At first it is hard to know what to make of Lucy McCormick’s new show, Triple Threat: it is a show that insists on being itself in much the same way as a rash does. As the show starts, it comes over as being like so much self-indulgent trash, and as it ends it continues to feel like so much self-indulgent trash. But if self-indulgent trash is your thing, then this is certainly the show to see: McCormick makes it almost an art form. Indeed, it does remind one of some sort of ‘happening’ more than anything else.
McCormick is actually a great performer and very easily draws the audience into her camp and messy world of food smeared bodies, penetrated orifices, irreverent biblical retellings, and other high-energy, partially-clothed jinks. It is clear very early on that the audience who stay (some do leave) are up for anything—McCormick has them round her little finger—and really, the final crowd surf only just wets their need to participate as fully as possible. It’s amazing that she gets out of the venue alive, as it is patently not enough for anybody.
Watching the show is like having a type of therapy—all that is missing is a clock that’s five minutes fast and a box of Kleenex; it is a vicarious letting go and a strangely liberating experience. The show may be purposely inappropriate, verging on the depraved and downright blasphemous, but at the same time it is unexpectedly inclusive and indeed rather joyful.
The post-party comedown is surprisingly difficult to endure. Afterwards, the outside world seems drabber, colder and more fully-clothed. The aroma of Gold Blend, however, lingers on the hands for far longer than one might expect.