Priscilla, Queen of the Desert @ Theatre Royal Brighton

There's a difference between a show that's queer and a show that's selling queerness, and somewhere on the road from Sydney drag bar to West End jukebox musical, Priscilla lost track of which one it is. This touring revival is glossy, loud, and relentlessly, exhaustingly fabulous, and from where I sat, it felt less like a celebration of our community than a polished product wearing our colours to sell tickets.

It's worth remembering why the 1994 film has lasted as long as it has: it tackled real cultural friction head-on, it's stacked with songs that still fill gay dancefloors decades later, and its  larrikinist humour has a sharp, sarcastic bite that never lets the sentiment get sticky. That's a hard act to follow, and this production knows it, so it throws everything at the wall instead. It opens at full volume and never drops below it. Costume change, wig flip, a phalanx of muscular dancers whipped into shimmering formation, costume change again, the show is fabulous to the power of three from the first beat and stays there for two and a half hours, working so hard to impress that it never once stops to let anything land emotionally. There's no breathing room, no quiet beat where you're allowed to feel something rather than just applaud it. So much Fosse glitz, but no beating heart. The audience adored it, singing along, clapping on cue, having the time of their lives. My companion and I sat there like Statler and Waldorf, surrounded by people dressed nearly as camp as the company onstage, watching everyone else have a transcendent night out.

To be fair, it's a genuinely good show on craft terms. It looks and sounds terrific, the live band excellent and full-throttle from the opening note, and the crowd-pleasing run of 90s-and-beyond pop hits keeps the energy high (but Abba conspicuously absent). Costumes from Vicky Gill are shimmering sequinned superb, referencing the movie while offering some psychedelic interpretations of scenes that are full on classic Technicolor musical joy. I was impressed with these scenes most of all. Cast is great, Kevin Clifton's Tick has real warmth underneath the nerves. Nick Hayes is the standout as Felicia, cheeky and self-assured, with comic timing sharp enough to keep the room laughing whenever he's on. Bernadette, played at this performance by understudy Dakota Starr, came through with poise, finding the grace and weariness underneath the glamour, and the bond between the three leads read as genuinely lived-in. Holding the whole thing together are a trio of dazzling chanteuses, who keep the score soaring, Leah Vassell, Bernadette Bangura and Jessie May absolutely earn their flowers here.

But the production tells you everything about its priorities in what it changes and what it doesn't. The hard punches along the way, transphobia, homophobia, HIV stigma, violence, racism, bigotry, are treated as punch lines; one nasty flash and gone. The outback reduced to projected ochres and browns. The film carries its share of stereotyping that sits awkwardly today, and rather than reckoning with that, the show keeps most of it intact while making one curious cut: the young Aboriginal boy's quiet, empowering moment is gone, swapped for an encounter with a generic group of tourists instead of a local Indigenous man and his community. Removing the one beat of real cultural specificity and queer tenderness in the film while leaving the dated film jokes well alone.

Whatever else didn't land, the ensemble of dancers earned every ounce of the audience's screaming approval. Hot, muscular, and drilled within an inch of their lives, they tore through number after number with furious precision, never once dropping a beat even as they hit costume change after costume change, wig swap after wig swap, at a pace that was physically impressive. They were the thing that kept my eye fixed to the stage all night, a blur of sweat, sequin fringe and stamina that never flagged for a second.

The story is squeezed breathlessly between numbers, thinner and less nuanced than the film ever managed. And, true to form, everyone gets their happy ending, sending the sold out crowd out into the Brighton night chattering like a riot of kookaburras, buoyant and grinning.

It's a perfectly enjoyable night out if spectacle is what you came for. But as queer audiences, we deserve more than a show that performs our joy at full volume while quietly trimming our heart.

Until June 20th, more info or tickets from Brighton Theatre Royal