“Pose,” Ryan Murphy’s final production for FX before he heads off to Netflix, opens with a sequence that strains credulity, but in all the right ways, for all of the right reasons. Describing it in detail would rob the crowning moment of its power beyond saying it involves a daring move to assure victory in the all important pageant that the House of Abundance must rule, definitively. The climactic triumph is suitably fabulous, but just about everything that happens on the runway leading up to it may make you declare out loud, “There's no way that would ever, ever happen.”
But it does because it has to, and in a concrete way it establishes the drama’s spirit. For in those scenes, “Pose” lets the viewer know how much it aspires to achieve in its eight-episode first season, kicking off Sunday at 9 p.m.
Everything revolves around the 1980s drag ball culture in New York City, ruled by competing “houses,” or families of choice formed by LGBTQ youth whose natural families reject them.
Its excursions into fashion-driven fantasy, realized through the all-important balls in which its transgender and gay characters compete, make it possible to endure a hard and often cruel world that denies acceptance, let alone tolerance, to LGBTQ people. “Realness” is the currency inside these balls, whether realized via body, or face or living up to the illusion specified in a particular category.
And in these scenes, whether the characters are dressing as evening soap opera divas, or royalty, or weather girls, they embody opulence and a dignity denied them in a homophobic world ruled by excess and greed, one in which the specter of AIDS looms frighteningly large.
In standard drama terms, “Pose” is not structurally flawless. The story takes an episode or two to coalesce as the main players carve out their respective territories. Nevertheless, the cast seizes our attention from the start, particularly the determined Mj Rodriguez as Blanca, a rebel who breaks off from House of Abundance to form a new family the House of Evangelista (named for 1980s supermodel Linda Evangelista).
This ignites the ire of Abundance’s house mother Elektra, a towering force played by Dominique Jackson. A sizable slice of the joy derived from “Pose” is in watching Jackson flay her challengers with the crisp delivery and presence perfected by the likes of Grace Jones.
Rodriguez, meanwhile, balances Blanca’s gentler air with a grit that enables her to bear the weight of the ensemble’s core. She’s ably supported by the extraordinary Billy Porter as Pray Tell, the “grandfather” and emcee of the balls, and the divine Indya Moore as Angel, a prostitute who has her heart set on a fairytale ending.
These names probably aren’t familiar to you — save Porter’s possibly; the Tony Award winner starred in “Kinky Boots” on Broadway and has a much longer resume than Rodriguez, Moore or Ryan Jamaal Swain, who plays Damon, a dancer Blanca welcomes into House of Evangelista after his birth family violently ejects him.
The same can be said of Charlayne Woodard, another Broadway star who recurs as Helena St. Rogers, the dean of the New School for Dance and a dance instructor who gives Damon a shot.
Placing theater legends beside relative unknowns is absolutely intentional on the part of Murphy and co-creators Brad Falchuk and Steven Canals. “Pose” does feature a number of recognizable names, including frequent Murphy production player Evan Peters, Kate Mara and James Van Der Beek, but they are side players to a cast charged with leading viewers into a relatively unknown and under-examined subculture.
That “Pose" exists at all is radical in itself, even in a world that has embraced “RuPaul’s Drag Race” and made its host into a mainstream icon. What that reality show doesn’t do, and should not be expected to, is dig deeply into the social, class and racial politics that align against a marginalized community determined to live and be treated as first-class citizens nevertheless.
Mainly Blanca takes the first steps toward activism, but other characters claim their agency as well with regard to their health and, for better or worse, their bodies. On this front “Pose” is achieving something extraordinary, depicting the psychological and physical toll presented by transitioning as well as other prices these women are forced to pay. Angel, Elektra and others forge their identity through their bodies — how they look, whether they appeal to men — and in some cases, claiming a sense of agency means relinquishing comforts afforded to them by men demanding control over their anatomy.
Murphy and Falchuk signed on to produce Canals’ script in 2016 after optioning a follow-up to “Paris is Burning,” Jennie Livingston’s seminal 1991 documentary whose inspiration to “Pose” is obvious. Without these producers, “Pose” may have never gotten made or, worse, been contorted into something other than a production fronted by transgender actors of color, part of a crew including more than 100 transgender or queer cast members.
“Pose” producers also made a point to call upon the perspectives and expertise of a number of notable LGBTQ producers and directors, including Janet Mock (who directs an episode) as well as “Transparent” writer Our Lady J and director Silas Howard, who also worked on the Amazon series.
Undertaking this level of effort to make each episode feel authentic and poignant, to connect the audience with the elation and pain of these characters contend with, pays off beautifully when episodes focus on the Evangelista house, whose stories provide the soul of the narrative.
And theirs are not stories commonly featured in entertainment, let alone on basic cable. Series placing LGBTQ characters of color front and center and making their storylines the primary focus, are few and far between. As for series depicting identity struggles and love lives of such characters, the latter witnessed via Damon’s and blossoming chemistry with a streetwise player named Ricky (Dyllón Burnside), there’s pretty much this drama and Showtime’s “Vida.”
Bogging down the narrative’s momentum, at least initially, are the storylines involving Peters’ Stan Bowes, who goes to work for Van Der Beek’s Matt Bromley at the Trump organization (nope, we cannot even escape him here) to improve his family’s lot but finds himself drawn to Angel.
Van Der Beek enjoyably oils up his go-go ‘80s boss, making the most of his scenes without over doing it, while the nature of Mara’s character Patty, Stan’s wife, pretty much assures that her talent is underemployed here. But even this is actually excusable, to a point, because for once, the story isn’t about the forlorn wife ensconced in her fancy Manhattan tower, or her husband, or his jerk of a boss.
It’s about the juxtaposition between the currency that matters in Reagan-era New York City — their whiteness, their wealth and status — and that which is life-affirming, vibrant and miserably devalued. The Bowes’ storyline is a separate piece in this motley wild closet, one that doesn’t quite go with the rest of the ensemble.
Eventually, Stan and Angel’s relationship does begin to lead somewhere, although probably not toward the “happily ever after” Angel craves. Instead it's plain to see that their coming together allows the series to bare the class and racial politics dividing the country at that time, as well as the normalized homophobia that keep women like Angel in their place. Through her story and others, “Pose” illuminates the difference between between the genuine and illusory, outshining any imperfections that may slow down its initial episodes. Those are less noticeable than the bright and dominant palette of attitude and affection propelling the drama, showing proof that even the grimmest of times contain color, life and the inoculating optimism of “realness.”
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