Consent matters. So it’s refreshing – if surprisingly rare in fourth wall-blurring cabaret – to see an iridescently out-there performer in Midsumma show Sugar not only ask if it’s ok to sit on the lap of an audience member, but also ask again, ensuring enthusiastic consent.
The faultlessly respectful artist in question is the fabulously sparkling, multi-hyphenate overachiever Tomáš Kantor. Their abundant musical and theatrical energy can barely be contained by the white one-piece swimsuit and blue Adidas trackie bottoms combo they’re rocking, while often suggestively crotch-grabbing, as the sugar baby of the title.
Spoiler: Sugar is not the real name of this proud gender-fluid twink, who has rewatched Pretty Woman perhaps more often than might be entirely healthy.
A name that basically does what it says on the tin, Sugar is a noob sex worker hoping to make their way through the world on the dime of suited older gents with more cash than they could miss.
As is often the way, an assumed name is all part of the roles played that ease the way for all parties involved, protecting privacy much as Kantor takes great care to look after the foolhardy front-rowers.
Sugar: dick picks
We join Sugar as they tee up a date with‘Richard,’ not Gere, but definitely shortened to Dick – a conservative-presenting, cashed-up, gravel-voiced ‘masc’ mining exec who flies from WA over to Melbourne regularly to indulge in clandestine hook-ups in the luxurious surrounds of a Park Hyatt penthouse suite. In this scenario, Sugar possesses more than a hint of Julia Roberts’ most famous role, only queerer.
Their first meeting is arranged via an online site specifically set up for such connections, in a grey area complicated by legal variations from state to state. Not that Sugar seems all that fussed about whether they’re legally allowed to do what they’re doing. If both parties consent (which should always be the priority), then they don’t care.
Dick’s voice is also Kantor’s, in a snappy one-person show that sees them code shift in an instant, switching between both roles and more, including a trans Kiwi bar manager who uses literal gestural codes to check in on Sugar. Signals that we, as an audience, are conspiratorially taught in several moments where the house lights are raised.
And at first it seems like everything’s going swimmingly. The champagne’s on ice, there’s a grand piano to tinkle on and the offer of dazzling new looks, if only Sugar can navigate past snooty store door blockers that here have the unmistakably Briiiiighton vocal inflections of Gina Riley and Jane Turner’s sneering Trude and Prue.
Snobby shop attendants aren’t the only hurdles to overcome, however. Sugar often interrupts the show to lay out sugar baby 101s that include not putting up with transphobia of any sort. However, it soon becomes clear that Dick, true to his name, doesn’t dig Sugar’s blonde wig or teal blue biker jacket. While a public kiss seems promising, the hard lines are laid out soon enough and reality bites, with Sugar having to reassess if they’re in over their heads in this fine (dining) mess.
Sugar: good luck, babe
Presented in the intimate embrace of Arts Centre Melbourne’s temporary Show Room, a rehearsal space tucked behind the main theatres and filling in while the State’s out of action, Sugar is a frothy but far from flimsy playdate.
Produced by Bullet Heart Club (the gender diverse and trans-forward company led by Sugar’s writer, Ro Bright, and director Kitan Petkovski), Sugar is the sort of easily accessible show that speedily catches up audience members unfamiliar with the specifics of sex work and non-binary brilliance.
Kantor is a hurricane who darts from wing to wing, making the most of Bethany J Fellows’ costume designs thanks to quick changes stashed in carry-on luggage. The set is deceptively simple; a freestanding pink wall with a heart-shaped window cut-out can be everything from a Juliette balcony to an online profile pic.
This multifunctional backdrop is flanked by various instruments. But just as Dick is a blow-up doll animated with a dab of ventriloquism, there is no band. Besides breathing vivacious life into Sugar’s emotional quandaries and hard truths, Kantor is also a dab hand on the cello, keyboard, baby grand and mic, regaling us with bangers from Kylie to Gaga via Chappell Roan’s Good Luck, Babe!
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If the crowd-working bops aren’t always the neatest fit with Bright’s whip-smart text, they’re more than carried by Kantor’s star wattage and musical director Rachel Lewindon’s inventive arrangements, with some numbers slowed down and others sassed up. Petkovski keeps it all in check with the sort of assured direction that’s carefully assembled to seem all but invisible.
Not that invisibility is possible with our pretty, non-binary performer, whose abiding entreaty to treat people with care and respect underpins Sugar’s sweetest high notes.
Sugar is at Arts Centre Melbourne until 25 January. Find out more.
