For most celebrities, fame is merely a byproduct of other public pursuits like acting, politics, or sports—intoxicating, maybe, but not an end unto itself. For Jackie Curtis, an eccentric gender-bending star in Andy Warhol's orbit, fame was an obsessive and ultimately destructive art form that manifested in camp performance, avant-garde theater, and poetry. Part of a trio of Warhol-sponsored "superstars" (along with Holly Woodlawn and Candy Darling) who appeared in Paul Morrissey films like the 1971 feminist drag comedy Women In Revolt, Curtis was so consumed with stardom that it negated all conventional notions of gender or sexual identity. In his words, "I am not a boy, I am not a girl. I am not gay, I am not straight. I am not a drag queen, I am not a transvestite. I am Jackie Curtis."
With his affectionate documentary Superstar In A Housedress, director Craig B. Highberger tries to a make a case for Curtis as an unrecognized creative genius, but the snippets of writing and murky performance footage on display are a weak sell. Curtis' real genius may have been his unique persona, which is imitative of Hollywood glamour on both sides of the gender divide—from Barbara Stanwyck and Lana Turner to Gary Cooper and James Dean—yet defiant in its unpredictable fluidity. Several of the talking heads in Highberger's film talk about Curtis' tall, athletic build and utter lack of femininity, especially when compared to a petite blonde beauty like Candy Darling. Others marvel at his elegant appropriation of '30s gowns, sometimes fashioned out of tablecloths and safety pins, or the long periods when he'd step out of drag altogether and affect a more masculine appearance. It seems that without being tethered by a thin sliver of underground fame, Curtis might never had stood on solid ground.
Narrated by Lily Tomlin, who adds her voice to a scrupulous assembly of old friends, fellow performers, and familiar faces like Harvey Fierstein and Michael Musto, Superstar plays like a 90-minute wake, albeit a warm and humorous one. The circumstances behind Curtis' death at 38 are unpleasant—a perversely tragic coming together of his long-time drug addiction and his first heterosexual encounter—but enough time has passed for his associates to look back with only the fondest memories. Highberger's sluggish, cut-and-paste documentary style lacks the pizzazz that Curtis would have undoubtedly mustered had he lived to direct his own tribute, but the film feels like a labor of love. In the end, any argument for Curtis' brilliance doesn't have to be convincing—it's touching enough that an argument is made at all.