FringeNYC 2005 Reviews - Page 14

Beautiful
reviewed by Julie Blumenthal

How do you represent a muddle? As clearly as possible. Unfortunately, the new musical Beautiful pretty much represents a muddle by presenting a muddle.

While watching the show’s opening performance this weekend, I recalled growing up on Italian opera. I didn’t speak Italian—no one in my family does—but I understood opera because the music, the staging, and the emotion were so strong and clear that the words became, to an extent, incidental.

Unfortunately, this occurred to me because of the frequent lighting errors, sound snafus, and generally uninspired staging I was witnessing. It was clear there were a lot of technical opening night bobbles, and perhaps if I’d been able to see or hear all the action, I might have had a more inspiring experience. But while any work would be impaired by this, I think a strong work holds up to the “opera test”, and Beautiful does not; there's an overall sameness to the music and direction, and a lack of strong arc to the text, which does not carry the show through.

The story of a painter at a crossroads in his personal and professional lives, the “muddle” being represented is his own state of being, as he debates whether to “sell out” artistically in order to make a living, and whether to turn the page on memories of his ex-girlfriend, who was both lover and inspiration. David Anders (of Alias fame) turns in a credible, well-sung, but largely one-note performance. This is due not to him, but to the limits of the material he’s given. As his best friend, who’s mastered the sell-out and is reveling in the spotlight, Rodney Hicks steals the show vocally and energetically. However, the most appropriate performance comes from Nikka Lanzarone as the ex, who spends most of her time onstage looking out from a picture frame. (The set, metal frames and floating “canvas,” is clunky and distracting.) She’s playing a ghost, a memory, and for that reason her arc doesn’t need to follow a dynamic trajectory. But while it fulfills the purpose of her role, the entire show is mired at the same crossroads, and this renders Beautiful unclear and uncompelling.

There are flashes of wit in Michael Arquilla’s text, and Stephen Barnett’s music is pleasant, if not memorable. JEM Productions has assembled a strong cast (though Elena Zazanis is simply too young, and her accent too unsteady, as Vivan, the British hot-shot artist’s agent). Certainly the story of an artist struggling with life, love, and commercialism will always be timely and watchable. But Beautiful has a ways to go in telling a story of confusion without confusion of its own. The piece was developed at Tisch, and I think these two young artists have their own trajectory to follow in building their craft before Beautiful becomes compelling theater. Director Al Sgro has a challenging venue in the Village Theater—a lovely space, but not ideal for staging a 14-person rock musical—but his direction, as with the book and music, has quite an arc yet to uncover.

Talent, as Beautiful explores, requires devotion, discipline, and hard choices before it translates into art. I’m curious to see what this group comes up with further down that path.

The Last Silver Zephyer
reviewed by Lauren Marks

The Last Silver Zephyer is a show likely to have a life after FringeNYC. While many of the festival’s shows tend towards the ultra-ironic, The Last Silver Zephyer distinguishes itself as being entirely sincere, even in its funniest moments.

The alluded to “Silver Zephyer” is a train; a train that has run through town for over 30 years, but whose service is being discontinued. The start of the play is hours before the last Silver Zephyer makes its way through town. Connie is the sole waitress in a ramshackle rail-side café, with an unusual ability to know who’s calling before she picks up the phone. It becomes clear as the story unfolds that her insight surpasses this parlor trick.

Separately, Henry and Anne both enter Connie’s café, seemingly unbeknownst to each other, but each with a cocky self-assuredness of their purpose. They arrive blissfully unaware of the ineffable presence lingering in the strange package of a coarse and crumpled, aged country waitress. A raging storm soon blows in, trapping the three of them together in somewhat mortal peril.

The situation is classic: three people are assembled in a room that they cannot leave, and, over the course of the time together, their secrets are revealed. The script provides an excellent structure for the dramatic tension build, which it does quite naturally. And, the café Connie has haunted for 30 years, soon to be destroyed along with the Zephyer, is an essential setting for action of this text. The café is not entirely part of this world, but not entirely elsewhere either; it seems as if anything is possible here.

Henry and Anne soon discover something unsettling about Connie and the way she seems to casually discover their innermost secrets. Each of the two protests that they are beyond her, or anyone’s, reach. Connie admits to seeing them only as “logs on a chopping block,” ready to splinter and crack. In fact, Connie adds, “You’re so ready I’ll hardly feel like I did anything.” Indeed, by the time Connie’s axe has swung, one might be inclined to believe even perhaps her most fantastic claim—“I’m not God. But I represent him.” The fates of all three characters become intertwined, and, in the end, destiny is the clear victor in a battle with cynicism.

Partially because this play is so ready for the next level of production, it is not difficult to notice that there is a bit of inconsistency in the play. The script is exceptional in some places, especially in its indications of Connie’s prescience, but in other sections it seems a bit inchoate. The dialogue between Henry and Anne is less strong, and their moments of self-explanatory monologue are the least effective moments in the script.

Without a doubt, the best reason to see this show is to see Joan Darling. It would be hard to overstate how compellingly quirky and magnetic she is as Connie. A veteran actor, Darling has appeared opposite the likes of George Segal and Gene Hackman. And, impressive though her resume is, she is even better in person. Both her co-stars, Mike Wiley and Melissa Macleod Herion, hold their own opposite her, but neither inhabits their role as completely as she.

Those looking for a funny, less tongue-in-cheek selection from this year’s Fringe offerings would be well advised to see this play in its limited run. Blake Bradford directs this new work by Bill Svanoe in its NY premiere.

Manatee
reviewed by Pamela Butler

Manatee, a play in 18 scenes by Alex Moggridge, is a good example of why I love theatre. It is the offering of Sea Cow Productions (which makes me wonder if all their productions mention sea cows), done in the style of the well-known post- World-War existentialist writers, with an added layer of purely modern American humor and irreverence. To me it’s always a pleasure when this kinds of work is as well done as it is here. The trinity of the theatre—script, actors, and direction—is justly honored.

There really isn’t a plot; hey, it’s existential. But what happens between the intelligent and alert Terrence (Karl Herlinger) and his more rudimentary companion Ray (Tate Ellington) is a fine distillation of the human condition, the dilemma of everyman in his bleak space and worn clothes with holes. These two are, in turn, infuriating, laughable, and all too familiar. And this is America, so add sugar, in the form of vending-machine-style Hostess snacks.

Before the play begins we’re treated to a program with a glossary for both Part 1 and Part 2. "Manatee," "frugiverous," "Korea," and "matinee" all figure in the first part, while "palindrome," "hippo," "Mongolia," and "Monterey jack cheese" are among the items given for Part 2. I can’t say I remember hearing all the terms listed in the performance, but some, like the play’s title, stand out more than others. The dialog moves along—observing, questioning, challenging. There are remembrances of an acquaintance named Steve and a writer named Knut, stimulating the two men to muse on hunger, deserts, the past, the present, and the future with a simplicity that allows the actors to express their all-too-human selves. Patrick McNulty’s direction is spot-on.

Less is more, right down to the set—a nearly broken lawn chair, a grey milk crate, and a small Eastern-looking chest that Terrence at one point runs his fingers over, but other than that its presence is one more element to weave into your own pattern of engagement with the piece. Does everything resonate with poetic symbolism? I don’t know, but it’s always fun as an exercise, and often illuminating, as I believe it is in Manatee.

My only complaint is with the 18 scenes. A strong opening and powerful ending won’t suffer with a tighter center: maybe 13 scenes? But this is a minor quibble. There are many superlatives that grace this effort, so my best advice, if you like this kind of theatre and even if you don’t, is to go and see Manatee and follow the trail of the sea cow wherever it may lead.

Little House on the Parody
reviewed by Christopher Moore

Little House on the Parody is a musical sendup of the values and situations portrayed in the television series Little House on The Prairie and the series of books written by Laura Ingalls Wilder about her days on the frontier. The innocence and purity of pioneer life and the biblical scale of the constant calamities that befall the residents of Walnut Grove seem an easy target for parody. But if making fun of the world is like shooting fish in a barrel, after watching this show, it became evident that sometimes the fish shoot back. While the show knowingly laughs at the ideals espoused in the television program with an insider’s precision, at the same time it endeavors to embrace the very values it mocks. This creates a mixed tone that muddies the overall pitch of the production, and mutes the comedy.

There is not much plot to this play. It is a loosely-woven collage of scenes lampooning the most memorable episodes of the television series. Orphans, blizzards, fire, famine, blindness, drug addiction are all here! Writers Becky Eldridge and Amy Petersen skewer the melodramatic components of the series, and their script has some clever turns. When Pa Ingalls returns form a blizzard and remarks that he was blinded by the snow, his daughter Mary naively says “Blind! I can’t imagine what that would be like.” Anyone who knows the television program knows what fate holds for Mary, and appreciates the wit with which multiple television episodes have been woven together for comic effect.

However, these moments are not in the majority, and the focus of the play seems to wander aimlessly. Anachronisms abound in this production, but not always with positive results; for example, the spinster school teacher has a musical number that incorporates hip-hop and writhing. Still, the performers do a remarkable job of infusing the performance with infectious joy and high energy. Standouts in a uniformly fine cast include the dynamic Pat Shay as Pa Ingalls. Donning Michael Landon hair, Shay is adept at portraying Landon’s sunny disposition without sacrificing the comic spirit of the parody. Ed Jones is unforgettable as Harriet Oleson. Amy Starks’s Mary and Lis Dunson’s Ma Ingalls also delight. As orphan Albert, Paul Luikart is both hilarious and likeable. Andy Eninger’s direction is imaginative and worthy of special attention. The staging is sharp, and putting a blizzard and plague of locusts on-stage cannot be easy. Credit should also be given to the wig and costume team, who go unmentioned in the program. Their contributions are invaluable.

Ultimately, the individual contributions go a long way toward making this production fly when it does, but in the end, the lack of cohesion among the episodes is jarring and the final embrace of the virtues put forward by the play is unconvincing. That said, there are laughs in this production and anyone who knows Walnut Grove will certainly enjoy this show.

Thick
reviewed by Robin Reed

I turned the corner and saw a mob outside Collective: Unconscious that made me wonder if I hadn’t gotten the address wrong. I double-checked my FringeNYC Guide and I was indeed headed in the right direction. When I got to the line, the prospective audience was divided into two camps, ticket-holders and ticket-hopefuls. As the clock in front of the TriBeCa Grand Hotel made its way toward 8:30, the crowd began to get a little unruly. The ticket-holders line was increasing, making the ticket hopefuls less hopeful and more agitated.

By the time I got into the theatre, the stress of those around me outside had rubbed off a bit and I was, um, anxious for Thick to get started.

I looked at the stage and saw the most charming little backdrop: a cartoon-y marker drawing of a town center hung upstage on a simple white fabric. Downstage sat what I assumed to be a model-home in the marker town, a little black and white foam-core house (there is no set designer listed in the program, but whoever you are, nice work!). It was here where the story would be set, and that made me very happy.

Enter: Rudolph. Another check in the happy column.

Rudolph’s Mama dropped him on his head when he was a wee tot. This made him “thick.” The kids at school call him “Rudolph the Red-Haired Moron” which, surprisingly, he thoroughly enjoys. He says that he loves Christmas and his favorite part is that Santa needed help one night and it was Rudolph (the reindeer) and his very different red nose that lit the way through the darkness. He also tells us that he doesn’t read the newspapers because he “can see the good in everything, even tragedy”

Sheesh, I wish I had that one in my pocket as I waited in the line outside.

The play presents an odd chain of events in a day-in-the-life story, but it’s wholly engaging. Beneath a very simple veneer, the story is unexpectedly dark and very moving.

Rudolph’s father’s obsession with lawn care (Dad first comes onstage tending to the tiny lawn which he places in front of the tiny house) led to his untimely demise, which led to his mama taking comfort in “non-alcoholic gin” (she says it’s taken out by a little machine, to which estranged sister Louise bites back “yeah, a machine called mama!") and, after a long grieving period, her born-again Christianity. They are a troubled family, but Rudolph loves them and his place among them just the same. He is a boy who is excited to be alive! Mama wonders how smart he might have been had she not dropped him.

Playwright Rick Bland plays Rudolph with the sweetest sincerity. Wide-eyed and earnest, he blurts out his incredibly logically but seemingly random trains of thought with such honesty that you can’t help but find yourself a cheerleader for Rudolph and his unwavering bright side. The dexterous team of Tamara Bick and Ross Mullan who, together, play everyone from Rudy’s parents to Pope John Paul II join him to bring life to the delightful little marker town. They clearly have a lot of fun together on stage, and that fun permeates out to the audience. Rudolph’s good cheer is indeed infectious.

Warfield, USA: The Musical
reviewed by Matt Freeman

Jazz Hands Across America, a Chicago-based improv company, seem to stretch their strengths with Warfield USA: The Musical, their first full-length “scripted” piece. The musical itself is a broad satire on the current war culture and politics of the good old U.S. of A; and in places, of the musical form. I’ll sum up their success with this “apple pie” metaphor: They swing wild, make a few base hits, but can’t quite bring it home.

The story is of a town whose former mayor has died, leaving his son in charge. The father, beloved in the unique culture of Warfield, was a man of war. The entire town’s identity and economy is based on their love of guns, blowin’ stuff up and killing their next door neighbors in Jonestown.

The son, Gunner Livingston, has quite a literal issue with guns: he has no trigger (i.e., index) fingers. He’s a peacenik: a chai-drinking, Gandhi-quoting, falafel-loving one at that. He brings to Warfield and its colorful residents an enforced, Stalinist peace. Their only hopes are a strongly worded letter, “Sex”etery of State Fondleeza Twice, and an 11-year-old girl named Harmony Miner, inexplicably struck by Agent Orange-related illness, whose love, in both song and action, is the bomb.

As you can see, the play is rife with comic names, overt gags and sick humor. The songs have some wonderfully wicked lines (a love song called "Revolting Love" with the line “You’re my Hitler/It’s all Reich!” was a particular favorite, that got guilty laughs); and there are certainly provocative moments.

Unfortunately, these moments do not a coherent narrative or satire make. One of the smaller problems—assuredly an issue of taste, from the howls of laughter from those I was sitting next to—is that it is full of sketch comedy asides that don’t connect to the text. Jokes about Sam and Frodo from Lord of the Rings being gay, for example... what are they doing in a political satire? These are just plain gags, they aren’t integrated into the play, and they keep us at a distance from the story.

The larger problem is that as satire, the play isn’t very politically astute. The largest misstep is in the central plot: that Gunner Livingston, our stand-in for George W. Bush, has been befriended by Rotten Bin Bottom and this unholy cabal has brought about a peace so intolerable that Livingston has to create a war in order to keep order.

This made me scratch my head: Osama Bin, er, Rotten Bin Bottom here is using peace to bring about a communist state. Now, I totally understand the idea that Bush and Bin Laden have an existing relationship, but it’s never been my understanding that Bin Laden is one to push peace as a method of fundamental change. And the idea that Americans find peace so intolerable that they push their leaders into war is a thin one: haven’t most of the American voters been hoodwinked into supporting a war based on false assertions? And looking at Bush’s current poll numbers, it doesn’t seem they are still tolerating the war like they once did. It would be easy to call this a difference of opinion, but it’s hard for a satire to support humor that isn’t based on truths we quickly identify.

Some may walk out of this show smiling, remembering the South Park-lite twists, and laughing at the foibles of American culture; it’s possible I’ve just got my head in the newspaper and not on the stage. There are plenty of capable and exciting performers here, including Erica Elam’s turn as young Harmony, Aaron Graham’s often affecting portrayal as Gunner, and Duncan Teater’s utter commitment to a variety of smaller roles. And there are several truly inspired songs and moments. If there are reasons that Warfield USA proves popular—beyond its penchant for giving the country an eight-person middle finger—it’s these.

Swimming Upstream: A Sex-Ed Escapade…
reviewed by David Pumo

Currently a freshman at Yale University, Marshall Pailet, along with his father, Al Pailet, began writing the funny, clever, and somewhat touching new musical, Swimming Upstream, when he was 15. The story—semi-autobiographical, I’m guessing?—is about Todd (Doug Kreeger), a misfit artsy high school student whose lifelong dream is to write a musical. When the school announces the first ever Judy Blick Baumgarten Initiatives in Health Award, Todd decides to write a musical about the life of a sperm. He gets up the nerve to ask Miss Popularity, Sally Jo (Jessica-Snow Wilson), to be his female lead, even though she has previously ignored him or worse.

His competition for the health award is the egomaniacal and patently perfect Rod (Christopher Kale Jones), who basically plans on cloning himself. Jones also makes appearances in a wrestling outfit as Conscience McBadass, an arch enemy conjured by Todd’s insecure mind to beat him down just when things are going too well. Rounding out the cast are John Cameron Barnett, Heath Calvert, Andrew Grosshandler, and Matt Owen as the all-purpose backups. Running backstage to change costumes over and over again, they play Rod’s entourage, Todd’s singing sperm, and Jessica’s four girlfriends.

The story is simple and occasionally a bit weak (why does Sally Jo suddenly fall for Todd and agree to do the show?). But there are lots of modern twists (a terrific laptop chat room scene) and plenty of edge (no, you have not seen a musical about sperm before). The dialogue is full of laughs, and the music by the young Pailet and lyrics by dad are strikingly well-written. It would be silly to single out anyone in the cast. All seven have beautiful voices, and the chorus members are as strong as the leads, and every bit as important to the show. Marlo Hunter’s direction and choreography, especially for the backups, is inspired and thoroughly delightful.

Swimming Upstream is one of those Fringe shows that you can’t help imagining on a larger stage, with more expensive sets and mics that don’t go in and out. This is definitely a show with a bigger life ahead of it, and young Pailet is certainly a writer with a bigger career ahead of him as well. Both the show and Pailet already have all the heart they need.

LOL
reviewed by Pamela Butler

The Internet is certainly the subject of more than one FringeNYC offering this year, and in this case we get a brisk, funny, and imaginative foray into online sex. The protagonist, Danny, chemistry guru turned romance novelist, tells us in advance that we’re in for lots and lots of it. Yes, Tony Sportiello’s LOL is all about sex online, from inside the bi-fem chat rooms of the WWW.

Poor Danny. This is not a boy meets girl, boy gets girl, etc., kind of story. He just can’t get laid. When he discovers that girls are getting it on with girls online, he does what any curious but uninvited male might do—he dons a female persona and plunges ahead. Thus Karen comes into being, Danny’s 32-year-old, 115-pound, blonde, 36-24-36, female alter ego.

Karen, summoning all of Danny’s romantic talent and then some, becomes the wow of the Net, having more invites to go private than she can handle. In fact she’s so popular that Danny gives her more and more time to manage her social life, while he loses sleep, relinquishes work, and not so gradually becomes overwhelmed by her, to the point where the two of them are battling for control. He cannot even visit old friends without her popping off her mouth at inappropriate times and pulling him back to his/her addiction.

The cast, staging, and production make this romp sparkle. Greg Skura’s Danny is both nebbishy and empathetic, but not impossible to see as a love interest. In a Pygmalion twist, Nicole Taylor animates Danny’s fem side, Karen, with pixie energy. She gathers zesty strength and speed to nearly swallow her creator whole. She’s a dynamo, but takes nothing away from CK Allen as Larry, Danny’s book agent; Jed Dickenson and Heather Gornal as his minimally sexual friends Michael and Janice; and Debra Whifield as his obnoxious ex-girlfriend Susan. Karen Swenson Riely gives a poignant and heartfelt portrait of the fragile Jenny, Karen’s online love interest. The direction and staging by Jerry Less keep the action fluid and light, ensuring the audience is amused and entertained. Jeff Bender choreographs the physical disputes with skill. LOL.

The play itself is at loose ends and winds up a bit heavy for the style and subject matter. How Danny finally deals with the monster he has created is left up in the air, although suggestively so. What happens to Jenny is somewhat predictable and I found myself fending it off, hoping for a comic, clever twist. LOL is billed as a cautionary tale, but the tale, beyond the delicious creation of Karen and what she does to Danny, is secondary to the characters. Nevertheless, an evening well spent.

The Crazy Locomotive
reviewed by Richard Hinojosa

It’s been a while since I’ve felt as exhilarated as I did at the climax of The Crazy Locomotive. I was pulled on board from the get-go and held in my seat by the G-forces created by the acceleration of the action. Fringers who are looking for a wild ride should earmark this one as a must see.

The performers are already on stage as you enter the space. In characters that you won’t see in the play, they deliver a quirky postmodern pre-show complete with Bushisms, bad Polish jokes, and operatic commercial slogans.

At the top of the show proper, we are introduced to a fireman (a burly guy who shovels coal into a steam engine) and his young fiancée, Julia. Shortly after that the train’s engineer and his domineering wife crash onto the stage. The engineer orders the fireman to stoke the engine and prepare to go at full throttle. Their intellectual banter on the nature of art/reality/existence and the effects of mechanization on society progressively becomes more surreal and frenzied as the train increases speed. The characters become truly alive as they race at breakneck speed toward their certain death. Subconscious desires are revealed as they relish in the creation of their own reality. At the end, as all the characters lay dead, we are given the epilogue in the form of an excellent short film courtesy of Carrie Holt de Lama.

The Crazy Locomotive is a parody taken to extremes that expresses Polish avant-garde playwright Stanislaw Witkiewicz’s distaste for mechanization and modern art by exploiting them in his mockery of them. His characters want to be liberated from a mundane reality and they actively pursue this goal, living by the motto of “action not contemplation.” Likewise, Witkiewicz pursues his agenda in no uncertain terms, attacking his subject matter directly with some truly brilliant one-liners.

The ensemble has no fear. They move and shout with exuberance. They speak their lines and grope each other (and themselves) with deep conviction. Carl Wisniewski and John Gray are demigods of the alternate reality they create as the engineer and the fireman respectively. Nicole Wiesner’s presence as Julia draws the eye like an imminent train wreck. John Kahara, Carolyn Shoemaker and Beata Pilch round out this daring ensemble.

Pilch also serves as the production’s director. Her vision of beautifully controlled chaos is clear and her actors unflinchingly adhere to her stylistic choices. Indeed, I believe Witkiewicz himself would be pleased with this production. One note, the space is full of uncurtained windows so I would suggest seeing it at night so the lighting is more effective.

This show comes to FringeNYC from Chicago's Trap Door Theatre.

When You Stand Alone
reviewed by Jonathan Calindas

When You Stand Alone, performed by the gifted Wesley Connor, is an evening of three monologues in the style of Alan Bennett’s Talking Heads, which paint detailed and often touching portraits of ordinary human beings. Written by Wesley Connor and director Sonia Norris, these three unpretentious pieces illuminate the intimate wants and fears of three very different characters and in doing so reveal their humanity in genuinely moving ways.

The evening opens with Samuel, an energetically flamboyant Beatles fanatic who dresses the part and whose prized possession is a set of Beatles action figures, which, as he claims, was re-issued by the toymaker due to his efforts. He is preparing for a first date with someone he contacted through a personal ad, and in amusing examples, explains how he thinks John Lennon is sending him messages that this will be the person he will spend his life with.

The second and strongest piece features Grace, who is ironing her husband’s clothes for the week in an elegant satin dress, white elbow gloves, and a French beret. She tells us how she has lived all of her small-town life in Nashville, Ontario with her frustratingly provincial husband Steve, who hates travel and insists on spending money domestically so as to help the Canadian economy. Grace finds great beauty in the simplest things in her life, but longs to escape to a life of sophistication and excitement, as embodied by Francois, a visiting French teacher from Paris.

The third piece features Alex, a young, frustrated Goth, who believes that the world is falling apart and goes to great length explaining to us that religion is futile. But behind the angry exterior, we see a young frightened boy trying to find meaning to his life as he mourns the recent death of his mother who suffered from depression and whom, as a boy, he desperately tried to cheer up.

The three pieces are linked by a prop piece; a flowerpot with two large flowers made out of colored cellophane, which represents a different meaning to each character. The direction by Norris finds the appropriate places for Connor to let loose his energy or to bring it all in, taking us with him into the character’s most intimate corners.

The evening opens with Connor as Samuel lip-synching to the Beatles’ “Love Me Do,” almost pleading for the audience to love him, but as the evening progresses, we realize that he did not really need to beg. Those searching for a break from the loud, attention-seeking, noisy offerings of  FringeNYC will find it in this simple, unassuming, and poignant evening presented by Connor and Norris.

Voices of the Wind
reviewed by Jo Ann Rosen

Katie Takahashi, playwright, artistic director, and co-composer, embarks on a massive, glorious undertaking with Voices of the Wind—the Story of the Ninja, a cross-cultural work that is still in progress. In this two-hour performance, powerful feudal lords in 16th century Japan engage Ninja warriors in a civil war to expand their empires.

In this story, Fuga and Kazané, two of the Ninjas, forge a strong relationship when they are young, with Fuga vowing to protect Kazané if something should happen to her. Over time, two princes, who are half-brothers, reign over separate provinces, and both are goaded into overtaking the territory of the other. As the impetus for war builds, Prince Ukyo meets and falls in love with Kazané. But Kazané is loyal to his brother, Prince Tohkro, and wants to complete her mission for him by killing Prince Ukyo. In doing so, she comes face to face with Fuga.

In Voices, Takahashi has built a cogent narrative around a violent and complex point in history. But, it is much more. It is a musical that brings together Japanese sensibility, the flamenco of Andalusia, blues, and jazz. It is traditional storytelling that connects Eastern and Western cultures. The choreography of Voices fuses traditional Japanese dance forms with modern dance and martial arts. It is also a love story.

Voices is rich in many ways. There is an Eastern overtone of respect and order. This is evident in the quiet dignity of Allison Hiroto as Kazané, whose character is strong and determined although she never raises her voice to prove it. She plays opposite Daniel Kennedy’s Fuga, who is in Eastern garb, but whose speech and cadence are modern, Western, less disciplined. The cultural contrast comes up again with shy, modest Prince Ukyo, played by Derek Wong, who is counseled by Heomi Kawage, played with evil brashness by Victor Fischbarg. The visual merging of cultures offers an interesting dimension that reflects today’s world. Occasionally, Takahashi resorts to clichés to highlight the difference in cultures, such as when one character says, ‘What goes around comes around.’ This jars. Takahashi is nimble enough with words to come up with contemporary dialog that works with the 16th century setting.

The choreography by Caron Eule is both thoughtful and unpredictable. It ranges from buoyant leaps onto the stage to fierce and ominous interplay between androgynous dancers to en pointe ballet. Eule maintains space and fluidity, despite the formidable cast of 24. Music, composed by Jon Diaz and Takahashi, adds depth. Derek Wong displays beautiful innocence in his solo “Beautiful Dancer” by Takahashi and the sounds and rhythms, particularly from percussionist Mathias Kunzli when he uses whisk brooms, display Diaz's originality.

Takahashi has tapped a number of skilled collaborators to give this complicated setup a sense of cohesiveness. Mizuna Kuwabara, a prolific Japanese author and dramaturg of Voices, co-created the story. Hiromitsu Kuroi, a disciple of Ninja culture and a martial arts expert, supervised production and movement. Ken Kensei choreographed the graceful and varied fight scenes. The simple costumes, designed by Kazuko Takizawa, work beautifully in dance sequences, fight scenes, as well as in the narrative. Sets, by Yusuke Sugizaki, are also simple, using a backlit Japanese screen for crowd scenes and executions, and a short counter as a stone wall or hills over which the nimble dancers leap.

Takahashi is clearly fascinated by this colorful period in Japanese history. By integrating her interest in multicultural performance, choreography, and music, she has taken on a feat no less challenging than the Ninjas. I look forward to the perfected, finished project.

The Dirty Talk
reviewed by Martin Denton

Michael Puzzo's very funny and unexpectedly moving comedy The Dirty Talk tells an unlikely tale about two unusual but ultimately very likely men—and it does so with such refreshing candor, wit, and intelligence that we are at once disarmed and entirely engaged by it. My fellow reviewer Leslie Bramm happened to be at the same performance, and he remarked afterward that during the play he had formulated three different possible endings for the story, but that Puzzo had trumped him by coming up with a completely different conclusion. That's great storytelling. See The Dirty Talk: it deserves to be the sleeper hit of FringeNYC 2005.

It takes place in a cabin (in "the mountains of Jersey," according to the program—our first clue to the sometimes sardonic deadpan voice of our playwright). It begins with a man, who we will eventually learn is named Lino, wandering into said cabin; tentatively, he gets the lay of the land: a big oversized bed in the center, outfitted with a deerskin blanket; a small TV and a laptop computer; a box of condoms and a copy of Playboy; and lots and lots of cardboard boxes, most of them labeled "GLASS."

Outside it is pouring down rain. Lino settles himself on the bed, and another man, Mitch, storms in. He is soaking wet, and he is very angry with his umbrella.

(Allow me to digress here and tell you that The Dirty Talk's actors—Kevin Cristaldi as Lino and Sidney Williams as Mitch—perform this opening pantomime with such panache that we are immediately hooked. Cristaldi summons up acres of urban savvy as he silently peruses the space; as for Williams, blustering into the room with a half-destroyed umbrella on which he furiously finishes the job before our astonished eyes—well, I haven't seen an entrance like that since John Malkovich burst hyperkinetically onto the set of Burn This on Broadway, 18 years ago.)

Mitch and Lino, it develops quickly, are stranded here, at least for a while. The rain is pounding; the phone is dead ("This is like a B horror movie," Mitch observes); the car's engine is flooded and its windshield wipers are gone (we'll find out how that happened later on). And the men are, at the moment, clearly antagonists—though the exact reasons for why they've ended up here together and what precisely went awry in their meeting are not at all evident to us, not yet. Much of the fun of The Dirty Talk is finding all of this out, and I'm not planning to spoil any of it—I want you to see it for yourself. What I will tell you is that the sexual tension you think you're aware of is absolutely there; and the direction of Puzzo's remarkable narrative—a little bit modern-day tall tale, a little bit urban legend—continually shifts with the balance of power in this remote cabin, tantalizingly and compellingly. Finally, it's a story of what it means to become a man: of self-acceptance, compassion, understanding, and authentic courage.

The tale takes in ex-wives, fathers, deer hunting, spelling, and—especially—an unforgettable night in an Internet chat room. Puzzo's writing is dark, hilarious, and frequently, as the play's title suggests, dirty. It's also joltingly honest. Padraic Lillis's staging is as close to perfection as I can imagine, which is to say I never saw evidence of it once. The design elements are capital by FringeNYC standards. The performances are spectacularly good; the chemistry between Cristaldi and Williams is like a great comedy duo's, so surely do they play off one another.