FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 6

The Spickner Spin
reviewed by Kyle Ancowitz

Delightful and daring as it is, The Spickner Spin delivers only about 5/6ths of its promised “new musical satire.” It is certainly new and certainly a musical, but the satirical element of this tale about master political strategist Stephen Spickner falls off after the first act. When Spickner (Patrick Wetzel) wagers his former protégé, the sinister Susan Stridewell (ably performed by Seri Johnson), that his Rovian wiles could get even a wino elected Mayor of Center City, the game, as they say, is on. I am not going to say what happens here, but I will say that it happens before the second act. What the show has to say about the political scene is sharply observed and refreshingly detached from current events—universal, in other words—but it is clear early on that what we are really seeing is the transformative power of love. In the finale, when Spickner falls on his own sword and misses, you can bet it’s because of a sweetly singing somebody.

That somebody would be Midwest ingénue and love interest Alice Whitehall, played by Crystal Scott, who is most charming and most convincing when she is singing. Also notable is Michael Jay Henry as “Natty” Walker, Spickner’s candidate for Mayor, who steals every scene he is in. The songs (music by Seth Bisen-Hersh, lyrics by Bisen-Hersh and Daniel Scribner) are fine vehicles for satire, but become somewhat less memorable when the love story kicks in. (I did march to the subway singing “Action! I want action!”) Cheryl Swift’s choreography is witty and assured, but there is a regrettable second act swordfight that someone needs to claim. Scenic designer William Duncan has delivered a purely two-dimensional set that calls to mind an editorial cartoon and really succeeds here. The Spickner Spin has a lot of laughs and a lot of appeal, but just like real politics, a little romance can spoil the fun.

Let There Be Light…!
reviewed by Kyle Ancowitz

I won’t be able to say enough good things about the grueling and luminous Let There Be Light..!, a presentation of the WNEP Theater of Chicago. The play is an adaptation by director Jen Ellison and Dave Stinson of a documentary about WWII vets in psychiatric care after the Allied victory in Europe. The original Let There Be Light..! was the last film director John Huston made while assigned to the Army Signal Corps. The film was seized and suppressed by the Army due to its perceived anti-war sentiments; it wasn’t released until 1981, thirty-five years later. The stage adaptation functions both as a surly rejoinder to anyone’s case for war as well as an advertisement for old-time psychoanalysis. This would be worth your time in and of itself, but truly superlative performances from the cast elevate Let There Be Light..! well above anything I expected to see in FringeNYC.

Peter De Giglio and James Yeater play soldiers afflicted with a chronic stammer and hysterical amnesia, respectively; to say more would spoil their surprises. Chad Reinhart delivers an especially athletic performance as Corp. Joe Hardy, who is confined to a wheelchair after his legs unexpectedly stop working. The scene where he is cured with truth serum is terrifically funny. Peter James Zielinski is heartbreakingly acute as PFC Jeremy Friend, whose specific ailment is never revealed. When seen in flashbacks, Friend is so lovable that you could nearly walk onstage and hug him. To witness his suffering is devastating. Finally, Joe Janes adds a peculiar menace and a remarkable sense of the era as The Doctor, who administers his cures with paternal surety from the shadows far upstage.

I would like to single out the sound design by Steve Zimmers and Tina Louise Mead for special applause. The haunted, detached voices and arresting battleground sounds shook me out of my seat and horrified me anew, almost as if I’d never been desensitized by TV violence. In fact, Let There Be Light..! is as close to battle as I’d wish for anyone to come. If you happen to have forgotten through some chance, neglect, or seduction what is fearful and horrible about war, see this play now to remember.

Gork! The retard always wins
reviewed by Amy Rhodes

It is obvious that Autumn Terrill has a genuine affection for retards. In her one-woman show, GORK! The Retard Always Wins, Terrill uses humor to demystify the world of the developmentally disabled. In doing so, she encourages the audience to laugh with, not at, a group of people who are often looked at as a diagnosis rather than as human beings.

In GORK!, Terrill examines the life of her younger brother, Adam. Adam’s autism, hyperactivity, and mental retardation make him an interesting addition to the Terrill household. At times he is unruly and unreasonable. Other times Adam is the sole voice of reason in this offbeat Iowa family.

Through a series of anecdotes, a portrait of Adam emerges as someone who rejects the notion that he is disabled and instead sees himself as a unique individual. Yet, Adam’s brand of ingenuity takes its toll on the seven-member Terrill family, often leaving them wondering whether they should laugh or cry. It is Adam who, in difficult times, uses wit and honesty to help them choose laughter.

In telling Adam’s story, Terrill transforms into various characters. She easily becomes her parents, Adam’s doctor, even Adam, through simple voice affectations and physical gestures. As a performer she has boundless, vibrant energy. Dean Strober is the director.

GORK! is, at its core, a love story. Both hilarious and moving, the show is a tribute to Adam, and all that he has to offer. It is also pays homage to the family who embraced him for who he is.

At the show’s end, a video clip of the real Adam shows him enthusiastically twirling a flag on a football field. The camera pans out to reveal that Adam is alone, performing for no one. Yet, after listening to his sister talk about him for an hour, you can’t help but feel like you know Adam Terrill, and like you are there, in the stands, cheering him on.

The Chair
reviewed by Robin Reed

As an artist participating in the FringeNYC Festival, you are forced to simplify. Big ideas need to be creatively and minimally executed or just plain cut out. Fifteen minutes to set up leaves no time to lug in heavy set or prop pieces.

The produers of The Chair have nailed minimalism in terms of their set—the corner platform cum “stage” of the Spotlight Lounge at Pace doesn’t really allow for much more than their titular seat. But author Malachy Walsh might have better served his play had he followed suit and simplified the unnecessary laden-down stories of the characters in his play.

The set-up is simple. Katherine, the slick lady boss who plays hardball in a man’s world, gives the fresh-faced and just-starting-out-in-Corporate-America Lauren a lesson in the school of hard knocks. In place of a mere $5000 raise, she offers to send her to a conference in San Diego on the company dime. Lauren, struggling, can’t seem to get through the point that she needs the cash more than the experience of corporate travel. Katherine stands smug and firm, taking on a "mother knows best" role. Lauren doesn’t have the experience or worldliness to stand up for herself.

This is where I got lost.

I wanted less back story and more present-moment conflict. Instead of offering up Katherine’s soft side (husband died young in a car accident, she never remarried or had babies) I wanted to see her conniving bitchiness come out. And I was never clear as to just what Lauren wanted to do: is this just her day job? Is she trying to climb the corporate ladder? Does she eventually want Katherine’s job? In her too-casual-for-the-office chinos and Birkenstocks, I thought no. But then why was she there? I saw no reason she shouldn’t have walked out the door a number of times as there was really no tension or reason for her to stay.

In an attempt to move the piece along, Olivia Honegger’s direction seems to treat this as more of a screenplay—quick blackouts as jump cuts, creating unnecessary transitions when the piece didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

Cecilia deWolf turns in a fine performance as Katherine, but ultimately The Chair would be a better fit in a scene study class than the Fringe.

Becoming Woman
reviewed by Leslie Bramm

What does it mean to become a woman? What are the tribulations, humiliations, and difficulties that bring a young girl from adolescence to full-blown womanhood? Becoming Woman takes on these issues and more. Lest you think I have some kindred agenda with my fellow female fringes, don’t be fooled by my first name. I am not a woman and therefore becoming one is a journey I will sadly never take. That being said, I found Becoming Woman to be a delightful piece of theatre. Alecia Whitaker and Ellen Hagan have written and directed this generic coming-of-self story. Both are published poets as well as performers, and many of their monologues fall into the prose-poem format. Not usually the kind of theatre that I enjoy, but these two pull it off.

The play opens with them doing a synchronized cheer and the characters (Alecia and Ellen) speaking simultaneously. They do this throughout the play as they trade off personal stories and play characters in each other’s lives when necessary. With not much lighting and no sound cues, these women carry the show on the strength of the anecdotes and their personal charm. They take us through adolescences, first kisses, menstruation, dealing with death, even rape. They are both very young and I have a feeling that their journey into becoming women has only begun. Hagan is funny, smart and gritty in her portrayal of herself, while Whitaker is emotional, expressive and fragile. (A side note: Whitaker has large and expressive hands, but she needs to get them under control. I found the clumsy gesticulation to be a distraction from her performance.)

Becoming Woman does not tell us anything we don’t already know, but serves to remind us of what we often forget. That women are these wonderful, mysterious, tough, fragile, explosive, brilliant, meek, loud, overly-sensitive, able to take it on the chin, thank God we have them to keep the male mentality from taking over, beautiful, needful creatures; and, let’s face it men—in comparison we are brutes. While young girls are going through a rush of hormonal, emotional growth and change, we as young boys are looking to grunt, get laid, and throw things. It would serve us well to spend some time in the feminine skin.

Red and Brown
reviewed by Maggie Bell

We can see every kind of theatre in New York, from straight plays to full-blown rock musicals. If you wish to see something different and (arguably) scarcely done anymore, you might find it refreshing to see actors perform in silence. Red and Brown is this type of rare treat. Red and Brown is a mime version of an ancient Haitian folk tale that takes us back to a raw and pure way of storytelling: relying on movement. It is absolutely delightful.

The Notorious Company from Ithaca, New York performs this show. Notorious formed in 2003 with the mission to “bring poetry of everyday life to stage,” and they bring us the poetry of love in this performance. The story is of two brothers, Red and Brown, who fall in love with the same woman. Red is more explosive, and Brown is taller and more fluid. They seem to represent two sides of the human spirit: strength and passion. As they vie for the same woman, Red and Brown embark on a journey through unknown lands and seas. Once at sea, Brown is overcome with greed and leaves Red to drown. After he returns, Brown falls victim to guilt as Red’s spirit emerges to avenge himself. The brothers unite after death and consume each other, finally completing their rite of passage and attaining a higher understanding of Love.

While this all may sound hard to follow without words, thanks to the awesome commitment of the seven-actor ensemble—and the direction of Davide Giovanzana—Red and Brown is captivating. The choreography is excellent and succinct; it's so clear, it's as if we are hearing the tale from a narrator. When the play begins, we immediately see the performers changing their bodies into the old, young, or non-human. 15 masks represent different characters, and each performer complements the expression of his or her mask. As the brothers Red and Brown see the world, the performers flawlessly move about onstage to create new environments. They lift and move a blue sheet so smoothly that it becomes the sea, and they become fish. The music, arranged and composed by Mark Simon, is so vibrant that it is another character in the play. Ranging from sharp and loud to gently soothing, the music paints the picture. Marie Sirakos beautifully plays the flute onstage at one point, heightening the mood.

Davide Giovanzana directs this show with passion and beauty. Giovanzana studied commedia dell’arte and absurd theatre in Italy, Switzerland and Brussels, and his passion certainly shows in his work here. Davide has directed his cast to tell the story purely. How exciting to see a theatre group revive an ancient form of story telling.

blah, blah, blah
reviewed by Eric Pliner

Bayou Radio Productions’ blah blah blah is billed as sketch comedy, and sometimes suffers from the limitations of the genre—but ultimately it manages to captivate its audience in a number of moments that simultaneously illuminate and entertain. The evening doesn't seem to have a unifying concept, but this series of serio-comic sketches is loosely organized around the theme of uncovering deeper layers of the human experience, couched neatly in references to history and culture.

In the ensemble’s spot-on opening sequence, a filmed parody of previews for action flicks like Die Hard, Robert S. Fisher portrays a party host whose festivities are thrown off-kilter by a guitar-wielding guest. Later sketches alternate between parodies of entertainment and politics and wry reinterpretations of them, and cover a lot of ground. Matt Scott and Ellie McBride wax sleazy/philosophical in “The Pitch,” a Waiting for Godot-style sketch about Hollywood executives contemplating a film version of Waiting for Godot. And Mical Trejo and Judson Jones exchange clever banter and even cleverer physical comedy in the moon-landing-gaffe sketch “One Small Step,” eliciting both laughter and thought with a few small gestures.

Sometimes the jokes of blah blah blah are one-note, insufficient to carry an entire extended sketch, particularly when the sketch is simultaneously struggling for poignancy (for instance, writer-director Lowell Bartholomee in “A Word from Our Sponsor,” a deconstruction of environmental activism). And, like so many sketch ensembles, the folks behind blah blah blah woefully under-use the group’s talented female members. In particular, Christa Kimlicko Jones shows tremendous nuance and promise as Jablonsky in the lost-in-the-tundra sketch “What’s This Thing Called?,” only to be relegated to the role of half-naked eye candy to make an ultimately unrealized point in “A Hill of Beans.”

Still, when blah blah blah works, it manages to be both richly funny and movingly poignant. As Vladimir Putin in “You Miss Us Now, Eh?” (another filmed sketch), Jason Liebrecht reminds Americans of the kind of enemies we used to have—and how much better things were back then. And in the evening’s funniest and most moving sketch Fisher throws a birthday party for himself—complete with imaginary soundtrack—in “Bob’s Birthday.” This sort of stuff—the kind of theater that takes its audience through a range of emotions in absurd but nonetheless evocative scenarios—makes blah blah blah much more than pointless rambling, and leaves the audience with terrific satisfaction.

Dixie's Tupperware Party
reviewed by Eric Pliner

About ten minutes into Dixie’s Tupperware Party, it occurred to me that the performance I was seeing might not just be mere entertainment. Aside from the fact that it takes place in a theatre, Dixie Longate’s solo performance is as much sales pitch as it is FringeNYC show. Before the tart-tongued hostess wobbles into the theatre (running late after a supposed exploit at a nearby truck stop), audience members are greeted by a table decked out in the latest Tupperware products and official tablecloth. Indeed, when Ms. Longate (uncredited actor Kris Andersson, performing in drag, under the direction of Thomas Caruso) does enter, she does so baring a chest-full of hanging award badges (her “swingers,” as she calls them) attesting to her success as a Tupperware sales person. And it’s no wonder—Dixie’s Tupperware Party is a hoot, riling up audience members into fits of laughter while simultaneously seducing them into purchasing her “plastic crap.”

During its silliest moments, Dixie’s Tupperware Party is a been-there-done-that drag show, complete with raffle prizes, performed by a convincing enough guy-in-heels whose Southern accent and gingham dress conjure up a familiar, sleazy character. Stories about her cleverly-named children (Winona, Dewayne, and Absorbine, Jr.) run the admittedly narrow gamut from ridiculous to amusing, and Dixie regales her audience of “hookers” and “bitches” with tales from the trailer.

During her show’s funniest moments, though, Ms. Longate manages to identify perverse uses for even the most everyday household items, bewildering the audience with her (sick) creativity and deriving laughs from knocking down nay-sayers with sharp barbs. And during the show’s most transcendent bits—and yes, I mean that in all seriousness—the audience is treated to stories about the most fascinating (and postmodern) aspect of Dixie Longate’s existence: a campy, oversexed drag queen is one of the nation’s top salespeople of a product that screams wholesome homemaker. Dixie’s response to a fellow Tupperware-salesperson who wants to show her the way to God provides the show’s biggest laugh, and it’s one among many.

It does seem that Dixie’s Tupperware Party is perhaps better suited to the venue where Tupperware is more typically sold —the living room—than a theatre, allowing this quick improviser more opportunities to interact with the audience. But other than that, it’s easy to see why Dixie is such a success as a salesperson, and as a performer—she works hard for the money, and by the end of her show, even the most bewildered audience members are leafing through the Tupperware catalog, eager to take home a bit of the “plastic crap" along with memories of this truly entertaining performance.

The Bicycle Men
reviewed by Jo Ann Rosen

If you need a good laugh (and who doesn’t), don’t miss The Bicycle Men, an engaging one-act play with music, written and performed by four talents who know how to capture an audience without binding and gagging it.

Under Scott Sandoe's direction, a series of vignettes bounce off a loosely-structured plot that involves Steve (Dave Lewman), an American who rides through a small village in France where his bike breaks down. He finds two French bicycle mechanics (Joe Liss and John Rubano), who dupe him for their own amusement. While he waits for his bike to be repaired—anywhere from one day to five months—Steve explores the town, providing the vignettes that allow Lewman, who plays his role with the naiveté of a choir boy, and his cohorts to display their considerable wares. And they are considerable.

Performed with perfect condescension and distaste, Liss and Rubano deliver fresh meaning to old stereotypes in their multiple characters. Liss was made to play seedy French characters. What is enticing—and convincing—about his characters is that they are delivered with artistic exactitude. His mime is precise, his expressions are large enough to see in the back rows, and his double takes are unmistakable. In comedy, of course, timing is everything and Liss has it in spades. John Rubano is no second banana. He possesses plenty of stage presence in his various French roles and as an old American pal of Steve’s, Austin Houston.

All of the anecdotes are funny. A puppet show vignette, in contrast to the untrustworthy characters presented in the others, shows Liss and Rubano as limp marionettes that have no more control over their limbs than they do over what they say. The acting appears easy, the chemistry real, the humor nonstop.

Mark Nutter, who also plays three less than noble Frenchmen, shines throughout. He is responsible for the fitting music and clever lyrics delivered by the four actors. All are witty, but one, "L’Homme du Bicyclette," sung by John Rubano, stands out.

With only the French flag as a backdrop and Nutter on stage at the keyboard, the four actors transport the audience as easily as the stereotypical Frenchman seduces his next paramour. There is nothing not to like about this madcap musical.

Lesbian Triptych
reviewed by Steve Chasey

Lesbian Triptych is an engrossingly performed reading of a beautifully written piece, at times weighed down by its length and over-aggressive multimedia aspects. The language of the piece, originally written by Jovette Marchessault and translated for the stage by Yvonne Klein, is daunting, driven by image-oriented metaphors and a superb parlance. It takes Julia Brandeberry's soothing but still evocative performance, coupled with simplistic direction by James Bunzli, to make it accessible.

Brandeburry cuts through the weight of the heavier phrases by using her tone and movement around the stage to create emphasis on striking scenes, deftly maneuvering the audience’s attention and experience. The story, while a translation of a historic narrative, becomes her own; she convinces us that she is, for example, a little girl, holding a jump rope, scared to step into the street, as well as every other characterization in the performance. However, despite her execution, the cerebral nature of the language eventually drains on the viewer, especially in the lengthy first section, and occasionally lacks the sufficient punch necessary to shake the audience. By the end of the third and final section, the language starts to overload the dramatics of the performance.

Behind Brandeberry on the stage is a wall constructed of canvas stretched with hooks to fit a wooden frame. During the performance, images are projected against the canvas that further emphasize the story. The selection of static, overly-direct imagery, added to the distraction presented by their quick alternation, contrasts with the overall tone. Part of the piece's beauty is its confrontation (what it was to not only be a lesbian but a woman in history), yet in a manner that doesn't imply a time period, and thus can be applied to any. The flashing Internet-like images are a contemporary iconography, which places the performance temporally in a way the rest of the performance rightfully does not. The canvas itself, especially as Brandeberry interacts with it, is a striking and effective prop, but the images create an internal contradiction in the piece.

As a whole, Lesbian Triptych has moments of startling beauty, intensely invigorating though eventually tiring language, and a few multimedia aspects to smooth out. It has beautiful potential and the clear ability to be stunning.

Sleepwalk
reviewed by Kwesi Cameron

Sleepwalk is based on the true story of New York radio disk jockey Peter Tripp, who is mostly famous for a publicity stunt he concocted for charity to stay up 8 days. He is also famous for being charged with bribery in the payola scandals of the 1950’s. Writer-director Sean K. Smith has done an excellent job of weaving both stories into a tight 90 minutes at the small but comfortable Linhart Theater.

In 1959, Tripp set an on-air record at radio station WMGM, staying up 201 hours and 9 minutes broadcasting live from a glass booth in Times Square. The play uses the stunt as a backdrop for Tripp’s rise and fall in the industry. Tripp is at the height of his fame at the time of the stunt. As the story unfolds in non-sequential scenes, we watch Tripp’s spiral downward as his ego and lust for money, women, and fame eventually lead him to be arrested for accepting bribes to play records. He is not alone in the government probe but unlike some others, such as his unseen nemesis Dick Clark (yes, that Dick Clark), Tripp is hung out to dry by the industry and never recovers. He later becomes an exercise salesman and motivational speaker.

Brian Brophy plays the fast talking, wired Tripp, and he is totally riveting and believable in the role. The supporting cast—Martha Hackett (Margie Tripp), Charlie Davis (Tom), John Lathan (ensemble) , Tania Getty (ensemble) and Victor Talmadge (Carl)—are more than capable, especially Davis as the station engineer and Tripp’s expressive but silent sidekick and Lathan in a variety of roles. Costume designer Sarah Zinsser should be commended for the authentic-looking '50s costumes, especially the women’s outfits.

The Great Defeat of Coltrane Grey
reviewed by David Johnston

The spirit of August Wilson hovers over Brian Tucker’s lyrical and affecting drama, The Great Defeat of Coltrane Grey. Tucker’s characters are urban African Americans in a dead end world. There are flashes of poetry, earthy humor and violence. The characters are steeped in music—jazz, R&B, and gospel. Best of all, like August Wilson, Tucker is able to write characters we care about.

Coltrane Grey (Jas Anderson), a tormented young poet, returns home to his South Side Chicago neighborhood in 1987, after an unexplained absence of more than five years. His arrival proves a catalyst in the lives of others—particularly his old girlfriend Naima (Nedra McClyde), his mother Evelyn (Maisha Meloncon), and a former neighbor Boogaloo (Michael Alexis Palmer.) In a series of terse scenes, Coltrane shakes his family and neighbors out of their boozy, defeated complacency as the play underscores the bitter joke of 1980s trickle-down Reaganomics. There’s nothing new about the set-up and viewpoints, but Tucker’s bracing honesty and compassion for his characters lift this play above the usual.

Playwrights who direct their own works are often asking for trouble, but Tucker avoids the traps. He wisely keeps the production to a bare minimum, emphasizing acting and text. His touch with the performances feels deft and sensitive.

The acting is fine across the board. As the college graduate who can’t choose between staying and going, McClyde fills the richness of the text with an equally rich emotional life. As the wino Boogaloo, Palmer is also effective, especially in a climactic scene where he refuses to share his memories of Coltrane’s father.

As the title character, Jas Anderson has a difficult part. Coltrane speaks in long, raging soliloquies—jazz riffs—and Tucker’s writing is not as strong here as in the dialogue scenes. Tucker keeps Coltrane’s present motivations and past history murky and unclear, which doesn’t help. Anderson is a good actor and works hard, but has not yet made this tricky character gel.

Coltrane Grey could use some editing, (but I usually feel the same way about August Wilson.) The violent ending feels strained and arbitrary, rather than the logical end for these people. But these are quibbles. The Great Defeat of Coltrane Grey has a real voice and a human heart at its core.