Review: Priscilla, aavikon kuningatar

And then I also saw Priscilla, a musical swiped by Samuel Harjanne’s director with his golden finger.

I haven’t seen a desirable film about the trip of three drag queens in the Australian deserts, so I sweated the experience virginally in the crowded auditorium of the Helsinki City Theatre.

The musical overdoes it in every respect, the cakes and pieces of cake dance, the heart is reconstituted as a choreography, the false eyelashes are longer and stiffer than in living memory, and the heart rate in the company of 1980s hit songs is accelerating and relaxed.

A cheerful video background paces the journey of an age-old tour bus from one Aussie junta city checkpoint to another.

Even though I enjoy myself, I also think. Priscilla is also a very sympathetic way to get to know sexual and gender minorities. Through humour, you can think about how someone who was born on the margins and has chosen a special lifestyle can find a way to fulfil themselves in art. It also tells about a family where the child is the wisest and knows how to put the truth into words.

It is also about love, for whom ostrich feathers, fake breasts and thick eyelashes are just props and the deepest person is the person without peeking into the pants.