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Dinner at Precisely Eight-Thirteen
reviewed by Martin Denton
Lisa Ferber and Paul Nelson's frothy concoction Dinner at Precisely Eight-Thirteen is the musical that The Drowsy Chaperone ought to contain (but does not). For 90 fairly blissful minutes, Ferber and Nelson sustain a witty and entirely foolish parody of American musical comedy of the late '20s/early '30s—something that is not at all easy to do—and they nail their frivolous target with impressive accuracy. Other influences are apparent here (everything from Double Indemnity to Grey Gardens to, in the characters' names, both P.G. Wodehouse and S.J. Perelman), but it is the utter empty-headed silliness of those shows that were a staple of American entertainment 70 or 80 years ago that carries the day here.
Which is not to suggest that Dinner has no plot; far from it. It concerns Kitty LaBlintz, a 35-year-old socialite who lives in a Gramercy Park mansion with her nanny, Miss Pudding. Tonight they will read Kitty's late father's will, and then have a dinner party (guess what time); her guests are the others mentioned in the will—her father's old friend Snerdley Jammybottoms, a publisher; Flitney Shropfordshire III, a financier and longtime family friend; Hedy Highball, a mystery writer who was also working on the LaBlintz family biography; and Rose E. Cheeks, Kitty's dad's "personal secretary." There's also an unexpected guest, one Thaddeus Q. Feydeau, an actor who concocts a get-rich-quick scheme that involves Kitty and a best-selling philosopher (!) named Smarmy Von Footnote. Romantic alliances will be negotiated, secrets will be revealed, and someone will be murdered before the evening is over.
But not to worry: it's all in fun. Ferber's dialogue is zippy and packed with one-liners like:
Well on that day, I was wearing an after bath splash called Six Days Under Bernie's Sofa. Now, by that time I'd only spent four days under Bernie's sofa but I figured I'd keep going and see what happened.
And her lyrics are solid and funny, including one particularly delightful list song of the kind Hart and Porter used to specialize in:
If a philosopher is their type of bloke
When it comes to Heidegger I'm quite well spoke
I can live my life full throttle, lounging with my favorite bottle
Long as on a moment's notice I can bust out Aristotle
We don't hear this kind of song much these days; Ferber and Nelson zero in on the period they're satirizing with real precision and luster. Nelson's melodies are charmers, too.
This world premiere production is rough around some of its edges, which may be attributable to a festival's compressed rehearsal and technical schedules. But I'm not sure that director Elizabeth London is on the same page as Ferber and Nelson; it feels like some of the specific archetypes and targets are unrealized here. Jennifer Houston is dead-on as Hedy, the writer with attitude, and Ivanna Cullinan (Miss Pudding), Moira Stone (Kitty), and Greg LoProto (Flitney) have great moments in their respective roles.
Dinner at Precisely Eight-Thirteen, the opening show of this year's Pretentious Festival, is a great deal of fun. And who knows: if Ferber and Nelson keep developing and sharpening this piece (as I would enthusiastically suggest they should), we may see it at NYMF or even at the Marquis.
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Between the Legs of God
reviewed by Michael Criscuolo
All the world's a stage in Art Wallace's gonzo comedy, Between the Legs of God, in which the author posits that the seeming randomness of life is actually dictated by a carefully laid out script. Stage theory, as Wallace calls it, is a creation of intelligent design, and all human events are subject to it. What's a person to do when they find out that everything they do and think "spontaneously" is pre-determined? If they're one of the characters in this hysterically offbeat play, the options include telling bad jokes, baking a cake, or holding a séance.
The action takes place on the birthday of Daughter, an aspiring young actress who's rehearsing an experimental play provocatively titled "Crotch?" Daughter's sole parent, Father, objects to her involvement in the play, balking at the script's opening stage directions that the performers hurl urine and feces onto the audience. "I draw the line at piss and shit!" Father decries. That doesn't stop Hans, the pretentious artsy director of "Crotch?", from coming over to convince Father otherwise. (Decked out in black clothes and sporting a snobby German accent, Hans is a surefire descendent of Mike Myers's old Saturday Night Live character, Dieter.) Before long, the house is overrun by enough crazies for a police lineup. They include a clueless baker, a bitter, washed-up comedian, and a sweet-faced door-to-door salesman who worships a dark god.
This, of course, is when Between the Legs of God starts to heat up. Father, a retired modern dancer, attempts to perform his signature piece as a gift for Daughter. The comedian, inexplicably named Alabama Montana, stands on a spackle bucket and performs his tired routine. Clay, the sweet faced salesman, sings a song. Hans recalls the time he fought off a bear with a stick. All the while, everyone ponders the meaning of life now that they've learned that the universe follows a script (which they verify by finding a page of it stuffed in the couch). Plus, there's a knife fight thrown in for good measure.
I'm not sure Between the Legs of God serves any larger purpose than to make the audience laugh, but it succeeds at that in spades. Wallace and his cronies revel in the opportunity to goof off and publicly air some long-held inside jokes (strictly an assumption on my part based on the friends-and-family nature of the audience on the night I attended). Ursula Cataan (Daughter), Heath Kelts (Hans Jurgen), Devon Hawkes Ludlow (Clay), Mike Rutkoski (Alabama Montana), Trav S.D. (Father), and Adam Swiderski (Baker) all get a chance to shine at their respectively delirious best.
Between the Legs of God makes fun of its own pretentiousness in a swift 45 minutes, which gives the audience plenty of time to tune into Wallace's strange, mischievous wavelength. And, if you're in the mood for something different and a little rambunctious, I do suggest you tune in. You may not catch everything, but you will laugh. A lot.
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This Is the New American Theatre
reviewed by James Comtois
In Danny Bowes and Tom X. Chao's meta-comedy, This is the New American Theatre, which is playing at the Brick Theatre's Pretentious Festival, the two megalomaniac writer-performers attempt to create a new form of theatre, try to find love, and provide the most nudity I've ever seen in a play.
Tired of not getting the attention they believe they deserve, Danny and Tom plan to redefine theatre by having actresses appear nude onstage. The nude actresses will distract the audience while the emotionally impaired man-children subliminally propagandize the audience. Of course, once they cast their actresses—Danny's feminist friend Astrid and Tom X. Chao superfan Marcy—they realize (much to their chagrin) that the women have their own ideas about the play's direction.
Is it funny? Yes. Does it convey interesting ideas in an entertaining way? Absolutely. Is it worth your while to see? Definitely. Does it reinvent the medium of theatre as its creators profess? Hardly.
There are some fun and interesting ideas being presented. Onstage nudie-time is often a heated topic of discussion in the realm of theatre, and This is the New American Theatre is a thoughtful satire on that stigma; Danny explains that, unlike most shows that make feeble attempts to artistically justify gratuitous nudity, they're admitting that the nudity in their play is gratuitous, which makes it therefore more genuinely artistic (it makes sense in its own twisted sort of way). At one point, Astrid explains that it's disingenuous and inaccurate to consider nudity exploitative if the actor or actress in question has no problem being naked on stage.
It is refreshing to see Bowes, who also directed, and Chao portray themselves as such insufferably egocentric brats without apology. I laughed uncontrollably at Tom's complaint about actresses having the audacity to (Heavens, no!) Ask Questions during the rehearsal process.
Melissa Roth and Karen Sours are great as Astrid and Marcy: very funny, very bold. Even though they appear naked for about 90% of their stage time, not once did I worry for them or feel that they were being exploited.
Unfortunately, Bowes's and Chao's script doesn't quite hold together. It could stand to see some selective cutting. Some of the scenes with the foursome rehearsing their masterpiece seriously drag (in particular, the one where Danny shows up to rehearsal late). Also, the subplot of the two men falling in love with Astrid and Marcy falling in love with Tom doesn't gel with the play's main through-line of Tom and Danny trying to reinvent theatre.
This is the News American Theatre is a riff on the recurring themes and ideas of Chao's earlier work (his own self-absorption, his difficulty in connecting with women, his assertion of his own genius). If you've never seen Chao's work, This is the New American Theatre is a good place to start. If you are familiar with his work, although an enjoyable play, it won't be anything new.
At the end of the day, however, wondering whether or not This is the New American Theatre is either a serious attempt to deconstruct the medium and/or the psyches of the play's creators or an excuse for lots and lots of gratuitous nudity is beside the point. It's a good deal of fun.
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An Interview with the Author
reviewed by Martin Denton
If, by "pretentious," the Brick Theater means "claiming or demanding a position of distinction or merit; outwardly extravagant; a specious allegation; a pretext" (as my American Heritage College Dictionary suggests they might), well, with An Interview with the Author, Matthew Freeman's contribution to the Pretentious Festival, a 45-minute one-man play (with more than one actor), they've gotten just what they asked for.
The play takes place on a stage that's bare except for a table, on which sits a big old-fashioned reel tape recorder, and a chair, on which sits the title character, played by Freeman himself. He turns the machine on and the interview commences (voiced, disembodiedly, by Freeman also). It is at first a fawning paean to the unmatched brilliance of this young playwright, touching briefly but glowingly on each of the produced plays of his six-year career. There's even an obsequious questionnaire, in which the interviewer asks Freeman a variety of irrelevant questions ("If there is a heaven and if God exists, which war do you think was his favorite?"). It's like Inside the Actor's Studio on Viagra (with of course that huge literal allusion to Krapp's Last Tape centerstage).
But at some point, the author loses control of his interviewer, which is odd because of course the author is the interviewer—we start to lose count of the layers of recursion as the metaphorical mirror cracks and Freeman's Freeman splits, literally, in three.
It's smart and hilarious, which won't surprise Freeman's fans; it's also, apart from its obvious parody of the central notions of pretentious theatre in general and this festival in particular, a devastating satire of the current culture of introspection and self-flagellation. (This may not be apparent to those unfamiliar with Freeman's—as he himself calls it here—oeuvre. But take my word for it: the personal preoccupations that Freeman identifies as the main ideas of his plays here aren't the main ideas of his plays. More meta; more pretext.)
Freeman's vision is neatly matched by director Kyle Ancowitz's; the technical elements of the show—more complicated than they at first appear—are particularly well-realized. David DelGrosso and David Johnston, in supporting roles about which it would be unfair to disclose anything, are delightful.
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Three Angels Dancing on a Needle
reviewed by Mark DeFrancis
You can do a lot of things with a play. You can fill it with talented actors. You can cover it with great choices, props, lights, and energy. You can dress it up however you like, but it will still be the play you started with. Three Angels Dancing on a Needle by Assurbanipal Babilla, at the Pretentious Festival, sadly suffers from this very problem.
The piece primarily consists of three long monologues, which illuminate its three characters. Merry Jo Pitasi brings a riveting presence and dynamic chops to the role of a desperate woman trying to sell a dirty t-shirt while expunging her deep sexual frustration to her would-be buyer. Her physicality and warmth help bring life and occasional humor to this mad woman and her quest for a lowly ten dollars and some acceptance.
She is followed by Odell Rivas portraying an unrequited lover whose lustful fantasy is likened to medical healing. His pain and pleasure are fused and raised to spiritual proportions, which is at times exciting and at other times pretentious babble. Rivas throws himself into the role with as much charisma as he can summon and director Michael Yawney's visceral use of props is most apparent in a bowl of water which doubles for the object of desire.
Finally, Miriam Kulick applies a cold rigor to her portrayal of a battered wife set free by her husband's suicide. Thankfully she has been given an actual story to tell and brings an animalistic sensuality, which this piece so desperately needs.
The play is also loaded with self-referential discussion. Actors will interrupt their monologues, break character, and openly comment on their characters, playwright, and director in a manner which not only undercuts any characters they have formed but also makes the whole piece come across as one large inside joke at the Brick Theater. These segments, while refreshing, are also very off-putting. If a statement about the actor's relationship to the elements of theatre is being made, it is in no way relevant to the rest of the play and halts any attempt at engaging the audience with the material.
Unfortunately, one leaves Three Angels more confused then entertained. I would love to see this same team of actors and director do just about any other show any other time, but I sadly cannot recommend this piece.
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Nothing
reviewed by David Ledoux
My first thought: Well, you get what you pay for . . . And Nothing is free.
My second thought: You get what you ask for . . . And this is the Pretentious Festival.
The one thing I will say in it's defense, it takes a lot of guts to present this subject matter to an audience even though people may kill you. Read no further if you don't want the end of the show ruined.
Let me give you a brief rundown of my experience. I arrive at the Brick Theatre in Williamsburg about a half hour before curtain. I go into the lobby and there is no one there. I start to wonder if maybe the show was cancelled or I got the wrong day. I go back into the theatre and there is a man sitting in the audience. I ask him if there is a show tonight and he says, "Sort of, the house isn't open yet." So I go take a walk around Williamsburg and come back a few minutes before the show is supposed to start. The house is still not open, but now there is a woman at the box office. I hear the man inside the theatre now going over last minute cues with his light board operator. This goes on for about ten minutes past when the show is supposed to start.
I ask the box office woman if this is the show; if this was the "Nothing" that was being presented and they are messing with me. She assures me it is not and they are just going over some last minutes things. Finally the house opens, I walk into an empty theatre and sit down. The man, whose name I do not have because there are no programs or press kits, gives the curtain speech.
The lights dim. A light comes up stage center. The light board operator comes out from the lighting booth and has a seat in the audience. We then all stare at this light for ten minutes. Ten long minutes. The light board operator leaves, fades the light and then full lights up and music.
I ask the man, who was the director and creator of the piece, what his intention was in doing this. He says that it was the most pretentious thing he could think of. I agree.
Even though this piece was nothing more than a kind of practical joke on the audience, I found myself going through a wide gamut of thoughts and feelings. I was angry that I came all the way to Brooklyn to see this. Then I went from angry to almost admiring the guts that it takes to do this.
I take issue with one central part of the evening. There was a light center stage. If this was truly nothing, it should have been dark. Also, what cues could they possibly have been going over for ten minutes past curtain?!
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Rockberry: The Final One-Man Show
reviewed by Robert Weinstein
Rockberry: The Last One Man Show, Jollyship the Whiz Bang's multimedia contribution to the Brick's Pretentious Festival, begins with an infomercial projected onto a large white sheet at the back of the stage. Hosted by a man known only as The Mayor, the infomercial's topic is Rockberry, a woodland arts colony dedicated to providing sanctuary and resources to artists seeking to realize their potential. The Mayor roams the colony grounds wearing a three-piece suit, expounding on the importance of the arts and artists, stopping only to sip water from a muddy puddle or sit at his pottery wheel to haphazardly create a bowl. The Mayor gives every impression of someone in love with the sound of his own voice and sets the tone for the ensuing events.
Rockberry tells the story of Kareem La Jordin, a playwright accepted into the colony because of a play he wrote which was deemed brilliant and because of his name which was deemed African American. Kareem is not African American, though, and judging from the criticisms of his fellow colonists—a dancer named Toby, his performing artist girlfriend Grace, and a socially awkward poet named Jill—his play isn't that good.
Rejected by his peers, Kareem takes to the woods with a video camera and, through circumstances I won't spoil by divulging, he encounters The Creature, a being sent from the future who communicates telepathically and encourages him to forget about his play because he is destined to write a one-man show, the contents of which will alter the history of mankind and, more importantly, art. The Creature appears throughout the show as Kareem's muse communicating telepathically in both English and French, its translations projected onto the large white sheet. What follows is a sort of intellectual and metaphysical thriller in which Kareem delves deep within himself to create this preordained masterpiece before he is kicked out of the colony and before madness consumes him.
Nick Jones's script takes an intelligent look at the complexity of creation, examining issues such as the currency of art and its power, the need to create, the desire to be recognized, and the process of creation. Part of the show's enjoyment comes from watching him throw these ideas against one another and allowing the pieces to scatter where they may. His characters speak in a heightened, stylized text without ever condescending to the audience. And they are very, very funny.
The play loses momentum near the end. Jones interrupts the flow of certain storylines to introduce newer ones but the talented cast keep the audience laughing and engaged. Megan Stern is especially good as Jill, effectively embodying the conflict between the desire to be good and the fear that one is not as good as one wishes. Justin Birdsong brings a bratty and disarming charm to the role of Kareem. Carla Corvo is also excellent in her work as The Creature, a silent role, utilizing her expressive face, listening skills, and a love of potato chips.
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The Mercury Menifesto
reviewed by Emily Otto
Here in New York, we've all seen our share of kooky performers in the subway and on the street. While we've come to expect all manner of singing, dancing, drumming, and sermonizing, some of the most captivating public performances consist of artists doing, well, nothing at all. John Del Signore's The Mercury Menifesto illuminates the world of stationary artists, also commonly known as living statues. Framed as a workshop seminar for wannabe Mercury Men, the production combines video footage and puppetry with dramatic re-enactments and improvisation to present a glimpse of life "inside the unitard." With tongue planted firmly in silver cheek, The Mercury Menifesto visually entertains while offering sharp, acidic commentary on the collision of art, commerce, and law enforcement in New York City.
Clad and painted entirely in silver, Del Signore spent years performing as a Mercury Man in New York's subways. Standing motionless for hours at a time, he would only move to thank passersby who dropped money in his bucket. His unusual act attracted crowds of people, a fair amount of cash, and, inevitably, New York's Finest working hard to shut down his performance. The Mercury Menifesto uses the motivational seminar format to present sardonic sketches and scenarios examining the rewards and pitfalls of a career as a renegade street artist.
Throughout the performance, Del Signore and his "seminar helper guy" co-star, Jeff Seal, coax the audience into manufactured excitement with flashing lights, applause cues, and silver coins tossed to participants who display sufficient enthusiasm. While presenting the philosophical components of being a successful stationary artist, they recount the tale of Del Signore's journey into the genre.
The Mercury Men were born when Del Signore was fired from playing a wandering, candy-cane toting Santa at Saks Fifth Avenue shortly after an unfortunate drunken encounter with Rudy Giuliani. Inspired by a bum in the subway, Del Signore decided he could embark on a new career as a self-made man. The production recreates his early experiences in subway performance with the help of a half-dozen puppets, cleverly designed by Mary Kate Rix to represent the diversity of New York's subway riders. Del Signore repeatedly asserts his status as the original Mercury Man, despite the contrary claims of the nefarious Victor Wilde, Del Signore's former performing partner, who appears on video, "live via satellite from L.A.," in an attempt to destroy Del Signore's credibility. It soon becomes apparent that the men in unitards are less than unified in their desire to "stand for change."
Del Signore's writing is clever and incisive, and his turns of phrase are frequently laugh-out-loud funny (I particularly enjoyed the idea of his Santa "proffering cane" to Giuliani). The physical performances are hilariously precise. Seal, in particular, embodies a mélange of bumbling characters with great aplomb. Occasionally, the actors stumble with some uninspired line readings, but oddly, the performance comes to life most vividly when things go a little awry. Both Seal, who is a trained clown, and Del Signore are adept improvisers, and when they are caught off-guard by an audience response or a technical glitch, they ride the wave of uncertainty with energy and skill.
The performance begins and ends with a droll voiceover offering a meta-narrative commentary on the play, describing it as a "fatuous crowd-pleaser." While the device is amusing, and certainly appropriate for the stated intentions of the Pretentious Festival, it feels somewhat extraneous to the show itself. The self-mockery is fun, but even without it, The Mercury Manifesto presents barbed, witty insights about the struggle to make a living as an artist in our fair city.
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The Cole Kazdin Amnesia Project
reviewed by Michael Criscuolo
Cole Kazdin starts her new solo show, The Cole Kazdin Amnesia Project (I Don't Remember the Name of This Show), the only way possible: by forgetting her lines. It's the perfect beginning because it lets the audience know exactly what they're in for: lots of charm and clever humor. Charm, in fact, could be Kazdin's middle name. She may have lost her memory, but she still knows how to spin a good yarn.
Based on a true story, the Amnesia Project recalls Kazdin's developing the title ailment after a freak accident on the set of a non-union TV pilot (she tumbles from the top of a cheerleading pyramid, of all things—ouch!). When she comes to, she's in an apartment she doesn't recognize surrounded by people she doesn't know. But, they know her. Two of them say they're her parents. Another one is a guy with a hangdog look on his face (that's Tom, the guy who didn't catch her fall). And, there's another guy who may be Kazdin's boyfriend. Or was. Or maybe still is?
Kazdin humorously takes us on her journey back towards memory—and what a journey it is. Suffering from total memory loss, she has to re-learn everything with the help of a portable tape recorder she keeps at her side. (Example: she turns on the recorder to remind herself that "Amy is my friend who is slutty.") Of the brief moment she enjoyed before remembering that her arguing parents are divorced, Kazdin confides, "That was a nice couple of minutes."
Even her short term memory is affected. In a particularly effective scene, Kazdin brushes her teeth, puts the toothbrush down, then repeats the entire process several more times. In another instance, she calls for her board operator to cue the music, then forgets that she did so. "Why is this music playing?" she wonders before asking for it to be stopped. And, in perhaps the Amnesia Project's most inspired moment, Kazdin begins her story by accidentally performing a section from her previous solo show, My Year of Porn. "Oh. Wrong show," she remembers, then starts the correct play.
But, the Amnesia Project also has heart, which is most evident as Kazdin gets to experience the joyous thrills of falling in love and having sex "for the first time" all over again. It's this part of the story that hints at the play's larger, inspiring implications: our heroine's opportunity for a second chance at everything in her life.
Director Robert Cucuzza emphasizes Kazdin's strengths as a storyteller, and allows her every opportunity to play them up. She is a confident and engaging presence on stage, and she has gained more poise and control since the last time I saw her (in the Porn show). She is endearing and sassy. And, as I said before, very charming. She has the audience rooting for her all the way.
The Cole Kazdin Amnesia Project (I Don't Remember the Name of This Show) showcases its talented author and star at her best. It's a great boon for audiences that Kazdin has regained much of her memory, and I, for one, am most grateful for that. Welcome back, Ms. Kazdin.
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Ivory Tower or Sagan?
reviewed by Dianna Tucker Baritot
A note of warning: if you are the kind of theatergoer who, like me, tends to rely heavily on a dialogue-rich script (or even a plot) to enjoy a play, then this may not be the production for you.
Then again, maybe it is. As one of the very few lines in the show tells us: "It's experimental disagreement that makes us all open to change." This fresh and irreverent performance piece presented by Movementspants Dance Company consists largely of modern dance and mime: think Mummenschanz sans toilet paper, in Daisy Duke shorts. (Hence, I'm guessing, the name of the dance troupe.) Four performers spend 45 minutes depicting animated scenes about a college lecture, a visit to the doctor's office, and the contemplation of one's index finger.
The piece is performed on a bare stage, and Mandy Hart's lighting design is responsible for setting the scene; a pale blue wash lets us know that an intense magical duel takes place at night. Costumes by Adrienne Hecker are whimsically simple. In fact, the whole piece is whimsically simple and entertaining. Set to Lyle Beers's rhythmic compositions, Adrian Jevicki (in collaboration with his performers, Elodie Escarmelle, Rebecca Ketchum, and Nathan Kosla) provides an hour of fascinating theatre. The dancers are, for the most part, skilled and graceful. But more importantly, they are all utterly committed and earnest in their comedy. They manage, through movement, music, and occasional spoken text, to evoke a series of moods and emotions which give a viewer the sense that a story has been told.
But what's it about? My husband would say it's about 45 minutes long. I would say that it's about college lectures and wet willies. It's about Frisbee and magic duels. It's about a trip to the doctor's office. It's about the human condition. (It's not about people who wear long pants.)
It's about letting go of your preconceived notions of what to expect at a night of festival theatre and having a great time where you didn't expect it. Then again, maybe that's just me.
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Ian W. Hill's Hamlet
reviewed by James Comtois
As part of the Brick Theatre's Pretentious Festival, Ian W. Hill directs, designs, and stars in an ambitious new version of Shakespeare's famous play, Hamlet. However, since this isn't named the Pretentious Festival for nothing, this production is actually called Ian W. Hill's Hamlet. I can't deny I'm impressed by the level of chutzpah.
Unfortunately, I had no clear take on what Hill's concept for Hamlet is or where it was going.
The style and look is too inconsistent. Big band music, along with punk rock and pieces by Phillip Glass, plays on the soundtrack. One actor speaks in a slight British accent, another in what sounds like a Brooklyn dialect. The clothes range from early 20th century garb to sneakers, T-shirts and baseball caps. Is this supposed to be during the 1930s, the post-World War II era, or present-day? Is it supposed to be a deliberate jumble, a la Terry Gilliam's Brazil? If so, why?
Also, it's a very good thing I've seen and read the play; otherwise I'd be totally lost. You need to be at least somewhat familiar with the story or have seen one of the film versions to have any clue as to what's going on.
A prime example of this is the scene where the ghost of Hamlet's father explains his death (a pretty crucial scene for understanding the story) through multiple overlapping voices spoken live over a prerecorded voice, which renders the monologue garbled, and thereby the entire scene—and play, for the matter—incomprehensible.
Hill plays the melancholy prince of Denmark mourning the loss of his father and wanting revenge on his murderous uncle as a bitter and aging sprite with a prankster's sensibility. Sometimes, this works, such as when he verbally bullies Polonius. Other times, it does not, such as when he tells his girlfriend Ophelia to get lost (his Hamlet seems too smug and self-absorbed to convince me that he'd ever give her the time of day, let alone love her).
In one sense, it's unfair—if not outright snobbish—to compare one production of a Shakespeare play to another. But at the same time, I can't pretend I've never seen nor read Hamlet. Maybe I just took it too personally that Ian W. Hill's Hamlet undermines so many of its characters.
For example, I can't help but be curious to see how Claudius is portrayed. Sinister? Guilt-ridden? Cold and ambitious? A mixture of all of these, or something else? I got no read on this production's Claudius. He didn't seem like a villain, nor did he seem like a sympathetic person overwhelmed with guilt. Just as I didn't buy here that Hamlet loved Ophelia, I didn't buy that Claudius loved Gertrude or felt uncomfortable when he said, "Give me some light. Away!" I never realized until seeing this show how entrenched the characters of Hamlet, Claudius, Polonius and Ophelia are in my imagination and psyche.
Although the final tableau of the production reveals a distinctive look and style, not only does it feel out of place with the rest of the play, it falls within the "too little, too late" category.
Impressive chutzpah and admirable ambition aside, with a runtime of nearly three hours, I found Ian W. Hill's Hamlet to be overlong and incoherent, being neither quite Hamlet nor its own unique version of the play.
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Tunnel Vision
reviewed by Nicole A. Watson
Everything is a matter of perspective. Tunnel Vision, a solo piece written and performed by Carla Stangenberg and directed by Mercedes Murphy, examines the fine line between healthy introspection and myopia. Set on a stalled NYC subway, the play first introduces us to Julie, who is on her way to a job interview. Clutching a yellow post-it-noted text, referred to only as "the book," Julie is doing her best not to fall into the world of self-doubt and fear. "Doubt is the enemy," she proclaims. Should she waver from her determined, positive path, Julie opens "the book" in search of a phrase that will restore her confidence, or rifles through a stack of note cards detailing the number of rejections that Dr. Seuss and Ayn Rand received prior to their success.
Following Julie, we are introduced to an older Southern gentlemen whose good book is the Bible. Both characters are in search of a path, "the path," perhaps to something better. In the voice of the gentleman, it is clear that Stangenberg has a propensity for the poetic.
Stangenberg plays several characters in this piece including a news reporter from the "Department of News." Videos offering news clips serve as interruptions to Julie's meditations. However, in this world, no news is news. Journalism serves to distort rather than present any sense of reality, a questionable thing if perspective is all we've got. Tunnel Vision, while pointing to the importance of perspective, highlights American short-sightedness and self-interest. The journalist reports that bacon and breast implants are actually beneficial. Breast implants lead to longevity as buxom woman are more likely to find rich men with adequate health care. "The bigger the better. The tighter the sweater," he states at the end of his newscast.
The use of the videocast, created by Katurah Hutcheson and projected on the back wall of the theatre, is in stark contrast to the dark, minimalist set, complementing Julie's musing on the external and internal worlds. Overall the piece is solid. Stangenberg gives a fine performance. However, in spite of all the appropriate social and political commentary, the piece fails to move. Perhaps that is the point, as the piece starts on a stalled subway. "The path"—to nirvana, God, happiness, or whatever you want to call it—means nothing if we are stuck.
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