of familiar faces on hand in bit parts and cameos as passengers on the train, who arguably provide more genuine comedy and interest than the main storyline. And even if she never sets foot on the train herself, Bloom (“Crazy Ex-Girlfriend”) is every bit on board for the ride, serving as a grounding force even as she gives herself over completely to the silliness.
And silly it certainly is. It’s as insubstantial as the AI-generated backgrounds used to create the action scenes of speeding train and the storm. And at the risk of repeating myself, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
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