A Breathtaking Billy Porter In an Unfortunately Un-Glam LA CAGE AUX FOLLES — Review

You’d think after RuPaul’s Drag Race catapulted drag squarely into the mainstream, we’d have gotten a revival of La Cage aux Folles to capitalize on the art form; a glitzy, queen-forward production that spotlights the endless ingenuity, courage and fun even its lowliest practitioners can whip up with just some rouge and a wig. (The last New York production of Jerry Herman and Harvey Fierstein’s historic 1983 musical opened in 2010, as Ru’s second season was wrapping up on Logo.)

Robert O’Hara’s all-Black Encores! staging does open as a paean to individuality, with a gender-diverse, twentysomething-strong ensemble of Cagelles donning iconic looks by Janet, Beyoncé and even Eartha. They drill choreo, openly huffing and encouraging each other through the moves, as Herman’s rosy opening number vamps on: this is about the work these performers, and the women who’ve inspired them, put in for our entertainment and their salvation. It’s breathtaking, with some tension created by the proposition that this Cage, if not unglamorous, will be looking closer beyond the mascara.

But after its rousing opening number, O’Hara doesn’t de-glam La Cage so much as completely flatline it. Herman, a trained architect at the University of Miami, built his scores like hurricane-proof scaffolds on rock-solid farcical foundations: The Matchmaker, Auntie Mame or, in this case, Jean Poiret’s 1973 play. O’Hara’s thoughtless treatment (and Megumi Katayama’s muddled sound design) threatens to destroy even that.

As ever, the story follows club owner Georges (Wayne Brady) and his extravagant husband Albin (Billy Porter), who headlines their drag revue as the Zaza. Georges’ adult son pops up with the lifestyle-threatening announcement that he’s bringing ‘round his new fiancée, the daughter of a conservative politician running on an anti-drag platform. La Cage’s humor and drama are almost primeval; at baseline, its dual stakes arise from the question of whether Albin will be able to “pass” during their visit. That Feirstein and Herman dressed them with a gloriously affirming message and questions about long-term relationships is the feathered boa that makes the musical shine.

In O’Hara’s staging, however, the world of Georges and Albin isn’t outrageous or particularly fabulous, despite the Grace Jones and Sylvester posters that scenographer David Zinn flies down for Zaza’s dressing room. He vehemently resists camp, especially in Porter’s Albin, or squeezing any humor out of the That man’s in a wig!! premise, which is understandable and somewhat commendable, but simply not what the story calls for. Albin needs to be ridiculous – a bull on a dazzling rampage through his relationship and his future in-laws’ china shops – and it’s frankly in bad faith to not allow a queen her airs without suggesting that putting them on is somehow demeaning. The first act’s emotional climax, when Albin shuns his fabulousness, now means very little, even less the book’s farcical comeuppance of forcing the conservative family to essentially lipsync for their lives. 

Luckily, Porter summons a torrent of emotion in a truly jaw-dropping “I Am What I Am.” His phrasing might irk purists, though it’s not the wholesale rearrangement (if one can call it that) that he did with the Cabaret score, but the magnitude of the performance is undeniable. Script-in-hand for some of the book scenes, he lands every beat and brings a genuine righteous anger to that epic anthem. (One could write a thousand pages on the bit where his Albin shows off how easily he can code-switch.)

Brady, with his easy charm, should be a more natural fit for showman Georges, but is too often in nice-nice talk show mode, talking past us rather than truly engaging. He’s not helped by O’Hara’s unwise choice to double the gargantuan City Center stage as the cabaret’s own, eliminating any possible intimacy and, if we can be pedantic, suggesting this ostensibly discreet club takes up an entire city block. Its other players are similarly underserved, like an aimless Tonya Pinkins, whose zesty restaurateur belongs to another play, or the always wonderful Michael McElroy as a stage manager whose kinky demeanor is meant to accentuate this world’s naughty otherness. Again, O’Hara refuses to make any part of Georges and Albin’s world seem even remotely outré, and it all falls apart. (James Jackson, Jr. as the couple’s bratty maid fares better.)

Clint Ramos and Michelle Ridley costumes for the cagelles peak with their polite evocations of pop divas in the opening number, though it’s disappointing there’s not one reveal or glimpse of the truly gag-worthy craftsmanship you can find around this city’s drag clubs. (This extends to Edgar Godineaux and Dormeshia’s choreography.) They’ve also puzzlingly outfitted Georges in a gold lamé suit that is infinitely more flamboyant than anything Albin wears whenever offstage.

Joseph Joubert directs the Encores! Orchestra in performing Jim Tyler, Harold Wheeler and Joe Gianono’s original orchestrations, which maintain their power to stir even the most jaded queen.

La Cage aux Folles is a stellar musical; one of the few that would draw a phrase such as “we could use this now more than ever” out of me, and one which deserves a first-rate revival. It’s a shame, considering the talent involved and the fabulous idea to draw from the historical wealth of Black queer creativity. But, to borrow from another Herman show, we need a little …más.

La Cage aux Folles is in performance through June 28, 2026 at New York City Center on West 55th Street in New York City. For tickets and more information, visit here.