They’re All Stars at Shrekquiem for a Dream

We are headed to Provocation Theatre to watch what has been described to us as “a dream birthday production of Shrekquiem for a Dream” that is also “a queer fantasia.” We have no idea what this means. We do not know Gill, the person whose birthday it is, but we are friends and neighbors with someone who’s spoiled the show a little bit by telling us she’s going to play “tap-dancing Lord Farquaad.” 

We do, however, know how precious and rare it is to be able to witness someone realizing their dream (no matter how much of a joke that dream might be). It reminds us of an older, cheaper east bay, where everyone had a weird side thing going. Or maybe there is still an east bay like this, and what’s changed is us: we’re the ones with kids, a mortgage, and a life organized around playgrounds rather than playhouses. Regardless, when I pitched this outing to my husband, he said it reminded him of the Dracula puppet musical in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, and Gill (through my friend), began sending us lyrics from “Dracula’s Lament.” I bought tickets before I even had a babysitter lined up. 

Provocation Theatre is a small space with a tall, tall ceiling tucked into the back corner of a building on Bancroft and Fulton in Berkeley. Before we enter, someone gets out of a car, dressed in a full tulle gown as Glinda the Good Witch (or maybe just a very pink fairy godmother?) and I can barely keep myself from cackling in delight. We read our names off to Nat Hunter, who co-owns the theatre with Kat Brown, and she offers us some green, Shrek-themed beverages and a bottle of pez pills in exchange for a donation. Rows of black chairs are arranged to create a cat walk space, and we snag seats in the front row at the end. The woman sitting next to us asks us if we know Gill, and we say no; we ask her if she does and if she knows what the performance is about. She says she’s a friend who, unlike many of the people here, is not plugged into the community of performers who regularly attend shows like this and “asked for it to be a surprise.” 

As we chat, we realize all of us have seen Shrek (2001), but only my husband has seen Requiem for a Dream (2000). “All I can remember are certain scenes flashing by,” he says unhelpfully. He starts to list what he remembers: multiple people are on addiction journeys; Jared Leto’s mom is addicted to television and believes she’ll be on TV; Jennifer Conolly descends into sex work. He does not, I note, tell the person we’ve just met about the harrowing double-sided dildo scene he was describing to me before we got here.

I’m thrilled when Glinda sits down next to me. My friend told me there would be a costume contest, and 40 percent of the audience appears to be dressed up. I see a wolf, a princess, ogres behind me, several Lord Farquaad in addition to my friend, a hot dog a la I Think You Should Leave, a real dog wearing a stegosaurus spine, and then someone in a body con dress that could be a Jennifer Connolly reference but also could just be a nice outfit for a night out. Glinda tells me she’s an improv student of the performers. We discuss the content warnings that have circulated before the show: simulated drug use, sex, violence, loud electronic dance music, strobing lights, vapor, and haze. “It’s all about pushing boundaries tonight,” Glinda exclaims. 

“Oh yeah, that’s rough,” my husband says as he finishes reading the Wikipedia article for Requiem for a Dream (2000). The lights flicker to indicate the show is starting.

A Fairy Godmother struts out in a sparkly red dress, pink wig, and towering red patent leather heels. It takes me a minute to notice all of this, however, because the real eye-catcher is the black double-sided dildo with a glowing pink star attached to one end that oscillates lazily with each step. “This is Shrekquiem for a Dream,” the Fairy Godmother announces, “If you’re wondering what that means…so am I.”

The Fairy Godmother reiterates the content warnings, explains that for legal purposes this is a parody, and tells the audience to cross their arms if they don’t want to interact with the performers or go “oooh yeah” and make spirit fingers if they do want to interact. 

With the formalities out of the way, we’re off. The characters are all from the broader Shrek universe, but the plot is largely taken from Requiem for a Dream (2000). And “certain scenes flashing by” turns out to be an apt description of the experience: Donkey luging shots of Malört through a waffle; the Three Bland Mice passing Wet Wipes out to the crowd; an opera singing character called “the Mortadella” diegetically singing pride anthems requested by the audience but refusing to sing “Poor Unfortunate Souls” on the grounds that everyone always wants Enbys to be Ursula. 

In line for the bathroom at intermission, I ask the Mortadella what Shrek movie their character appeared in and they say none. “I’m just here to add to the spectacle.”

After Glinda wins the costume contest during intermission, it suddenly occurs to me that none of the content warnings have actually been realized yet. I mentally brace myself. The second act opens in a civilized manner, with the Mortadella wearing a sunhat, a pink vest over a blue-striped shirt dress, and a delicate navy blue scarf as they sing an opera arrangement of Smashmouth’s “All Star.” Things escalate quickly, however; I find myself making meaningful eye contact with Gill, in their Donkey suit, while they are pouring Silly Stix dust down my throat. Within moments they’ve re-emerged in a skintight dragon suit and an artfully concealed vape that allows them to convincingly blow smoke throughout a seductive dance, much to the delight of the crowd. 

My friend, it turns out, is only ONE of the tap-dancing Lord Farquaads in her musical number and an incredibly talented tap dancer. And actually, it’s important to note that everyone is incredibly talented? During a scene where a drug-fueled rager breaks down into four separate conflicts, I find myself marveling at the complexity of the blocking, the care that’s gone into the cues the performers are giving each other, and the commitment of everyone involved to what is essentially a two-hour-long bit. Somehow the Fairy Godmother gently slapping everyone in the face with the double-sided dildo leads to the entire theatre singing along to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah;” it concludes with Donkey and Puss-in-Boots re-enacting the double-sided dildo scene after a voice from above asks, “Is there going to be ass-to-ass?”

The crowd is on their feet, clapping and screaming as the performers take their bows. Cries for a speech mount, and Gill obliges. “I hope you know you just gave a standing ovation to the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” Gill declares. 

The origin of the project is a joke my friend’s fiancé made a year ago about how if Gill wanted to do a reading of Shrekquiem for a Dream for their birthday, they could get Chat GPT to write it. (At this, the crowd boos, and my friend’s fiancé throws up his hands to mount a protest no one can hear.) “And I said, ‘No!’ I’m going to get a bunch of freaks to make it for me!” 

\O/

The crowd demands an encore. My friend shouts, “Dracula musical,” and her fiancé materializes on stage with an acoustic guitar. “And if I see Van Helsing / I swear to the Lord I will slay him,” Gill sings, advancing toward us and opening their blazer cape to reveal that they’re wearing nothing underneath but a pair of bat-shaped pasties. 

The crowd erupts. I’m gobsmacked, my mouth open in a wide grin. Beside me, I can hear the pure giggle my husband reserves for his most gleeful moments. In front of me, I watch Gill realize their friend is sitting next to us and make a joke before closing their blazer cape and continuing the number closer to the back. It’s all about pushing boundaries tonight, not obliterating them. Within minutes, we’re out on the street again walking back to our minivan and our real lives.