Greig’s work exists in that sweet spot where the champagne is corked, the hemlines frayed, and the red velvet curtain needs a bloody good scrub, but that only adds to the glamour. It reminded me of John Waters' assertion that queer culture was much more fun when everyone was in the closet.  His Kate Bush may be a “wow,” as he changes into a flowing red Pre-Raphaelite skirt and black veil, eyes wide and hands becoming claws, but she's singing a  karaoke version of “Running Up That Hill” with a broad Scottish accent, and those surely aren't the correct lyrics. His own relationship with these icons who shaped his life cannot help but leak out—such is his wonderfully crafted mischief.

But scratch the Bette Davis quips, bitchy Crisp asides, or Greig making various audience members complicit in his choreography, by squealing in their faces, chiding them on a red chaise lounge, or stroking their arms, and there's a far wider purpose here. Which is: these beauties weren't beauties for long. All is impermanence, all that flickers ends at the last reel. And no amount of Botox or Vaseline on the lens will ever paper over the cracks. We are, all of us, on borrowed time. But the best art is eternal. This is a rallying cry to individualism and outrageous behaviour. What a beautiful, witty and potent memento mori.