"Starmites" by the Open Fist Theatre Company
"Starmites" by the Open Fist Theatre Company
July 8, 2023
A group of space punks in matching crimson jackets guide a teen through an enchanted forest. They make it just a few steps before a horde of intergalactic banshee-women leap to instantly capture them for their all-knowing, all-powerful leader known simply as, “The Diva”. The teen girl rolls her eyes, but her compatriots quickly quake in their space boots. They know their death is assured and painful and soon, so it’s best they all brace for impact…
…of a soulful barn-burner called, “It’s Tough to be a Diva,” that’s more James Brown than Julius Caesar. Complete with cape.
If you’ve never heard of Starmites, you’re not alone. Often described as “the most forgettable Tony nominee for Best Musical” (rude), its legend is not shouted, more whispered from the darkest corners of Broadway trivia nights. It’s a Space Rock Opera that’s like Guardians of the Galaxy meets Starlight Express meets any number of Sci-Tries looking to capitalize on man’s obsession with the skies. It’s both decades before its time and 10 years too late; a mash-up of Andrew Lloyd Webber musical-rock and Reagan-era Doo-wop nostalgia. It was never supposed to be here, but that impossibility is part of its charm.
Starmites creators Barry Keating and Stuart Ross knew they had something weird on their hands, but refused to wash it off. Starting on the Off-Off-Broadway stage in 1980, Starmites was “the little play that could” stretching its run for 9 impossible years as it got nipped and tucked and workshopped through various iterations before taking a coveted spot on The Great White Way. I am constantly in awe of the endurance of Broadway creatives who believe in their shows so hard, they willingly enter middle-age still picking apart its monologues. For Keating and Ross, their gamble paid off— but that year at the Tonys, Broadway legend Angela Lansbury didn’t waste the opportunity to emphasize this rarity in her intro. Sure, we’ve seen productions like Spring Awakening and Hedwig muscle their way from the dank of downtown to the glittery spotlight of 42nd street, but those shows didn’t have a singing and dancing lizard-man named Trinkulus as part of its main cast.
When I heard a production of this caliber was being performed in a 90-seat micro-theatre in a forgotten corner of Atwater Village, I salivated at the chance of seeing its outsized-ness like an Audrey II being muscled into a Macy’s storefront left to blister against the glass, or a production of Les Miserablés precariously performed on the bar counter of Cheers. It’s not that I wanted it to fail, I was just so fascinated by the space trip of shooting for the moon, if only to land among the JoAnn’s Fabrics-crafted stars. Every detail I gathered only spiked my excitement like an ecstasy-reaching Vince McMahon:
Starmites is a show that pulls from the comic books, right on down to their zaggy incohesive plots. It follows a shy teen named Eleanor who lacks friends, but lusts to be a “Super Hero Girl” like the heroine of her favorite inner-space adventures. Her dream seems to come instantly true when she’s visited by “Space Punk” and his loyal crew of “Starmites” who have leapt from the page and into Eleanor’s bedroom with a singular mission: they believe Eleanor is the “Milady” of an ancient prophecy, meant to defend them against the evil Shak Graa and finally restore peace to the cosmic kingdom. And if you’re already spinning a web in your mind for the evil over-lord’s hidden motivation— I’m gonna stop you right there. This is an experience best felt when you leave logic at the door.
For director Scott Peterman, this is his favorite kind of “hidden musical gem.” A show with a “slightly silly plot; broad, fun dialogue— and an absolutely killer score.” That score is assisted by a live band cleverly contained within the 3-paneled “Space Walls” that is the direct reason why we can’t text during this. On each panel, we find a hi-tech screen— but instead of a simple projection or static image, Scott has worked overtime to make sure every second is as immersive as possible. It’s not enough to simply beam a backdrop— instead, we find the banshee woods conjured in hyper-real technicolor with The Diva’s lair a feat of AI-generated interior design. When the Starmites fight each other, the screens switch to words like, “Fight!” suddenly more Scott Pilgrim than Star Wars. When we space travel, we’re treated to hi-def video hyper-speed like a fancy Dad’s dupe of a Disneyland ride.
But that’s where the realism starts and ends— because we’re in campy 1980’s space, after all. Where the original Starmites may have been tongue-in-cheek, Scott’s production is fully mocking us with its mouth. The Starmites (Rieves Bowers, Alex Hogy, and Jasper Wong) play their space crew with the friendly beta-machismo that’s like Barbie’s Kens meets the goofiest members of the Jets. Their choreography is all Jersey Boys, bopping and side-stepping and even fake-punching to the beat without a single hair un-coiffed. Their leader, “Space Punk” (Bradley Sharper) plays to their loyalty without shredding their dignity. A role like this in less-capable hands would be unwavering in its winks, but Bradley manages to inject a real tenderness into his hero which is a feat made evermore difficult when his entire motivation is flattened to a coin-toss of “fighting” or “falling in love” (he also effortlessly sings, dances and plays a cordless guitar in the finale, which I’m now requiring of all my male protagonists).
It’s impossible to tell the intended tone of the original Starmites, even with all the YouTube videos in the world12. What I found on this summer night was a company who understood how to take any source material and locate its joy, unleashing it like a vapor for which we’re all blessed to inhale and get high. No one embodies this more than performer Cat Davis, who multi-tasks being Eleanor’s Mom and the delicious Diva— the crooner of the cosmos, the prima of the planets, the clear star of the show. She’s the best kind of villain— the one you fear but follow instantly out of loyalty. The one who betters every scene, even when she’s threatening to blast our heroes to bits. Halfway through our show, we discover The Diva is Mother both literally and figuratively: her daughter Bizarbra (played by Talia Gloster, multi-tasking this role with our hero Eleanor) longs to marry if only to elevate her status beyond the dorkiest demi-goddess of the universe. Of course, the handsome guitar-slinging Space Punk is the only target for her tractor beam of affection.
If you’re still confused, I am too. I haven’t even gotten to Trinkulus, the lizard man roll-acting into every scene floating on a skateboard (sorry, “space board”) or the demonic Krav Gaa who appears intermittently if only to remind us he’s still a threat. The actor who portrays him performs in head-to-toe identity-obscuring nylon, complete with voice modulator, credited in the playbill mysteriously as “???” (but seriously, was it the lizard man? Just tell me it was the lizard man). I’d also be remiss in not giving flowers to The Diva’s loyal banshee-women who are one part space crow-one part Gaga’s Chromatica and all parts Anjelica Houston’s character in Captain EO.
For the Open Fist Theatre, Starmites isn’t even their weirdest show yet. Back in 2018, they mounted the original work All Night Long by John O’Keefe, a satire of the American play by way of the American SitCom starring a literal nuclear family right on down to their “test tube daughter” made from left-over formula from the space program (played by Cat Davis, naturally). Then there’s their semi-annual holiday concert Both: A Hard Day’s Silent Night, a show that retells the Christmas story by way of Gospel-ified Beatles songs. Of course, they mix in some other traditions, too: a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in 2022; an all-company theatre festival in 2021; and too many galas to count. Open Fist is an artist-driven and creatively-operated entity which started in 1990, but has since evolved into being an incubator for talent wanting to self-produce their own works by any means possible. Like all independent routes, this path has obvious benefits but sneaking flaws.
Like how on the night of my show, the already-small house was only half-full. Or that the flyer I was provided proudly declared the run’s extension, presumably to recoup its final cost. Or that the comedy show happening the same night fell to a similar fate, all of us patrons barely filling the tiny atrium during Intermission, glancing at each other knowingly as we sipped our Diet Cokes.
Ask any adult pursuing a creative career in earnest and they’ll tell you gaining an audience is not merit-based. Future Kelly Clarksons sing for barstools; virtuosos strum in subways; Carrot Top performs for sold-out Vegas crowds. Life doesn’t have to make sense. But then a teen Billie Eilish makes an album in her bedroom; a veteran actor named Pedro Pascal hits the big time at age 48; and a space opera finally steps onto the Tony’s stage after almost a decade of trying to find the light.
The Open Fist could’ve revived any forgotten Broadway show, but instead they chose a production that achieved a clear miracle. And as I find myself following each actor online, obsessing over their future rise to fame, all while intermittently humming the “Starmites” theme that has sincerely not left my head since I experienced it— I hope that cosmic luck rubs off.
Starmites closed officially on July 23rd, but make sure you sign up for the Open Fist’s e-mail newsletter for upcoming productions here.
Stay tuned for next week, where I journey from outer-space to inland, where a suspiciously-white production of Fiddler on the Roof bottle-dances its way through the Santa Clarita Performing Arts Center at the College of the Canyons (whew).