nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2000

SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: 10, GUYLAR BEGUILED, LONG SHOT, ELEVEN DOLLAR PROPHET, THE RIDERS, THE BABU SHOW, GIRL UNDER GRAIN, HOUSE OF TRASH

10 by Martin Denton · 21, 2000
Kevin Augustine, the creator of astonishing past Fringe NYC successes Once Vaudeville and Big Top Machine, is back with a new solo puppet theatre work, 10. A harsh, stark parable about the relationship between creator and creation (father and son?), 10 pushes Augustine away from his unique, gently playful brand of puppetry toward a more contemplative, actorly kind of performance art. I missed Augustine's interaction with his remarkable creations--when he handles puppets, they don't just come to life, they acquire souls. But I applaud his desire to stretch himself in creating something new. Unfortunately, the show we're seeing at the Red Room is clearly not done yet: the ending, in particular, feels rushed and tacked on, and the hour-long piece needs some editing (particularly in the repetitious though not necessarily productive presentation of the creator's violent personality). 10 also could use some clarification: Augustine invents a strange alternative universe where creators gather at conferences to show off their latest Frankenstein Monster inventions; where numbers in waiting rooms get called in seemingly random order; where the actor himself is aware of the fourth wall and wants to knock it down but can't. But, so far, Augustine's intentions surrounding all this interesting stuff remain fuzzy. Most disappointing of all is the space itself: the Red Room proves entirely unsuitable to 10, and about a third of the show is out of view for everyone except those in the front row. 10 will be returning to New York next month (at HERE) and I look forward to seeing how it has developed. At the moment, though, this is very much a work-in-progress.
GUYLAR BEGUILED by Tim Cusack · 20, 2000
Guylar is a true believer trapped in a world that has reduced spirituality to an advertising gimmick. Fighting the good fight, he’s created a radio station to spread the good news. The only problem is, nobody’s listening. Enter Sunny, a bundle of energy worthy of her name. She has big plans to reverse the fortunes of Guylar’s labor of love, and give a boost to her flagging acting career in the process. Before Guylar can say, “Our Father who art in Heaven,” Sunny is changing the story of Mary’s visitation to Elizabeth to reflect contemporary feminism (to hilarious effect) and making him fall in love with her. Only problem is Sunny is a lesbian, and her lover Lily (the wonderful Sarah Gifford) is not at all happy about her current employer. At first helping her prepare for the audition by acting out potential on-air banter (another zinger of a scene), Lily soon grows to resent her girlfriend’s hypocrisy in working for the enemy, with predictable results. So far so good. Playwright Hugh Murtagh effectively sets up his religious satire/screwball comedy machine, and all we have to do is enjoy the ride. But problems soon present themselves. Sunny is the protagonist of this story, but the play’s title would seem to indicate otherwise. Murtagh must have thought so, too, because about halfway through, the machine starts to seriously malfunction. The clear line of his plot becomes hopelessly tangled, and by the time we emerge from the confusion, we’re in a completely different play. God/Satan comes to Lily in a dream and challenges her sexuality. It turns out she’s even more of a hypocrite than Sunny, because she’s not even really gay. Guylar, on the other hand, receives a divine command to sacrifice Sunny, just as Abraham once was asked to kill Isaac. Suddenly, a very smart, very funny satire on sex, religion, politics and entertainment has become a metaphysical thriller. Will he kill Sunny? Can Lily overcome her ambivalence and stop him? Can any of us really thwart God? Unfortunately, Murtagh goes for the nastiest ending possible, violating both his contract with his characters and with us. I’m all for thinking deep thoughts in the theatre, but a little more consistency of tone would well serve this promising playwright next time.
LONG SHOT by Eric Winick · 22, 2000
The program notes for pK project’s production of Longshot state, “The story, the music, and the process through which Longshot came to be is original, as is the style in which it will be presented. While what you are about to witness will be less than two hours long, the full-length cut of the script runs roughly two and a half hours without an intermission. Also, a fully realized production would have multi-media and rock-concert production elements to round out its sleek and innovative possibilities.” Welcome to the theater, kids. While the current “cut” of this ego trip masquerading as a musical play by Chad Kukahiko and Kyle Puccia may have a storyline, music, and process, it’s sorely lacking in originality. As sleek and innovative as its creators may believe it to be, in telling the story of one rock band’s rise and fall, Longshot mines every cliché in the genre. There’s talent here, no doubt about it – you feel for Adam Donshik’s embattled junkie, and Fiona Bates has a voice that’ll knock your socks off. Sadly, these actors don’t stand a chance when sharing the stage with Puccia (as Coyote, the sexually conflicted lead singer) and Kukahiko (as Graham, the sensitive drummer). Tellingly, there’s a director credited (Isa Totah), but his/her bio is conspicuously absent from the program; in its place is the bio of Grammy-nominated record producer Matt Silva, whose work is not in evidence here. The self-congratulatory air kicks off with the opening number, which establishes the tone for all musical numbers to come: loud, thudding beat; incomprehensible lyrics; no discernable melody; and, worst of all, Puccia’s rock star posturing, one hand cutting the air as he grabs his crotch with the other. What follows is a messy, one hour and forty-five minute (sans intermission) hodgepodge of faux-doc realism, memory play, backstage naturalism, and Hedwig-style concert banter. There’s also a framing device to which we return ad neauseum, a scene in an elevator that takes place days, months, or years (one can never be sure) after the band has split, in which Coyote and the band’s other singer, Hannah (Bates) are forced to confront their sordid past. They needn’t have bothered. We know where this play is going from the onset – and so, I suspect, do the actors. At one point, after a scene in which a coked-up Charlie and Graham come to blows, Mr. Kukahiko runs off stage right and kicks the risers as hard as he can. The title at least rings true one respect: there’s one true Longshot here, and it’s the script.
ELEVEN DOLLAR PROPHET by Martin Denton · 20, 2000
Antonio Sacre says he might be the Messiah. Or not. He feels like a prophet, anyhow; and the twelve bucks we shell out at this, his fourth Fringe NYC Festival, constitutes the proof: for the hour we watch and listen--at least--we're his followers, and we hang on every word and every movement in hopes of--what--enlightenment? The Answer? Entertainment, at least, of the most involving, provocative (and provoking kind). Sacre's show is all about engagement, whether as a fully aware participant in the theatrical event cum ritual that is Eleven Dollar Prophet, or as a thinking, feeling being, participating in our own lives and in the society we're part of. Values and choices are questioned and challenged in this show, ranging from the ones espoused in the Old and New Testaments to the ones we make every day when we walk past a homeless person or part with some of our hard-earned cash to see a show like, well, Eleven Dollar Prophet. We're on the hook and we can't escape ourselves: the God that Sacre tells us exists in each of us lies waiting for us to make the right moves. Sacre's theme is resonant and important and delivered with brilliant ambiguity as a monologue that sounds like a sermon and looks like performance art. (Among other things, Sacre washes his hair and shaves on stage, and at one point invites members of the audience to have sex with him on stage.) Nothing is certain here except our own ability and willingness to process the slyly seductive bamboozling messages that he feeds us: he's messing with our minds, the way all prophets do, eleven dollar or otherwise. That he's a fine, incisive writer and, probably, a better performer gives him entre--if not necessarily privilege--to do so. A final word about the title: when he wrote the piece, the one-dollar Fringe NYC ticket price hike had not yet been announced. But who can put a price on the word of the Messiah?
THE RIDERS by Martin Denton · 19, 2000
The Riders is one of the pleasantest surprises of this year's Fringe NYC. This show, written and performed by Heather Rogers and Amy Bennett, is both introduction to and celebration of the world of female motorcyle racing. That world is unfamiliar to me and, I'm sure, many people; Rogers and Bennett, petite and smart and articulate, are about as far removed from biker chick stereotypes as it's possible to be. Their show makes real strides toward disabusing us about a lifestyle and a passion that we probably haven't thought much about. It's also great fun: Rogers and Bennett share amusing and exciting anecdotes from their own hectic experiences learning and operating Harleys, Yamahas, and the like. They expose, gently, the prejudice that women are forced to deal with in this male-dominated pastime; and they debunk, wittily, the myths surrounding their somewhat exotic pursuit. Mostly, they re-create for us the sheer joy and exhilaration that they feel when they hit the open road on their bikes.
THE BABU SHOW by Eric Winick · 22, 2000
Mita Ghosal is about to tell the story of her life. As the lights of University Settlement dim, a recording is played, that of a child singing a popular song. This recording is part of “The Babu Show,” an imaginary radio talk show “hosted” by Ghosal as a child, the title of which incorporates the nickname given to Ghosal by her family. Years later, while investigating the modern use of the word “Babu,” Ghosal discovered it to have been a stereotype foisted upon Bengali men by British colonialists. The so-called “Bengali Babus” were demeaned as effeminate, and thus different, from their British intellectual counterparts. In fact, we are told, the Babus were attempting to get in touch with their feminine side (through worship of the warrior goddess Durga), an act considered to be courageous, powerful, and strong. The Babu Show, circa 2000, is Ghosal’s personal journey to self-acceptance, the story of one Indian-American woman learning to embrace the paradox of yearning for physical and spiritual love. To tell the tale, Ghosal employs theatre, storytelling, slide projections, tape recordings of “The Babu Show,” and, most effectively, modern dance. Graceful yet strident, innocent yet seductive, her movements are those of a woman caught between two worlds, simultaneously heeding her mother’s advice (“If you want a husband, you must learn the meaning of compromise”) and asserting her independence. Starting with young Babu Ghosal recounting her father’s death and family’s recovery, the piece quickly jumps several years to the image of grown-up Mita on a date, upbraiding her male companion (in the form of a stuffed lion) for his inattention. Later, in the show’s penultimate section, a Caucasian film director (Christopher Altman) approaches Ms. Ghosal and offers her a role as a dancer in his film; when he receives no response, he changes his tack, leering, “I want to f—k your brown Hindi ass.” One scene later, Ms. Ghosal has become the warrior goddess, proudly claiming, “I am timeless. I surpass your definitions. I do want you to f—k me. But I also want you to love me. Respect me. Fear me.” It’s a bold gambit, and surprisingly, it pays off. Playing out such personal material onstage can catapult any show into self-indulgence; in The Babu Show, it becomes more engrossing with each passing scene, a testament to Ms. Ghosal’s belief in the power of her material. Although the acting is less than stellar, and the script’s narrative leaps could have been smoothed with effective dramaturgy, when Ms. Ghosal is dancing, she is a wonder to behold. Like Durga, just the sight of her brings harmony to the cosmos.
GIRL UNDER GRAIN by Tim Cusack · 20, 2000
After days of Dadaist movement pieces, plotless solo shows and abstract poetry, Karen Hartman’s Girl Under Grain emerges out of Fringe NYC, for this reviewer, as an oasis in the midst of parched land. My head feverish from the effort of decoding countless enigmatic gestures and gnomic pronouncements:.finally, an actual play with identifiable characters! Clear delineation of story! Dramatic conflict! Can it be the real thing? The weary traveler plops down in the shade of Hartman's cool prose and drinks in the sweet nourishment of this story of love, betrayal and forgiveness. Yes, it’s the real thing. Hartman transplants the Biblical story of Ruth and Naomi from the ancient Middle East to the decimated American mid-West of the Dust Bowl. Naomi is now Sugar, the ironically named bitter matriarch of a clan of men who have deserted her. She is traveling back to the place of her childhood and to Boone, the man she rejected in her youth for a richer one. Boone himself has grown prosperous over the years and, for Sugar, represents her last hope of finding a companion with whom to see out this life. Boone has a rival, though, in Ruth, Sugar’s daughter-in-law who has fallen madly in love with her. Here, Hartman performs a bit of dramaturgical sleight-of-hand by transforming the classic plot of two men fighting over the body of a woman into something strange and wonderful. Not only is one of the “men” a woman, the body they are in conflict over is blind, post-menopausal, weather-beaten. As embodied by Dales Soules, it’s easy to see why they are both so enraptured by Sugar. Without compromising one bit the character’s hardness and terrifying need, Soules floods the stage with the warmth of her humanity and earthy humor. Hartman’s plot conceals one other irony: Boone hasn’t a clue that he’s even engaged in a battle for Sugar. As the wealthy farmer, Mike Hodge is generosity personified, a Plains Santa. To see him and Soules in a lovers’ embrace is to marvel at a culture that snickers at depictions of carnal lust in anyone over 45. Soules and Hodge not only turn in the two best performances I’ve seen in the festival, they’re also the two sexiest performers. Jean Randich’s production is a lesson in economy of means leading to richness of effect, and I want a recording of Aaron Hartman’s songs for the next time my heart gets broken. If I do have some minor quibbles with Hartman’s structure—the play doesn’t really get going until the women arrive at Boone’s farm and an epilogue involving Ruth and her sister-in-law Orpah feels tacked on—I also recognize that she’s grappling with the not-inconsiderable task of making this archetypal story resonate today, both politically and dramatically. These are small concerns. Like the characters in her story, I’ll take sustenance where I can get it.
HOUSE OF TRASH by Martin Denton · 19, 2000
What's the funniest moment in House of Trash? Perhaps it's when Claude the gorilla sits down, crosses his legs, and starts to leaf through a high school student's composition book. Or is it when Angel, a wigged-out druggie who claims to have been abducted by aliens, lets slip that her mother is part of the Manson family? Or when Bob Maggot, an earnest garbageman moonlighting as a Baptist preacher, instructs his step-grandson Pubert to polish a telephone with the remnants of a frog sandwich? It doesn't really matter: what you need to know is that in House of Trash, the "populist musical" written and directed by downtown comedy favorite Trav S.D., the laughs are nonstop and mostly of the belly variety. This is a burlesque, pure and simple, in the grand comic tradition of Plautus, Goldoni, and Weber & Fields: a rowdy, raucous, profane cartoon of a show--with the blessed ring of truth simmering just beneath the surface. The story revolves around Preacher Bob's attempts to keep his extended family on the straight and narrow. His wife is a miserable old harridan addicted to tabloid TV who spouts weird malevolent folk wisdom like a deranged cross between Granny Clampett and the Wicked Witch of the West. His son is a walking timebomb of adolescent angst, in love with his high school teacher. His step-son is an imbecilic Hayseed (that's his name) who may be in love with a goat. And his step-grandson is a glue-sniffing dimwit, involved with the aforementioned Angel: a walking lost cause. Poor Preacher Bob; lucky us. There's a lively country/rock score, as well (performed by Beau Mansfield and his band); plus grandly outrageous performances by Robert Pinnock, Reverend Jen Miller, Gilda Konrad, Loren Kidd, Hank Flynn, Jon Weichsel, and Trav S.D. himself. All are employed in the dubious but worthy cause of poking fun at white trash, who are--let's face it-- the only acceptable figures of derision left in this politically correct world of ours. And they do so with over-the-top vigor in this delicious celebration of good old-fashioned American ignorance.