Unfortunately, too much of his 40-minute piece is written and played at the same angry pitch, which gets wearisome quickly, and undermines what seems to be a goal of the work -- to explore the complex connections that bind different people together. Was no one whom he met at this club happy?
Most of REDlight is made up of monologues in which Kipp portrays, à la Anna Deavere Smith, the different clientele. But neither he nor his two directors, Marc Santa Maria and Jennifer Tuttle, succeed in replicating Smith's brilliant facility with distinct vocal characterizations.
Even in Kipp's first strictly autobiographical speech, a reminiscence of a childhood fishing trip with his father, the actor is unpersuasive. It is only at the end of the show when the writer/performer portrays first his mother and then himself as a grown man, that his performance takes on dimension and nuance. The monologue his mother tells is particularly compelling.
What's ironic is that a show in which the star goes to great lengths to expose himself literally -- often with the crowd-pleasing assistance of choreographer Carol Marcia Johnson, video projection artist Raymond Rea, and lighting designer Emma Rivera --we don't really see enough of him. It would, for instance, be fascinating to meet Kipp's girlfriend and watch that relationship interact with the others onstage. As it is, we just get a peek at the man inside the Calvin Kleins. It's the ultimate, but surely unintentional, tease.