by Christopher Soden

There's a radiance to the way Mac embraces his outsider status, his other-worldliness, as a device to remind of our humanity.

Marianne Barr-Mia Jacobsen

Taylor Mac

There's something decidedly casual about Taylor Mac's demeanor. Extravagantly cordial. He was wandering before the show (The Be(a)st of Taylor Mac, playing at Undermain Theatre in Dallas through February 13), making eye contact and greeting everyone gamely. His enormous wig suggested both bouffant and medicine man's headdress. His makeup was thick and elaborate. Fanciful. Mac fashions drag with an artist's eye for raw montage: red-sequined lips and male nipples, skirt festooned with layered latex gloves, fishnet hose, and stiletto heels he re-imagines from scratch every evening, and refers to as his "finery." When you consider his departure from traditional female political drag, it was still vibrant and arresting, a combination of function and attitude.

I think it's fair to say Mac's primary currency is humor. As he chats up and tickles the audience with his capacious, very frank, giddy extemporaneity, entertainment is foremost in his mind, no doubt. But he also capitalizes on his authenticity. He's so genuine in the way he connects with theatergoers -- teasing them -- confiding in them -- weaving a tapestry of the cosmos with anecdotes, political fables, songs, ukulele, and monologues. He changes costumes right there on stage, simply shuffling components. Another wig, a new dress, pendulous mammaries.

Taylor Mac

I was intrigued by his use of the term "pastiche" which to my mind translates as "paste up" or "failed collage" but once you warm up to his approach you start to understand the metaphor. Every aspect of his performance seems so utterly relaxed and off-the-cuff, it's almost like the college professor who wanders into your classroom and slips into cognizant mode very gradually. At first it seems innocuous and quaint, then -- KAPOW! -- he takes off into orbit like a comet. It all feels hurriedly pasted together and impulsive yet it coalesces. The effect is disarming and intuitive. Mac is so fluid and playful -- prince of the double-take and bitchy dish and jaw-dropping details. He's the enfant terrible promoted to a loftier position, despite the often raunchy fun he indulges in. Like King Lear's fool, he sneaks in his sly wisdom and lightens the pain.

What did Mac talk about the Saturday night I saw him? Puncturing the bubble we put up after 9-11, a wonderful song ("But I love him") about the grotesque ordeals that come with sex and love, a big-hearted drag queen who was shot in the ass by homophobes, his surprisingly virile fans in Edinburgh, Scotland, politically incorrect autoerotic fantasies, and Armageddon, just recollecting from the top of my head. You get the feeling his talk could go anywhere, which gives it a nice, cozy feeling. We are challenged and caught-off guard, yet like an imp or elf he's insouciant and ultimately benign. He loves his mischief and we love it too. There's a radiance to the way he embraces his outsider status, his other-worldliness, as a device to remind of our humanity. When he posits cross-dressing as a kind of pragmatic anarchy, dear God, he makes it sound plausible.

A version of this article was published in EDGEPublications.

Christopher Soden is a theater critic who also writes for content partner The Column.