FringeNYC 2005 Reviews - Page 11

seduction…
reviewed by Martin Denton

Jack Heifner's play seduction... is billed as a "gay interpretation" of Schnitzler's Reigen (commonly known as La Ronde). In ten scenes, ten men pair off in succession, round-robin style: first a rent boy and a sailor, then the sailor and a handyman, then the handyman and a student, and so on (the other characters being a professor, a businessman, a teenager, a writer, an actor, and a producer). The mechanics of each scene are more or less the same: the men link up and engage in conversation (sometimes very brief) that amounts to foreplay, there is a blackout during which they have sex, and then there is a short epilogue wrapping up the encounter, after which one of the men exits.

It's an oft-repeated formula; but what's an all-male La Ronde for in 2005? It's emphatically not about health issues, which purportedly were foremost on Schnitzler's mind when he wrote the original; the men in seduction... don't talk about safe sex and, as far as I could tell, don't engage in it either (shame on them).

Is it, as the subtitle suggests, some kind of meditation on/validation of contemporary gay life? I don't think so: there's only one gay couple depicted here, and as the play's structure requires they're not monogamous; they don't even seem to be particularly happy. The sailor labels himself as straight, his sexual activities notwithstanding (and he calls the rent boy a "fag"); the teenager refers frequently and guardedly to a girlfriend. The actor and the writer (an author of gay-themed plays) are presented as irritating manifestations of swishy stereotypes. No, there's not much here for Gay Pride to be proud of.

The listing in the FringeNYC Program Guide warns that the play contains male nudity; maybe the show is a celebration of male sexuality. Alas, only two of the six cast members seem fully comfortable with the (relatively infrequent) baring-all that's required by the script; most of the actors strain to cover up when they're exposed, calling attention to the artifice of having naked actors pretending to be actual naked people having, or just having had, great sex. And as for the sex itself, well almost all of it in seduction... is of the furtive variety. Most of the couplings here include at least one party who is ashamed of what he's doing; several are transactional, by which I mean that sex is a commodity being exchanged for money or something else of value. Only the rent boy is honest enough to admit this; perhaps that's the point.

These musings notwithstanding, seduction...'s ad campaign will likely ensure healthy audiences, at least for the FringeNYC run. I don't know that they'll be all that satisfied with what they're getting, in terms of male pulchritude or anything else, for that matter. Heifner's script is not particularly funny or thoughtful; in fact several of the segments felt like nothing so much as set-ups for scenes in a porn film (what's a cheeky way to get these characters out of their own pants and into the other's?)

Peter Bull's staging is efficient and brisk. The six actors deliver competent but uninspiring performances, with the exception of Phil Price as the teenager, who creates a character with depth and complexity about whom we might wish to learn more.

Aquarium
reviewed by Steve Chasey

Aquarium’s main character has committed a sin so large, both metaphorically and physically, that he is, from the outset, a lost soul. The play ensures the audience remembers this by enumerating the harsh ramifications of his act, not only for him, but for everyone around him. And yet, despite his doom and disgrace, everyone loves him. Not just his depressed wife, his estranged friends, or the model he meets in the airport, but I mean everyone, right down to the audience, is still enamored with this fallen man. Tim Redmond’s disarmingly honest performance certainly has something to do with it, but more than that, Robin Maguire’s play throws aside the commonplace ideals of morality, asking, if these were not here, what then? The conflict of the answer, both within the play itself and with the audience, is tribute to Maguire’s sensitive and perceptive writing.

The play circles around the life of architect Dennis Birdwell, a hotshot whose career takes an unexpected nose dive. Dennis’s life spins madly out of his control, spiraling downwards and bringing in a host of other characters who are affected by his tribulations. The diverse display of roles, from religious fanatic to assassin, from depressed housewife to world-trotting model, all find their place in Aquarium’s post-morality, anarchistic worldview. Each gets his or her turn to lay the cause for their being the way they are out in the open, in an attitude that does not seem to seek the audience’s judgment, but operates as if their presence, one way or the other, is only tangentially important. Their stories are not only enthralling but compelling, every one fallen like Birdwell, but every one enchanting in the same way.

The performances from every member of the cast are essential; the audience’s reaction to their tales is paramount to the play’s dramatic success. If we do not find anything to respect in the characters, then the point is lost. Fortunately, the cast is nothing less than stunning, both sincere and confrontational. Each person exposes a driving passion within themselves, a passion that is admirable in its tenacity and reason but often chilling in its ramifications. Special accolades should be given to Daniel Lennox, who plays Peter Legg, the assassin. His calm demeanor and subtle monotone are so convincing of the frantic, murderous intent beneath them, that when he pauses and stares into the audience, we cringe despite ourselves.

Aquarium is so full of talent and intellectual intensity it would be easy to list off many more examples of its virtues. Suffice to say, this is one of the best, most inspiringly challenging shows in the FringeNYC this year and well worth a viewing.

Sarajevo's Child
reviewed by Julie Congress

In 1992, war erupted in Bosnia. Nadja Halilbegovich was just 12 years old at the time. In the midst of unimaginable devastation, she kept a diary, detailing everything from playing with the children in her building, to being injured by an exploding bombshell, to writing to President Clinton on behalf of the children of Sarajevo, to her difficult and terrifying escape to America. Katie Simon has taken Nadja’s entries and adapted them into a play. The result is Sarajevo’s Child, a stunning, life-affirming piece of theatre.

Actors Joey Dudding, Matthew Erickson, Lisa Lemley, Emma Lorraine, and Dana Mierlak are young, energetic, and genuine. They take turns speaking Nadja’s words and when one is speaking, the other four members of the ensemble become everything else in the scene—other children, parents, a hospital bed, the walls of a tunnel; nothing is too difficult for these versatile actors.

The decision to have the ensemble share the challenge of playing Nadja is a brilliant one. With five actors playing the part, we are constantly reminded that this is not one isolated person’s experiences, but representative of the plight of millions. We see the magnitude of war, but in a humanized way, without it being reduced to just numbers.

Michelle Bossy’s direction is powerful and innovative. No movement is superfluous, and she is able to adapt children’s games into euphemisms for war. Balls and jump ropes become implements of death and destruction. It’s shocking and terrible, but amazing in its representation of how the lives of innocent children are tainted by war. Throughout, Bossy creates strong, evocative images. Frequently, Nadja’s diary entries mention attacks and the number of people killed in them. As these death tolls are pronounced, the actors lay out small white crosses along the front of the stage. Before long, the stage is covered with them.

The strong visual nature of the show is perfectly enhanced by Dana Sterling’s dramatic lighting design. John D. Ivy’s sound design underscores the action equally well. Bossy’s strong artistic style is imbued in every facet of this production and the result is remarkable.

Sarajevo’s Child is haunting and cannot be put out of the mind easily. This, I suppose, is its intention. We should not forget about the Bosnian War when innocent people, particularly children, are dying all around the world. This is not just a play about a past war; it’s a timeless story that portrays the horror of war—any war. We shouldn’t passively watch as people unnecessarily die, and this play is just the call to action we need.

The Greatest B-Movie Ever Told
reviewed by Terri Galvin

It’s like this, see? At day’s end, when I punch out at my crummy nickel-and-dime day gig and ride the IRT back to my cold-water flat, alls I wanna do is park my caboose, prop up my aching dogs, and catch a timeless tinsel-town flick on the boob tube. Of course, these days such a plan is all wet—them golden eras of Channel 11 Ida Lupino double features are making all horse-and-buggy-like—i.e.: straight outta the history books. And while I got no beef against a snappy Gilmore Girls rerun, still and all, what’s a gal gotta do to see a classic B-movie in this town?!

It ain’t no sorcerer’s secret, toots. Instead of so much bellyaching, head over to Todd Michael’s swell new extravaganza, The Greatest B-Movie Ever Told, where the dames carry a torch, the gangsters pack heat, and everything’s jake by the time the credits roll.

Our pugilistic tale opens at the Garden with one Knuckles Dugan, the newly crowned middleweight “champeen of da woild,” ready to deliver on a deathbed promise to his Ma to quit the fight game and follow his lifelong dream of composing Broadway musicals. With the purse from this fight, he’ll not only bankroll his new career, but also spring for a proper chunk of ice for his longtime fiancée, Mona De Fay. Mona, a real peach of a songbird who warbles at the Golden Fleece Club, has a heart of gold, the shoulders of a linebacker, and sure looks a shape-in-a-drape in an evening gown. With Knuckles’s trainer, Snitz Scanlon, and the wisecracking chorine, Trixie Loomis, as their trusty sidekicks, Knuckles and Mona surely seem on a one-way ticket to Great White Way Paradise.

That is, until a slinky piece of homework named Isobel Van Buren throws a monkey wrench into the whole shebang. A glamorous society doll with enough dough to make Fort Knox look like chump change, Isobel is all over Knuckles like a cheap suit. In less than a New York minute they’re painting the town red at ritzy El Morocco, cutting the rug at swanky soirees, and announcing their engagement in the scandal sheets. Meanwhile, Mona is in deep with a case of the miseries, falling prey to the nefarious charms of a certain Nick Prima, a.k.a.: Public Enemy Number 9 and all-around Big Cheese of the infamous underworld.

Will stand-up guy Knuckles give sob sister Mona the old heave-ho? Will notorious Nick deep-six Knuckles if he doesn’t take a dive into palooka-ville during his next bout? Will Broadway impresario Oliver Kingsley fold like a house of cards under Isobel’s threat to drop a dime on his scandalous past?

Hey, not to spill the beans, but to come clean, this show is lousy with laughs! The news from the Rialto is that this cast and director are the cat’s pajamas, the costumes are the bees-knees, and the tone throughout would need root canal to remove its campy tongue from its gum-chewing cheek—and that’s no applesauce! And, okay, maybe I’m just a pushover for clever parody, jargon-laden dialogue, and a plot straight outta the back-lot of Warner Bros., but in this broad’s book, The Greatest B-Movie Ever Told really cuts the mustard.

So don’t be a flat tire; shake the lead out of your shorts and skedaddle over. There are nearly eight million Fringe stories in the naked city; this is one you definitely don’t want to take a powder on.

My Pony's in the Garage
reviewed by Julie Congress

It’s always fun to hear stories about quirky families and Eileen Kelly’s one woman show My Pony’s in the Garage is no exception. With just the right mix of humor and heart, it’s an hour well spent.

The Kellys are quite a family. Eileen is the youngest of six and, due to lack of space and money, spent the first six years of her life sleeping in a crib in her parents’ room. The house itself is unusual—nothing is ever repaired, but that isn’t a huge problem once you know that the carpet in the bathroom isn’t fastened down and that the doorbell doesn’t ring but does give the presser a mild electric shock. Mom is always smoking about “seven cigarettes at a time,” and the kids, as a result, go to school with clothes full of cigarette burns. Dad doesn’t pay bills until the cable man comes to get the box, or the electricity goes out, or the phones are disconnected, or the water turned off.

The play (which is both written and performed by Kelly and directed by Kimmy Gatewood) is made up of short episodes. At the beginning of each, a clever heading (example: "The Darker Side of Chocolate") appears on the large screen on the back wall of the stage and a song appropriate to the subject of the next segment plays for about thirty seconds. The lights then come up on the stage and Kelly delivers a monologue about her family for a few minutes. Another blackout, and a new heading and song clip signal the start of another episode. Unfortunately, I found this device, though cute, unnecessary. More time is provided than needed for us to read the segment titles, the show drags as a result, and Kelly’s momentum is upset.

At the performance I attended, a group of Kelly’s family was in the audience and I have to admit they were my favorite part of the performance. They howled with laughter not only at the stories, but also at the many family photographs that are projected onto the screen during the show. They’d quietly comment to each other on the location of the family candy store, gasp and groan at the family portraits, and frequently verify Kelly’s stories with their knowing nods and “mmhmm”s. I felt like I was at a family reunion, and it was absolutely delightful.

While your experience may not be exactly the same as mine, My Pony’s in the Garage is still a joyful celebration of family, no matter how crazy that family may be. And in its sweet, entertaining, quirky way, it’s also a not-so-subtle reminder of human mortality, and the importance of appreciating our loved ones before it’s too late.

The Importance of Marrying Wells
reviewed by John Samuel Jordan

The Importance of Marrying Well$ is a smart, well-crafted, laugh-a-second, all-out riot!!! But seriously, folks...this farce is by far one of the funniest plays I have seen in a loooooooooooooooong time.

Billed as a “not-so-classic retelling of [Oscar Wilde’s] The Importance of Being Earnest,” this is a story of love, friendship, and well-intentioned deceit. Gavin and Jake are friends—both harbor secrets. Gavin is gay and pretends to be in a troubled marriage to a male Canadian Mountie in order to get work in Connecticut (those suburban socialites love a good sob story). Jake is a very wealthy heir, but pretends to be a starving artist to win the love of Gwyn. Gwyn’s mother knows who Jake really is and just adores Gavin, not to mention the fact that she runs Golgotha Christian College in New Haven, Connecticut, where the girls are “forbidden to be pretty.” Enter Jake’s friend Caesar, who has a few secrets of his own, and catches the lustful eyes of Gavin, who will stop at nothing to get some. Add to this mix an insane sex-starved psychiatrist, a workaholic guilt-ridden attorney, and an exasperated fourth-wall-breaking stage manager, and one has the makings of a tremendous outing at the theatre.

Meticulously written by Dana Slamp, the intelligent humor and harmonious organization of the overall plot is awe-inspiring. The fourth wall is broken, put back together, and then shattered all over again.

Nancy S. Chu’s direction is a perfect match for this madcap play. Chu takes the script and the cast and makes magic before the audience’s eyes. The scene changes, blocking, pacing—everything is flawless.

I am a true believer that farce is one of the more difficult genres of acting to pull off. Well, this cast not only pulls it off tremendously, they do it effortlessly. Each actor shines throughout. They work together as a team... a well-oiled, freakin’ hysterical team. I honestly cannot pinpoint a standout/scene-stealer. They all stand out;. they all steal every scene they are in: Cheryl Lynn Bowers, Maria Deasy, Antony Hagopian, Celia Howard, Peter Macklin, Michael Malone, Brian Russell, and Jere Williams. They all deserve a standing ovation.

Alison Yuhas’s lighting design gets all the action, where and when it is needed. Raf Ricci’s set is simple, yet gives the much-needed impression of an “upper-crusty” atmosphere. Just goes to show you one doesn’t need to spend a million dollars to get the point across.

I am allotted somewhere around 500 words to write each review. I would have preferred to just repeat "BRILLIANT" 500 times. Kudos to all involved—the cast, the crew, and most importantly, the playwright.

Also, as this is DRD Productions’ premiere effort, I am most definitely looking forward to their future endeavors.

Icarus
reviewed by Loren Noveck

The familiar Greek myth of Icarus is interpreted in a lyrical rather than a literal way in this dance performance. Director Nina Hein has assembled six short dance pieces (by three young choreographers, Elyssa Dole, Jonette Ford, and Jeffrey Freeze, all of whom also perform), some accompanied by video, and one stand-alone segment of video (which I found less effective than the dances).

The pieces are strikingly different, but each is inspired by themes and images from the Icarus story—reaching for glory, flying, breaking away from a parent, falling, drowning. Some are languid and dreamlike, others full of sharp angles and brusque movements. The video brings in images of dripping, flowing, and swirling liquid—sometimes it seems like rain on a window, sometimes oil or melting wax, sometimes startlingly like blood.

Icarus reminded me of the ability of dance to bypass the conscious mechanisms by which we tell stories, and sink images deep into the subconscious. I couldn’t quite tell you what any of these dances means, or precisely how they are connected to the Icarus myth, but I understood the themes and connections between them and the story nonetheless.

Two of the pieces made a particular impression. The first, Blue, is the opening segment of the evening, choreographed by Jonette Ford and performed by Ford, Patty Arrieta, and Johari Mayfield. It is performed to a piece of music called "Ocean Grayness" (all the music is by Katharina Rosenberger), and the dance itself has a languid quality that calls to mind the smooth never-quite-stillness of the ocean on a cloudy day. What is most striking about it is the way it evokes flying. The dancers spend most of the piece curled on the ground, extending legs or arms slowly and at slightly askew angles. It feels like they’re testing parts of their bodies that have never been used before, tentatively spreading wings for the first time—but not quite secure enough to leap into the air quite yet.

The other piece I found particularly fascinating was White, choreographed and performed by Jonette Ford and Elyssa Dole. The piece is a duet for performers who are bound together by long tubes of fabric connecting their hands and feet. This creates an amazing sense of tension; each dancer is forced to consider the sheer mass or weight of the other at every moment. The piece opens with one dancer literally dragging the other behind her, trying to move freely but anchored by the still form that she is forced to pull onstage. For me, this piece evoked themes from the Icarus story in a remarkably evocative way: the beauty and the frustration in the bonds between parent and child; striving to break free and soar but never being quite able to leave the ground—or the father—behind.

The evening’s final piece, Yellow, interweaves movement themes from all the dances, using the full company to create a impressionistic path through the full story of Icarus’s flight and fall to earth.

The Eisteddfod
reviewed by Debbie Hoodiman

First off, because most Americans (myself included) have probably not heard the term, it’s important to note that eisteddfod is, as defined in the program, “pretty much a Welsh word for 'Talent Show'.” Stuck Pigs Squealing Theatre’s production, The Eisteddfod, directed with wonderful detail by Chris Kohn, is about a brother and sister competing in an eisteddfod for the chance to win a one-way ticket to Moscow. Well, it’s sort of about that.

At the beginning of the show, playwright Lally Katz, in a voiceover, explains the basic premises of the show: A brother and sister, Abalone and Gerture, lost both of their parents and they live together in a room. This information is presented comically, sort of in tableaux, and set to childlike music credited to Patience and Prudence. It soon becomes clear that Abalone and Gerture act out scenes together (as children do) and much of the play consists of their child’s play, their relating to one another through games and different characters. Sometimes, Abalone plays a character named “Ian,” Gerture’s very aggressive boyfriend who doesn’t love her anymore. Sometimes, Abalone and Gerture play their parents. Sometimes, Gerture is a teacher and Abalone is not invited into her classroom. Sometimes, they rehearse scenes together from Macbeth for the eisteddfod. The actors also have solo performances (monologues and even a song) in which they explore recurring themes.

All of the action takes place on a tiny platform decorated like a bedroom with a very small mattress, an old radio, a small table lamp, and an overhead light. The tiny set is like a small desert island where the siblings are stranded. There is a lot of empty space around them that goes almost completely unused. The sound design (Jethro Woodward) is very interesting. At some parts, the actors’ voices echo. Sometimes, the radio comes on or there are sound effects. The lighting (Richard Vabre) is also very interesting.

I can’t really come to a neat conclusion of what the play says or what it’s about, though some of the themes are pretty clear, especially the theme of Macbeth’s ambition and the theme of Gerture exploring her sexuality and role in a somewhat stereotypical male-female relationship. During the play, I found myself wondering about the characters’ ages, what was true and what was fantasy, and how some of it fit together.

Despite some of my confusion, however, I would not say The Eisteddfod is unsuccessful. Although some of the play’s scenarios are bizarre, I never felt alienated as an audience member. The material, if a little weird and a little confusing, is intriguing, original, and risky. The actors, Luke Mullins and Jessamy Dyer, are impressively committed and focused and create a believable reality. Even if I didn’t understand everything, it was worth watching the play for their wonderful, detailed performances. All of the design is top-notch. In some ways, this is a perfect FringeNYC show.

Toby
reviewed by Leslie Bramm

Two actors, both named Toby, are cast in a production of Waiting for Godot in a regional theatre in Vermont. Playing to dwindling and even dying audiences, they soon discover that they are trapped in a show that they can never leave. Paranoia creeps in and before they know it, they start to become Godot's Vladimir and Estragon.

Toby is most poignant when the author has the actors quoting from Beckett’s play. Phillip Bettencourt, as Toby, and Timothy J. Cox, also as Toby, both give solid performances. But I find that there are a couple of problematic aspects with this production.

First, my sense is that Toby wants to parallel Godot, but it lacks the equivalent pathos. It is my understanding that Beckett’s nihilist masterpiece is a result of the horrors he witnessed during World War II. Anthony P. Pennino’s play doesn’t seem to come from any such grounded source. Meaning: Beckett wrote his play because he had to. Maybe for his own sanity? Pennino’s spoof comes across as just that. If his intention is to lampoon Godot  (and I'm not sure I understand why he would want to do that), Toby is neither broad nor absurd enough to accomplish this. And also, it feels a bit long—a crisp, clean 60 minutes might serve the purpose better.

Second, the direction. Don Jordan, assisted by Michael Criscuolo, doesn't seem to have found a suitable rhythm for this piece. They have instead allowed the actors to fall sometimes into distracting moments of mugging and scenery chewing. When you have just two characters in a single setting, then some emotional choreography is vital. I feel that the director(s) left the actors to do too much organic exploration. The relationship between the Tobys never develops past the dictates of the plot. This might have been an attempt to recreate Beckett’s characters, but Pennino’s text seems to be searching for further character development.

All that said, the play has a sharp and well-developed sense of humor, not only in the banter exchanged by the two Tobys, but in the situations as well. A particularly enjoyable and well-acted bit is one in which Toby suggests to Toby they should be homosexual lovers in order to attract women. We recognize what's being said here is to stave off the sense of isolation and loneliness. There is also much inside joking about actors and actor’s foibles and egos. The average civilian might not get the inside humor, but since FringeNYC audiences tend to teem with theatre people the jokes don’t get lost. Particularly funny are Toby and Toby engaging in a Meisner/Strasberg-esque "Actor Prepares" moment. We see how silly and daring the actor’s job can be. And let’s be honest: there's nothing more fun than laughing at how actors struggle to be actors.

By the end of the play Toby and Toby have fused completely with Vladimir and Estragon. We see the characters trapped in a perpetual state of Godot. Maybe when we examine our own meaningless, isolated, and repetitive lives, we find we are our own Tobys.

Weight
reviewed by Amy Rhodes

In her solo show Weight, Melanie Hoopes tackles heavy issues: body image and the social stigma that plagues women who are seen as either too skinny or too fat. The show, which was borne out of interviews with women whose weight ranged from 70 to 1000 pounds, sheds light on the epidemic of eating disorders.

Hoopes begins the show as herself, stripped down to only a nude colored body suit as she steps on the scale and reveals her own weight to the audience. Then she transforms herself in to four women of varying age, class, race, and weight. Hoopes plays a mother whose daughter suffers from anorexia, a woman so obese she is housebound, a young Hollywood starlet who battles bulimia, and a middle-aged woman who attends her high school reunion after losing more than 100 pounds.

At the beginning of each monologue, each woman steps on the scale to reveal her own weight, with results ranging from 120 pounds to over 500 pounds. At first glance it seems these diverse women have nothing in common with one another. Yet, as they each tell their own story, it becomes clear they are all linked together by the profound effect weight has had on their lives.

Hoopes is an incredibly gifted performer and writer. The seven-months-pregnant actress is obviously comfortable in her own body and effortlessly embodies each of the characters she portrays. She creates vivid, nuanced characters who are funny, but also have a raw emotional vulnerability that Hoopes flawlessly brings to the surface. Each character’s struggle with weight and how it has affected her life is engaging. Their personal stories have a resounding universality in them.

Directed by Jamie Sherman with sharp precision, Weight candidly explores an all-too-common subject matter that is sadly still taboo in society. In her show notes, Hoopes writes that she is not certain the play will prevent anyone from acquiring an eating disorder, but she hopes it may make people more sensitive to those who struggle with them. Through humor and honesty, Hoopes does just that. She creates a beautifully moving piece of theatre that will have you thinking long after you leave the show.

Love Sick
reviewed by Ross Chappell

In the mood for a cowboy romance gone awry? Lovesick is your show. It may sound like shtick, but in reality it’s an honest (if quirky) look at small moments in the human condition. The most fascinating aspect of this play is its simplicity. It’s funny in places, but it’s not a comedy. It’s a small play about two people (a cowboy and a prostitute) who both seem to be a bit lost in life.

I’m a sucker for well-executed pre-show gimmicks. In the case of Lovesick, the audience walks in to find a cowboy asleep, out on the plains, on top of a pile of fairly stereotypical Wild West rubbish. As the lights dim, our cowboy, Tax, is in the midst of a nightmare about having shot someone named Nate, seemingly over a woman. The scene is handled with a degree of restraint that is quite rare. It’s natural feel sets the tone for the rest of the show: slightly funny, slightly intriguing. Our prostitute, Jinx, hesitantly wakes Tax to inform him that his ex-girl, Belle, has died of a fever. The catch? Belle got Jinx to promise to find Tax and be his new girl. You heard me right. Belle (another prostitute) left Jinx to Tax, “like a damn hat?!” exclaims Tax. The plot itself isn’t really all that surprising, nor does it break any new ground, but, for better or worse, the plot is almost a side-issue. For this show, the focus is the execution of the small moments between Tax and Jinx. In those moments we see loss, fear, uncertainty, and hope, and so we wind up seeing ourselves.

Gabriel McKinley, who plays Tax and is also the author of Lovesick, is more than adequate, but doesn’t really shine until later in the play when he dives into Tax’s human side. He asks aloud why he shot Nate and then delivers completely believable moments of introspection. Though I liked his performance, I’d be interested in seeing another actor play this role. Actor-playwrights often seem to be too close to their characters. Again, where McKinley’s script stands out is in its amazing restraint. Tax’s remembering of Belle is never saccharine. Jinx’s willingness to please Tax is never overly desperate. Nothing gets in the way of the human moments that dominate this script.

Stefanie Frame, as Jinx, is nothing short of stunning. From the moment she walks on stage, she commands attention by delivering one of the most subtle, understated, and believable performances I have ever seen, ever. In fact, I never saw Frame at all. The character walks in that room and dominates it through the end of the play. Her personality feels three-dimensional; her mannerisms are eerily real; her search for permanence is compelling. With a performance that is as engaging as it is effortless, Frame makes this Jinx’s story. I have no doubt she is destined for a long, successful career.

Even Mark Fratello’s direction is careful and restrained. His staging supports the play’s quiet, personal moments, and his pacing of this piece is nearly perfect. Likewise the lighting (by Jason Brandt) is soft and unobtrusive. Kristi Fratello’s costumes are remarkable in their texture and authenticity. Laura Esposito’s set is minimalist and appropriate (except for the odd, cutout tree in the back).

This show’s examination of topics as diverse as loneliness, desire, apathy, and the fallout from abuse is quiet and extremely well-handled. Though the plot of the play doesn’t quite add up to be the sum of its parts, the parts are definitely worth seeing, experiencing, and absorbing.

All Consuming
reviewed by Scott Mendelsohn

In 45 minutes onstage, Clare Nicholls conjures all the raw sparks of an electrical storm. The familiar story of addiction, bottoming out, and recovery is conducted like lightening through Nicholls’s angular limbs and amazingly versatile rock singer’s voice, causing her to flash from one character to another, each illuminated by the strobe-like clarity of her acting. In All Consuming, she tells the story of her own struggle with alcohol and bulimia with a delightful recklessness, and makes it something bracing and inspiring.

The text Nicholls has written for herself is roughhewn—it does not have the polish of a fine dramatist.. Yet it's made to sound utterly compelling through Nicholls’s fine ear for language and comedy. She opens her performance with an astonishing rhymed list of drinks that made me long to hear her play one of Shakespeare’s clowns. The words and images fly by, yet each lands in our ear and heart crisply. Moreover, she plays 19 characters, most of whom have distinct accents from various parts of the British Isles, Croatia, and Sydney, Australia. And the self-written rock songs that are sprinkled through the piece are moving, rich, and sung with real depth. And when she reaches her alcoholic, bulimic bottom, she collapses, holding still for only a brief few seconds, but with an eloquence that echoes after the show is over.

Above all, Nicholls makes the telling of her story seem vibrantly, achingly necessary. Her performance is full of constant invention, generously offered up to the audience. I never felt asked to sympathize with Nicholls’s history at all; rather she carves her way through the piece, skewering and deflating any sentimentality or easy answers with sharp wit, clarity, and a healthy dose of compassion, even for the frailty, pettiness, and most self-destructive elements of her own life. When the show is over, she leaves behind the charge of survival. I deeply hope this passion and detail extend beyond this one piece—I would enjoy seeing her continue to tell her story, and I believe she could breathe genuine life into the work of a first class playwright.