And No Religion, Too - Review: Waiting for a Hero

ID: Caroline Kerr and Daniella Hardy, waiting. Credit: Carrie Cheung.

When Gal Gadot released her celebrity “Imagine” video to comfort people in the early days of the pandemic, any post-Wonder Woman affection for her was dashed on the rocks of cringe. The Wikipedia summary for the incident reads, without elaboration, “The video was poorly received.” But for those who must be immune to cringe anyway, it was still possible to idolise her, worship her, or, perhaps more intensely, be a fan of her. That’s the premise of Waiting for a Hero, a new play written and directed by Fatima Krida. The Vladimir and Estragon of this loose riff on Waiting for Godot have renounced human society to wait upwards of eighteen hours, dressed (offstage, by costume designer Amalia Villegas) in luminous blue tights and red capes, for a photo with their favourite superhero. They refer to the woman of their dreams as “the hero,” though a brief reference to Wonder Woman 1984 gives it all away. Maybe, I thought, she might make an appearance—or is she not actually having trouble booking roles now? In my model of the universe, which is based on what people say on my Twitter feed, cancellation is career-ending, and superhero fatigue is universal. But in another universe, people go to comic-cons; they costume and shellac and prostrate themselves before various pop-cultural shrines; they are fervently, almost erotically devoted. 

ID: Jack Dams, Daniella Hardy, and Caroline Kerr. Credit: Carrie Cheung.

Which leads me to the question of the hour: Is it gay? For those determined to see it that way, yes. Or sort of. Valerie (Daniella Hardy) and Ezra (Caroline Kerr) go through the motions of courtship—first contact, shyness first real and then feigned, gradual warming, then a passionate bond—which happen to be identical to the motions of friendship, just sped up. I read Valerie’s fidgeting and aborted sentences and Ezra’s tolerant, then fond smile as flirtatious because I write for The Gay Saint. But their real bond is forged in the crucible of their parasocial passion for somebody else: Ezra describes having smelled her once (bergamot), seen her hand emerging from a blacked-out car, like an elusive lover. Valerie extols the merits of “shifting” into other realities to come face to face with your celebrity idols. Daniella makes her the archetypal squealing fangirl who genuinely believes that viewing content of an actress is “quality time” with her. In Ezra, however, I sensed a primal need, a quiet intensity for which the usual explanations—like Valerie’s; she joined a fandom to relieve her isolation at university—were lacking. Caroline gives her a menacing presence. 

ID: Daniella Hardy and Caroline Kerr, and Jacques Leleux. Credit: Carrie Cheung.

Against this crazy pair are set a number of “normal” characters, who are defined by their occupations rather than their full-time fandom. Well, some more normal than others: the merch-seller Skeet (Kurt Dorneich), shaggy and berobed, is constantly shouted offstage as he bellows things like, “Don’t ask if it’s licensed—ask if it’s destined!” But Peter (Jack Dams), a journalist; the frazzled Lucy (Ella Byrne-Cabot), who has some kind of organising role; Presley (Libby Mullen), the hero’s disdainful publicist (?); Alex (Jacques Leleux), a recovered superfan; and the put-upon venue janitor (Ryan Cunningham) each seem to have a lecture or a lesson for Valerie and Ezra on the perils of obsessive fandom, which of course they’re impervious to. So these lectures and lessons bounce off their intended targets and hit the audience instead. Or they’re directly addressed to the audience: twice, a spotlit Peter sits below the stage and expostulates (to his boss? To God?) on the dangerous obsession that he has perceived in his interviewees. He tells us that he “can’t help but notice the parallels” between his subjects and a stalking case being heard at the courthouse around the corner. Yes, you can’t help but notice the parallels; that’s why there was no need to mention them outright. The dialogue can be on the nose, like when Valerie volunteers a thorough diagnostic work-up of her fan pathology, or Alex narrates to Peter the rise and fall of their career as a fandom kingpin. (The dynamics of the stage, which keep Valerie and Ezra seated in the centre throughout the play, require this conversation to take place awkwardly off to the side.) 

One of the few similarities between Godot and Hero is that they sit between humour and terror and could swing either way at any moment, depending on how the participants choose to play it. Have you ever seen a clip of a fan telling a celebrity, “You saved my life”? Their face registers bewilderment and alarm before it smiles and is suitably moved. Waiting for a Hero alarms you and makes you smile, though it’s ultimately funnier than it is scary. Some mild Benson Boone slander by the Janitor last night got a big laugh—if the theme is mainstream cringe, then he fits the bill, too. My favourite choice in the play: hands sticking out of the wings to throw more trash all over the stage, just when the Janitor thinks he’s finally got it all. Is it a commentary on the cultural detritus that piles up around us incessantly—“moonbeam ice cream,” Marvel, matcha raves in Dubai? Chloe Annan’s set, which includes an inventive, regularly changing screen advertising “labooboos” and “Skeet’s Premium Dubai Chocolate,” seems to say so. And the skeleton seated behind the protagonists, hands neatly folded in lap, represents a dire prognosis. If you try to get your fulfilment from this endless junk, from imagining that celebrities could like you back, you might be waiting forever. Better to watch this cautionary tale than live it, and afterwards listen to Zack Fox’s celebrity rebuttal, “Slob On My Knob,” if you want to experience true religion.  

By Eliza (she/her)