“Things were better before the gym.” This throwaway line from a character who has succumbed to a lifestyle that skews his moral compass—or, perhaps, just reveals its true alignment—is more significant than even he realizes. At his new attendant’s job at a swanky LA gym, awkward Jeremy (Jaime Lujan) becomes obsessed with a sexy and enigmatic client, fitness influencer Eugene (Ray Jacildo). As he lusts over this ripped idol, it causes a rift between him and current partner, the feisty and attentive Gustavo (Frankie Bayley).
Contentious beauty standards, racial fetishization, kinky shenanigans and horror film tropes are mashed together in this very ambitious theatre-film hybrid. Presented by Pencil Kit Productions and Buddies in Bad Times Theatre, WHITE MUSCLE DADDY is a queer horror-comedy that offers plenty of flash and sizzle in its erotic, technical and stylistic flourishes. Directors Tricia Hagoriles and Raf Antonio have nailed the aesthetics of low budget exploitation cinema with their inventive use of live-streamed horror scenarios projected onto panel screens.
It’s all very campy, opening with a deliciously tongue-in-cheek slasher titled—perfectly!—Blood Frat II. Augusto Bitter (as Stuart) is an adorable, wide-eyed stand-in for Scream’s Drew Barrymore—the first of many references. Just as the climactic murder is about to occur, production is halted with behind-the-scenes scrambling—a riff on Brian DePalma’s Blow Out. We meet the director, Lucy (Chel Carmichael), an impassioned documentarian slumming it on a trashy fright flick, and are thrust into a world where real life and cinema blur together. A rash of suspicious disappearances and interpersonal drama connect characters in a monster mythos that unfolds with creepy backstories and sinister motivations.
Antonio’s script lands on some real drama with its examination of body image, self-esteem and social politics. Eugene is more than just an aloof hunk; he’s an arrogant prick, barely glancing at someone he considers inferior. Jeremy’s pathetic early attempts at ingratiating himself are intensely cringy. As their dynamic develops, it becomes very Patricia Highsmith, echoing the homoeroticism, violence and opportunism of The Talented Mr. Ripley. Lujan and Jacildo are most compelling when they are overtly threatening and their chemistry peaks in a tense, literally steamy sauna scene.
Where the writing and performances falter is in some over-long, expository conversations. I was quite lost and tuned-out for a while as the clunky plot gradually came into focus. Eugene’s eerie mystique is intensified by Lucy’s recognition of him from years ago—and there are some endearing, Scooby Doo antics between Bayley and Carmichael—but the actual drama of the whole situation is dampened by histrionics and stiff blocking.
The characters and their gruesome situations feel, ironically, far more urgent and intimate when filmed in the hidden space behind the screen panels. The sound of grinding metal as these panels separate creates an ominous, dungeon-like atmosphere. This dangerous other side is a mythic space of nightmarish fantasy. Everything from furtive underwear sniffing to a gruesome confrontation are charged and exhilarating. Under Alia Stephen’s bold lighting, director of cinematography Khanh Tudo and projection designer Nicole Eun-Ju Bell affectionately mimic the iconic, garish imagery of DePalma’s early genre classics, revelling in super-saturated colour and split-screen spectacle.
Shaquille Pottinger, who has a knack for finding nuance and authenticity in even the most cliched characters, feels under-used here as Thomas, an influencer/club host caught up in all the gory melodrama. Despite plenty of stage and screen time, he has little opportunity to evoke more than sass, snark and flirtation.
I caught a whiff of Brad Fraser’s Unidentified Human Remains and the True Nature of Love, a classic of Canadian queer theatre that captures a similar feeling of unease with its vulnerable characters wrestling with relationships against a backdrop of ghastly local murders. Several notable aspects of queer experience are depicted here, but the story’s missing gay men—mostly People of Colour—is particularly resonant. Community anger and the overt shade thrown at the police feels raw and relevant.
Jeremy’s desire to rise about his station—his embrace of deceptive, superficial standards—is both a humanizing portrayal and a condemnation of an unhealthy, oppressive value system. Feeling lost and insignificant, he craves the abs, affluence and worship. Arguably, the most gasp-inducing moment of horror here is his tone-deaf suggestion to Gustavo: “Maybe you could lose some weight.”
Though this work is grounded by heavy themes. some arresting imagery and bursting with innovative collaboration; its full theatricality—specifically, the integration of in-person scenes that feel kinda flat—is lacking.