Dion: A Rock Opera transcends musical theatre into glorious queer camp

13 Feb 2024 - Photos by Dahlia Katz

My name is Dionysus
But you can call me Dion

In the second phrase of the opening number of Dion: A Rock Opera, Sate (A Streetcar Named Desire, Rumours) casually sings a glorious sustained note on a consonant. Something that is almost impossible to do. Even more impossibly: it sounds glorious and is perfectly modulated to fill the intimate venue that is the Coal Mine Theatre. It is the first of many extraordinary moments when talent and charisma is lavished to the point of sublime bombast on Ted Dykstra (Rumours, The Father, Hand to God) and Steven Mayoff's adaptation of The Bacchae by Euripides. The "A Rock Opera" in the title is important, Dion follows in, homages to, the grand tradition of classical musical theatre productions kickstarted by Jesus Christ Superstar. Those frequently spectacular riffs on classical texts that used a fusion of pop music and musical theatre stylings to drive the drama. A genre that, before it degenerated, in a Webberized decline, to one hit wonders, made sure that every number fit coherently in the plot and score while also being easily lifted to produce a hit single to sell the show. 

Sometimes the score homages a little closely to plagiarism, but that doesn't deny its effectiveness. And at a brisk and breathtaking 70 minutes, there is barely time to note the repeated riffs and pop blandness of the arrangements. This is a Greek tragedy with a convoluted plot and back story, so there is considerable recitative exposition but it is never allowed to become repetitive because of the visuals. The stage is a runway with the audience seated on either side, elevated just enough that we are, ampitheatre-style, looking down on the characters below. Dionysus may be a god, but the mortals he toys with are objects to be observed. The colour scheme is lurid blood bordello red carpet with touches of Eurotrash. Set and costume designer Scott Penner pushes right to the edge of camp and then a step over, to where sexy and sincere blend with high hilarity. It is a perfect framing for a production in which too much is never quite enough.

The camp aspect is crucial, Dion is very much about sexual and gender awakening and reckoning. The lighting by Bonnie Beecher is pinpoint and overly dramatic, timed to match the music and movement. Director Peter Hinton-Davis (The Last Epistle of Tightrope Time, The Hooves Belonged to the Deer, The Man That Got Away, Bombay Black) is fearless. Phallic imagery is not a subtext, it is commented on and sung about while being stroked suggestively. The considerable gore is rendered using party favours and stylization that is as beautiful as it is brazen. There is a great queer go for broke that is so infectious that when it becomes unintentionally, or intentionally, hilarious, the audience laughs along and the dramatic arc survives. This is important because many of the rhymes are howlers. It takes an extraordinary chorus to sing "I will piss on my enemies, yeah, yeah" and have it be simultaneously incongruously uproarious and stridently anthemic. Allister MacDonald (Angels in America, Stage Mother) wraps his voice around

Doing what they do
Cavorting in the nude
Even though its a sin
I want to join in
It may be avant garde
But by Zeus I'm getting hard

and we laugh but understand and relate. Because that is the magic and power of Ludlamesque camp as interpreted by this Dion, it believes so passionately in itself that the theatre of the ridiculous evaporates leaving a raw throbbing essence of expression. Fortunately, Dion has such a strong cast that there is no time to question delicate matters of taste, there are tidal waves of emotion to be ridden. At one point Carly Street (Midsummer, Venus in Furs) playing an indomitable incestuous train wreck, sings at one end of the stage, while Allan Louis (Red Velvet, Julius Caesar) in a slinky butch mesh shirt wields his Barry White baritone at the other. One could get whiplash from such an embarrassment of riches. The vocals are not only incredibly strong, they are also intricately arranged. Any of these singers could blast the roof off, but the ceiling is low, the audience is crowded in, and the electrifying effects must be achieved through skill not volume. The chorus—Max Borowski (An Incomplete List of All the Things I'm Going to Miss When the World is No Longer), Saccha Dennis, Kaden Forsberg and Kelsey Verzotti—are everywhere at once. Strutting, sashaying, churning up a sexy storm through implication, rambunctious choreography and cock/clit teasing. More importantly they are a constant, a Greek chorus becoming storytellers, harmonies, and even orchestration.

The aforementioned MacDonald had, on opening night, a slight rasp to the top end of his voice that threatened to affect his pitch. No matter, he channelled Bonnie Tyler and the sound of his throat ripping gave an extra dimension to his character's arc from macho to feminine to dead. Dion's revenge on Pentheus is a curiosity, liberating him sexually and from gender only to destroy them. The confusion is there in the original text where only the gods are allowed to escape from the bonds of morality. It's a shame, and tragically Christian, because MacDonald's awakening is exhilarating and delicately charming. Reconciling that confusion is the job of Dion in the final number. Throughout Jacob MacInnis (Alice in Wonderland, Pinocchio) as Dion has been the calm eye of the hurricane, holding court over the sexual maelstrom they inspire. And demand. There is an eerie and very sensual gaze that MacInnis uses as they eye their victims, observe their devotees, or calculate their next move. It is regal and gracious, but full of curiosity, as they wonder just what these mortals can be made to do and how they will react. It is masterful and they hold focus with the wattage of a star while allowing everyone else to shine. 

And that last number, "Moment to Moment," is a killer that MacInnis sings the hell out of. The creatives and cast attempt to, through sheer force of melody and vocal prowess, force the ruminations and themes into a coherent statement. It almost works. But there is no shame in leaving an audience humming while we ruminate on the messy duality and promiscuous variations of life, sexuality, gender, religion and ecstasy itself. Dion welcomes Pentheus, and us, to his "theatre of illusion" to explore what "lies between the face and the mask." And that may be enough, to recognize the power of illusion and ecstasy, both of which, it could be and herewith is, argued, reach their highest form, their apex, in a theatrical musical. Especially one that transcends into glorious and utterly sincere camp.