Review: Prince Faggot Envisions a Gay Heir to the British Throne

King Edward II of England was willing to go to war with his barons in 1312 over the murder of his lover Piers Gaveston. James I had a series of close relationships with men, including his cousin Esmé Stewart, Robert Carr, and George Villiers (the besotted King lavished all three with titles). Of course, Queen Anne had her favorites, though those intimate relationships with women never prevented her from conceiving 18 children (sadly, none reached adulthood) and overseeing the political union of England and Scotland, which, unlike many a royal marriage, survives to this day. But lesbians have always been sensible that way.

In his fascinating new drama, Prince Faggot, Jordan Tannahill glances at the history of homosexual British monarchs and poses the obvious (though controversial) question: What would it look like to have a gay heir to the throne in the 21^st century?

A beautifully rendered co-production from Soho Rep and Playwrights Horizons, Prince Faggot is the kind of boundary-pushing work off-Broadway audiences have come to expect from the two companies. I’m not confident a production could even be mounted in the UK—at least, no company receiving arts council funding would dare. But that underhanded, thoroughly British way of making inconvenient narratives disappear is very much at the heart of this story—a rom-com doused with realism and spackled with queer commentary.

The central couple is plausible: Dev (Mihir Kumar) is a grad student with a tedious tendency to wokesplain. George (John McCrea) is a prince sitting on literal centuries of generational wealth. We absolutely believe they met at Oxford. We also feel in our bones that their love is doomed.

Sure, George’s parents, William (K. Todd Freeman) and Kate (Rachel Crowl), are outwardly enthusiastic when he brings Dev to meet them at Anmer Hall—but they’ve also invited along their trusted communications secretary (David Greenspan, hilarious) to head off any negative publicity. George and Dev are clearly in love (McCrea and Kumar have real chemistry), but is that enough for their relationship to survive the withering gaze of the British press? What happens when the trappings of a privileged gay male lifestyle (heavy experimentation with sex and drugs accompanied by a soupçon of contemporary dance) crash against the ancient duties of monarchy?

Tannahill reels the audience along with dishy dramatic scenes about real people, all vividly brought to the stage by this cast of pros (N’yomi Allure Stewart is particularly convincing as Charlotte, George’s protective and precocious little sister). It’s like The Crown, but with slightly more BDSM.

But Prince Faggot is not merely a soap opera. Under the deft direction of Shayok Misha Chowdhury, the actors step out of character to comment on the action—not in the declarative Brechtian style, but like a troupe of queer actors cracking jokes in a rehearsal room, occasionally baring their souls on how the themes of the play intersect with their own lives. It makes the audience feel like part of the family.

Tannahill covers a lot of ground with complexity and nuance. I was particularly struck by a scene between George, just returned to Kensington Palace following a chemsex bender, and an older gay butler (Greenspan once again proves why he is one of the great storytellers of his generation). By way of a horrific tale from his past, he advises the prince to know his limits and exercise discretion.

A subsequent fiery scene between George and William highlights not just the gay propensity to cry bigotry in order to deflect criticism from one’s own self-destructive behavior, but the value of having relationships with gay elders who have been there, done that, and can call us on our bullshit. This is absolutely why so many boys are out there looking for a daddy.

Sex is central to Prince Faggot, and the intimacy coordinators of UnkleDave’s Fight-house have delivered the most realistic depiction of gay sex I have ever witnessed onstage (the ushers lock up our phones in Yondr pouches before the show to head off any amateur pornographers). Isabella Byrd gorgeously lights these moments like Caravaggio paintings, bodies moving in and out of the upstage shadows. It is erotic and stunningly beautiful.

The action rarely lets up as scene after scene unfolds from David Zinn’s versatile set, which suggests a palace-themed nightclub. Lee Kinney’s thumping sound design underscores the transitions with the terrible electronic music so beloved by gay men. Montana Levi Blanco’s costumes offer a queer spin on the Savile Row fashions favored by the House of Windsor. The looks peak during an acid-trip scene featuring all the royal forebears mentioned in the first paragraph. It certainly makes for a striking image when Queen Anne crowns the heir apparent with a leather puppy mask. I’d like to believe McCrea envisions himself as a corgi in this moment.

Those of us keenly aware of how most fetishes derive from taboos around power will have some notion of the choice the young prince ultimately faces and makes. I defy you to come up with a kinkier scenario than relinquishing control of you own person to serve until death as the embodiment of the state.

In refusing us a fairytale ending, Tannahill also leaves us with a bracing sense of our smallness, and the insignificance of our identity-obsessed squabbles, in the grand sweep of history. There’s no right side or wrong side. Most likely, history won’t remember you at all.