Cruise – a hymn to the illicit pleasures and dangers of 1980s Soho
There’s already a place in theatre history for Cruise, Jack Holden’s one-man eulogy to Aids-ravaged Soho in the 1980s. Written during lockdown, it was the first West End play to open following the end of restrictions, in May last year, and its spirit of euphoric defiance in the face of a deadly virus spoke directly to pandemic-shattered souls in those hesitant weeks of freedom.
One year on, with life returned largely to normal, that raw resonant power remains intact, the play an enduring life affirming tribute to a vanished queer history. Holden plays himself, as a green-behind-the-ears, gay 22-year-old working at Switchboard, an LGBTQ helpline. Some of the callers are heavy breathers, others confused and desperate.
And then there is Michael, who has rung to mark the anniversary of the death of his partner, known as “Slutty Dave”. Over the course of an hour-long phone call, Michael beguiles Jack with the Soho of his youth, a mucky magical realm teeming with seasoned pleasure-seekers and bitchy queens, and soaked in the sweat of sex, drugs and death.
There is a palpable imagined quality about Cruise, which knowingly exists somewhere between memory and myth. Soho of the 1980s emerges as a sort of parallel fantasia for the gay community, full of shadowy doorways, beckoning promise and amazing dance music. Mortal angels in fabulous clothing seemingly appear on every corner to help ease young Michael's passage into this earthly paradise – the ancient woman in fox fur who gives him a free place to stay in return for two conversations a day; Polari Gordon in a maroon suit, who offers wisdom and support as he flits between the Colony Club and the nearby public gents.
Yet more and more friends are dying. Michael and Dave become infected and are told they have four years to live. They wring out every last endorphin-powered second. Dave dies within three. Against the odds, Michael remains alive.
Cruise depends, somewhat precariously, upon a suspension of disbelief: Michael’s conviction that he’ll die on the stroke of midnight of his fourth year, even as he pounds out what he thinks will be his last minutes in Heaven nightclub, healthy as can be, is the stuff of folklore. Yet the play persuasively inhabits a carpe diem state of mind as much as it pays homage to a community history, and counters its more indulgent moments with waspish observation.
Holden expertly controls the vertiginous shifts between tragedy and comedy, and plays every character, delivering a particularly bitter, beautiful drag-queen version of Is That All There Is, while composer John Patrick Elliott hammers out live a sexy, synthy soundtrack. There are better plays about Aids than this, but few have such an intoxicating spirit.
Until September 4. Tickets: 0330 333 4809; cruisetheplay.co.uk
