Playland

By: Kelly Kearney

A Ghostly Queer History

Summoning the ghosts of queer nightlife, Geordon West’s docudrama Playland lands at the Tribeca Film Festival like a haunting memory of better days in what many would consider the worst of times. With today’s increase in political attacks and social regression, a film focusing on how far the community has come paints a brutal picture of the distance we, as a society, still have to travel to find acceptance. At Boston’s Playland Cafe, which operated from 1937 until it closed in 1998, the out-and-proud found a home of their own. It was a place where the community found sanctuary from the life-threatening reach of moral authority. It was a meeting space for quiet protest; a room where family and art combined to offer up a glimpse at what it looks like to not only survive oppression but shine within it. Since the closing of the Playland Cafe, similar spaces have shuttered their doors, and in their absence have left a massive hole in the heart of a community that is still searching for a place to call its own. Thanks to the Tribeca Film Festival’s dedication to telling these stories to a mainstream audience, Playland comes out of the shadows and into the dazzling spotlight where it belongs.

The Audio/Visuals of Queer History

The history of Playland is told through a collage of archival audio clips used to drive the performances of an enigmatic cast tasked with putting a face to the struggle queer individuals were forced to exist in. From the opening scene the mood is set; the dark underground nightlife quickly blossoms into a glittery gay ancestral home for the ghosts of queer-yesteryear. These clubland spirits act as a heartbeat still heard pounding across the empty lot where the Playland Cafe once sat. Clips of news reports and political speeches from 1943, 1965, 1977 and 1992 guide this boldly stylized approach to storytelling in a way that embraces individuality within the confines of a criminalized community hiding in plain sight. It’s a eulogy, of sorts, for a time when freedom was birthed from oppression. And while anger could and probably should be the point of this peek into the past, it’s the beauty of pride in oneself that glimmers through the darkness in this piece.

Without dialogue to chew on the performances from actors like Danielle Cooper (Lady) and Maine Anders (Tangerine) feel like a dose of realism tucked inside this hazy and often surreal dreamlike setting. Their ability to take a blank canvas and create an impression of the past is only further helped by the film’s undeniable queer aesthetic. Told through a lens that effectively breathes life into the dark underbelly of the nightlife scene, it’s the glamorous fashion that blossoms out of every character that builds and conflicts these two worlds in a pleasing way. It’s a color palette as diverse as the club’s clientele; as strong and durable as the leatherdyke Lady and as shimmering as drag performer and crooner Sunday’s (Lady Bunny) dress. Without dialogue volleying between the characters, the visuals are the real storyteller in Playland. Each scene feels like a painting coming to life in the after-hours of a museum – creating an effective marriage between actor, artist and audio clip that is mostly attributed to the masterful timing of West’s direction. Time itself is a character that moves around the room without ever having to point itself out to the viewer and that’s all thanks to the rhythm of their direction, scene blocking and camera movement. In one particular scene we see this bend in time as a kitchen door, swinging open and shut to reveal the different eras of the cooks and staff. The ghosts prepare meals, they dance, they kiss, they converse and only pause to break the fourth to watch history itself leer back at them. West turns the simplicity of a swinging door into a history lesson while simultaneously making the viewers feel like we are intruding on a private moment.

With the help of cinematographer Jo Jo Lam, the camera fades in and out of Playland’s eras like ghosts slipping through the walls of the club’s rooms. The camera helps to guide the story through the respective timelines just as much as the audio clips do and it captures time like a dance, encapsulating decades into one uncut image of a time. It’s this feeling of a never-ending cycle of sameness – decades trapped inside the coffin of community confinement, but doesnt feel as suffocating as the audio clips would suggest. That relief is found in the film’s score as the music plays with the tension until it gives way to the whimsical side of queer artistry. The evil lurking beyond Playland’s doors all but evaporates inside the four walls of the decaying club and that dichotomy between those two worlds is effortlessly captured in Aaron Michael Smith’s musical composition. At times the score chokes you with an uneasy foreboding only to offer up a fanciful breath of fresh air that barely takes itself seriously. The music allows for an escape from the mundane and a chance to sink our sequin-encrusted stilettos into the magical and fantastical world of queer pride.

Worth a Watch?

The Tribeca Film Festival has been an integral part of pushing filmmakers like Geordon West into the limelight and forcing innovative ideas into the minds and conversations of an industry that currently seems to be taking a step backward when it comes to diversity and inclusion. Playland is a dazzlingly textured look at a community that hasn’t stopped fighting for spaces of acceptance, regardless of the fact they are diminishing every year. Whether it’s gentrification gobbling up the underground scene or civil rights quickly slipping through our hands, this is a film meant to remind us of the power of community, of protest, of perseverance in the face of oppression and it’s as informative as it is entertaining. If documentaries and highly stylized queer content are your things, then open your ears and minds to Playland. The ghosts of our queer ancestors are demanding their eulogy be heard.