nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: Last Call, Beat., Him And Her, SIN-AGOG, Johnny Panic And The Bible Of Dreams, Be What You Eat, You Are Here, It's Not My Fault, It Was On Fire When I Got There, Consumer Behavior, The Overcoat, Pierced!, A Slant Of Sun
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LAST CALL by Martin Denton |
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I hope it doesn’t trivialize the events of 9/11 to say that they were a
wake-up call for a lot of people, but I think that’s true. It’s
certainly one of the themes of Kelly McAllister’s stunning new play
Last Call. Set in a bar in a suburban California town, Last Call
tells the story of a group of friends who have known each other all
their lives. Now in their mid-thirties, they seem to be stuck in ruts,
professionally, personally, and emotionally; the dreams and ideals of
their youth seem far away, if not entirely lost. Suddenly, David, the
friend who "made good"—got a high-powered job and moved to New York
City—returns, and like a modern-day Hickey (from O’Neill’s Iceman
Cometh) he sets out to free his barfly friends from the illusions
that have them trapped. Trouble is, David’s pals’ illusions are achingly, bitterly real: they’re the soiled fabric of real life—unrequited love affairs, unsatisfying jobs, unhappy marriages. David works hard to shock these people out of their inertia (one of the things he does is take off all his clothes; there is a bit of frontal nudity in this play). His own catharsis came three months after the World Trade Center attacks, when he contemplated suicide on a subway platform; after all the carnage and loss, he thought, how could buying and selling and talking and trading matter? David’s reappearance in town catalyzes everybody into violent reaction, though how much finally changes among them is uncertain. McAllister shrewdly keeps David somewhat shadowy; the protagonist of the play is probably Jerry, the friend whose life seems to be most stunted (his big news during the past ten years was that he moved out of his parents’ house into their garage). And the leading character of Last Call is neither of the above: he’s a sad, damaged fellow named Jack, another friend, who lost the love of his life in a car crash fifteen years before and has never quite recovered. Space doesn’t permit me to introduce the rest of the circle to you here; suffice to say that McAllister has created people we understand and care about. Last Call is beautifully written: it’s messy and poetic, like life. This production, directed by Jerry McAllister and produced by Hope Theatre, is spectacularly good. The cast is excellent: Jack Halpin (Jack), Matthew Rankin (Jerry), Brett Christensen (David), and Christine Goodman, R. Paul Hamilton, John Patrick Nord, Vinnie Penna, Masha Sapron, and Sara Thigpen. This one deserves a life after FringeNYC (but go ahead and see it now, just in case.) |
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BEAT. by Tim Cusack |
I’ve seen the best minds of my generation destroyed by the image factory
spewing air-brushed toxins into the psychic air. Apologies to Allen
Ginsberg for this bastardization of his language, but the introductory
(and instantly recognizable) line of his poem howl keeps
richocheting around my skull after seeing Kelly Groves’ production of
beat. at the Culture Project. Since Ginsberg’s seminal (pun-intended)
work popularized the ideal that anyone could be a poet, I figured Allen
wouldn’t mind me adding my own line to his poem for the purposes of this
review. After all Groves seems to have no problem appropriating
Ginsberg’s work for his own agenda. That his agenda is well-meaning is
beyond argument. However, good intentions don’t excuse the
misrepresentations that abound in his casting and arrangement of
incident. That he is obviously talented makes these little dishonesties
all the more depressing. In fact much talent, both on stage and off, is apparent in the production, but the smooth professionalism displayed manifests a bizarre cognitive dissonance with its subject matter. beat. presents, in the manner of Moises Kaufman’s Tectonic Theatre, the genesis and initial public performance of, and obscenity trial against, Ginsberg’s first masterpiece. In exploring the sources of Ginsberg’s inspiration for the work, Groves maps Allen’s introduction to the group of men who would become the Beat writers, his affairs (mostly one-sided) with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady, and his mother’s hospitalization for severe schizophrenia. Two hours of this boils down to the simple platitudes that censorship is bad and Ginsberg should be enshrined in the great hall of good gay martyrs—all of it in politely earnest good taste, the exact antithesis of its guiding spirit’s prankish Jewish bodhittsava persona. Presented in an approximation of the anarchic gathering of the period, the show has all of the choreographed anarchy of a Gap khakis commercial. The cast, too, seems ready for their national campaigns. Not that Allen would complain, mind you—there’s not a bad looker in the lot of them—but hardly any of the raw sexual energy that made the Beats such a cultural phenomenon. Dan Pintauro as Ginsberg turns in a solid performance—nuanced, well-spoken—but his perfect California hair and skin have absolutely nothing to do with the actual Ginsberg. You see, one of the ironies of Ginsberg’s life was that he was a fat, balding, ugly man who also had enormous sexual charisma. Imagine that. But I guess in the post-Urinetown world of this year’s FringeNYC, ugly is the love that dare not speak its name. |
| HIM AND HER by Seth Bisen-Hersh |
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There are very few shows that I can only find minimal criticisms with.
Him and Her is one of them. I have no doubt from the sold out
audience’s reaction tonight that Him and Her will be one of the
best selling and most enjoyed shows in FringeNYC this year. I highly
recommend it to any lover of musicals. A true life tale (kind of like a cross between The Last Five Years and tick, tick... BOOM), the show consists of two acts, each told from a different point of view. The first act is told by "him" about his angst while trying to become a Broadway composer, meeting his wife and finally the birth of his first child "Tiny Dancer." The author himself, Paul Scott Goodman, performs this act with only his twelve string guitar. Although he is not the best singer, his charm, stage presence and frequent adlibs more than makes up for it. The second act is reenacted by her (Liz Larsen), five years later, when they have separated. She is aptly joined by two guitars and a drum. This act is about her life as a housewife in "Domestica." It follows her trying time as a writing blocked playwright with a five year old in Annie and a three year old lawyer-wanna-be (who when her mother needs money for a cab ride, demands ten percent interest). Larsen is forever wonderful and does an amazing job with the complicated lyrics. The lyrics are simply wonderful. There are far too many clever rhymes and witty lines to list in this short space. The music is not revolutionary, but it supports the lyrics well and definitely fits the piece. There aren’t any standout numbers because everything fits perfectly and is delectable to watch. The acts are the perfect length, as well. The ending is beautifully crafted. The show is immensely filled with humor, charm and wit. I have no doubt that anyone and everyone will enjoy this show. |
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SIN-AGOG by Michael Criscuolo |
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Sin-Agog, a new comedy about sex and religion, features a
lively and mostly insatiable cast of characters. There's The
Conflicted Evangelist (Jono Hustis), who worships Jesus but
lusts after his cohort, The Alluring Jesus Freak (Kelly
Scanlon), who has daily "conversations" with the Son of God; The
Comic Time Bomb (Carol Todd), who decides to give motherhood a
shot after a lifetime of casual, anonymous sex; The Gay
Bartender (Steven Blevins), who hunts for the perfect trick and
the perfect roommate; The Horny Monk (Brian Robinson), who's
looking for action after seven years in a monastery; The Vile
Nympho (Marie Pastormerlo), who humps and farts like a beast;
and The Perfect Roommate (Michael Lundy) whose identity cannot
be revealed—it's a surprise! Writer/directors Brian Keyser and Allen Stafford keep the irreverence and the jokes rolling. They put The Alluring Jesus Freak in a "Christ" T-shirt that's a mock-up of the Crest toothpaste logo. They make The Comic Time Bomb recall a dream in which her vagina grows a tongue and licks itself. And, in one scene, they turn flatulence into an aphrodisiac. The excellent cast is game throughout, making Sin-Agog a funny statement about the tension between religious tenets and carnal desires, and a rousing kick-off to this year's FringeNYC Festival. |
| JOHNNY PANIC AND THE BIBLE OF DREAMS by Josephine Cashman |
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Johnny Panic and The Bible of Dreams, based on a story by Sylvia
Plath, is the darkly poignant and often funny tale of a young, nameless
secretary at a psychiatric clinic who obsessively chronicles the fears
of the patients she observes while at work. Johnny Panic is the name of
her god, and she works "…Not to record the dreamer, but the dreams." Her
work must remain secret, because she believes that the resident
psychiatrists, in treating the patients, are undermining her and
converting the patients away from the perceived worship of Johnny Panic.
Johnny lurks about on the fringes of the stage, dressed in black. He is
sly, subtle, and always there while the dreams and fears of the patients
are humorously and cleverly revealed, especially in one hilarious mock
ballet sequence. From the start, there is an extremely fine line created between the dream world and reality as the audience sees these dreams through the eyes of the energetic secretary, well played by Kathryn Ekblad, as she covertly creates the Bible of Dreams. She is torn between the excitement of her discoveries and her fears of being discovered. The play is strictly and intricately staged by adapter and director Bridgette Dunlop, although at times a bit clumsily executed by an otherwise terrific ensemble. Some standouts are Elizabeth Neptune, Jason Director, Lauren Terilli, and Emily French. With echoes of Equus, the play raises questions about the nature of mental illness, of "What is madness?" and "What is meaning?" It makes for a visually arresting and technically sound production, as we see the secretary’s passion becomes a descent into madness. This show does not disappoint. "Johnny Panic forgets not his own." |
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BE WHAT YOU EAT by Leslie Bramm |
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Ron and Nancy are preparing for the family Thanksgiving feast. With the
help of Barbara Bush they create the menu de jour. Which in this case
features a well fattened Ron Jr., ironically named "Lucky". Kept in a
cage for months in advance and fed only barbiturates and the American
Ideal, Lucky is now ready for the slaughter. The plot is complicated
when said entrée realizes something’s gone afoul and he is to be the
main course. Such is this offering from Kitty Porn Productions, Be What
You Eat. A delicious, black comedy by James D’Entremont. D’Entremont seems to have cooked up those 12 dyspeptic years called the Reagan-Bush era and left us with a lot to digest. The food, the father, the cake, the cage, all become powerful symbols of a regime that literally devoured the poor and much of the world’s natural resources. It’s refreshing to see a play that sinks its teeth into a very recent and distasteful part of our history. The eating of the children for these Republicans is a tradition as well settled as football and bloating. The playwright rips off the oven mitts for this one and holds nothing back. The play is a timely offering, especially now, as a new Junior attempts to consume the world. At spots the actors seemed to stumble with text that could be quite a mouthful, but director Russell M. Kaplan’s pacing moves the play along crisply, aided by Laurie Miller’s excellent fight direction. The settings by John Malinowski are lean, and the costumes of Sidney J. Shannon create a swell 1950s flavor. At an hour and twenty minutes, the play is a bit over stuffed, but if your tastes lean toward the biting and you’re tired of simple sweets, then let Be What You Eat spice up your FringeNYC palate. |
| YOU ARE HERE by Tim Cusack |
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In You Are Here a woman transfers water drop by drop from a
carafe into a large silver bowl. Another one executes the same task next
to her. Periodically a third woman upstage of them bangs on a garbage
can lid and one or other of the women rushes to her for a refill. Each
is obviously in competition to see who can get the most water into her
bowl and are not above cheating to fulfill this goal—anytime one of the
women’s backs are turned, we see her adversary stealing water from her
stash. This could be a metaphor for corporate capitalism or the coming
global water shortage—or perhaps just some particularly vicious nursery
school game. I’ll vote for the latter since the two women soon discover
(although how we’re not sure) two more empty silver bowls hidden under
the table, which prove momentarily more fascinating than their water
race. Hmmm, consumer capitalism or attention deficit–afflicted
toddlers—is there a difference? Wait a minute, actually the piece is supposed to be about time, and similar images of the futility of trying to fill its passing and of its circularity abound. In another pointless competition, the women run around in circles, drawing their path on the floor. They shout things like, “You’re in my way” and “I’ll get there before you.” One of the women spins in a giant hamster wheel. The company acts out the Big Bang and history of the universe, and then goes back to the beginning and starts all over again. Individually these vignettes have interest, but a flow from one to another is never established. Yeah, yeah, I know that’s a very old-fashioned sense of how time should be organized on stage, but the problem is Superconductor’s [the producer of You Are Here] rejection of that doesn’t feel thought through. Rather, it comes off as slapdash and under-rehearsed. The lighting is no help, since the shadows it casts often completely obscure the events on stage. One begins to wonder if an outside eye at any point evaluated the proceedings. At the end of the piece when an important prop falls over and self-destructs, my companion and I were unsure as to whether that was a deliberate choice or just another instance of sloppiness. Time is a completely valid subject for theatrical exploration, but please don’t waste the audience’s while doing so. |
| IT'S NOT MY FAULT, IT WAS ON FIRE WHEN
I GOT THERE by Antonio Sacre |
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There are a lot of reasons to brave the heat and cram yourself
into the tiny Downtown Variety Lounge at the Present Company to
see It's Not My Fault, It was on Fire when I Got There,
written and directed by Carl Andress. The first is Marcy
McGuigan, a delightful performer who expertly transforms herself
into many different characters without ever falling into cliché. The second is the clever script, which ratchets up the tension and intrigue of a sordid family mystery while being deliciously campy and almost effervescent. The story is complicated, yet doesn't feel so as it unfolds. A writer (played by Andress) needs his sister's (played by McGuigan) permission to publish a story that defames her character. However, the time he chooses to get it is in the middle of her lesbian commitment ceremony in Wisconsin. Mayhem ensues as various friends, aunts, uncles and others (all played by both Andress and/or McGuigan) descend on the day to ruin it (or save it). The third is watching the two actors play at least ten different roles, switching effortlessly and almost instantaneously among them all without losing the audience. The fourth is the song and dance number toward the end of the play that resolves all the questions of this family drama. It sits a little uneasily all alone at the end of the play (why not introduce another song earlier?), but still is delightful. The last might not happen when you go. On opening night, the lights in the DVL failed (pity too, because lightning designer Drew Levy did the most he could with two colors and about ten lights). Andress neatly skipped over to the wall and turned on the house lights and the play continued. When the lights flickered on and off and finally on again with the characters supposedly on a train, Andress improvised, "Damn Amtrak!" Andress is clearly a talented director, writer and performer, but by wearing all three hats, he is unable to see that his play is twenty minutes too long and could use some paring down. Even so, it is a worthy FringeNYC offering. |
| CON$UMER
BEHAVIOR by John Jordan |
| George Fine and Lenny Strange
are forlorn jingle writers in New York City who end up smack dab in
Middle America…Leisureville, Ohio…home of America’s favorite mall. You
know the drill…workaholics from NYC visit Smalltown USA…affect lives of
those they meet, and vice versa. Not incredibly original. You get a
decent bang for your buck, but actual consumer behavior shows the buying
public wants more. Gary Kupper’s music is wonderful, as are his lyrics, most notably "Songbird" and "Really Real Love." The jingles themselves are especially fun ("Rasta-brand Mousse" is memorable). The book (co-written by Kupper and Lynda Crawford) is lacking and confusing. There are more subplots than follow-through. Not enough time is invested in the characters to honestly feel for them. Still, Con$umer Behavior is quietly entertaining and humble fun. There are a few standouts in the cast, i.e., those actors who know how to get our (the consumer’s) attention. They include Denise Nolin…she’s committed, believable and a downright riot as Lena Smith, host of "The Gift of Gab"; Kia Joy Goodwin as one of the three Foreshadows ("because you can’t always find four shadows when you need them") has outstanding stage presence; Brooke Sunny Moriber as Lena’s daughter, Mary; and Craig McEldowney as Leisureville’s rhymin’ rappin’ rabble rouser, Jessie Jinx. And a special nod to Gayle Turner as Soul Sister, who definitely put the soul on this reviewer and "goosebumped" my consumer arms. Neal Young as Lenny Strange had some nice moments, especially in a touching scene with Moriber. Rounding out the cast are Mark Hattan, Nora Pierson, Daryl C. Brown, Mark Peters and Wayne Scherzer. The choreography by Phineas Newborn is adequate, albeit a bit repetitive. The set by Armond D. Francone is impressive. Basically four, white, wheeled garment racks, along with a few white chairs and blocks, which created various locations, including a bird sanctuary, a low-budget TV set, and a mall. Victoria Pero’s direction is fine. The scene changes are perfect. I especially enjoyed the return from intermission and the curtain call’s inclusion in the last number (although at least one company call was wanted and needed…we were asking for it by our applause, as consumers, but to no avail). |
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THE OVERCOAT by Richard Stroker |
| The actors in The
Overcoat, the one-act musical that opened Friday night, perform like
brilliant surgeons diligently working to resuscitate a comatose patient
of a play. The Overcoat is based on the short story of the same title written in 1842 by Nikolai Gogol. Set in mid-19th century St. Petersburg, it revolves around Akaky Akakievich, (compellingly played by Steven Goldstein) a lowly clerk in a drab office full of co-workers who pester him while performing monotonous tasks. When Alaky goes to the local tailor to repair his pathetically tattered coat, the tailor (Tim Shew) persuades him to have a new one made. This new coat catapults Akaky’s status in life to new heights. However, Alaky’s sartorially-induced high is brought to a chilling halt when thugs steal his beloved overcoat. But he fights for revenge. The actress Glenn Close once said that acting is moving molecules. Shew, playing several roles, integrates his voice and physicality to move molecules to great effect. Anna Stone is terrific in her roles; she’s particularly convincing and humorous when playing drunk. Hiromi Naruse and Jared Zeus completely commit to their characters. Director Nick Corley has sculpted a rock-solid cast. The set design, by John Gregor, is creative, efficient and effective. It proves you don’t need a lot of money for a good set, just ingenuity—mind over money. Sets are changed seamlessly by the actors. Robert Rival’s music adequately conveys the story-line, but lacks energy and melodic mettle. Gregor’s book and lyrics are sufficient. But it seems to have lost something in translation. The story that’s captivated readers for over 150 years falls flat on stage. Time-honored literature doesn’t easily transmute to musical theater, but FringeNYC is an appropriate venue to try it. While The Overcoat likely won’t become the next Les Misérables, Rival and Gregor are to be applauded for their creative risk-taking. |
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PIERCED! by Amy Heath Bell |
| Written in verse, Ginna
Hoben’s pierced!, a modern adaptation of the Greek myth "Atalanta
and the Golden Apples," quickly wins you over with its heart,
intelligence and ability to combine ancient Greece with a modern rhythm
and feel, using everything from rock and roll to "Ave Maria." Atalanta's
father demands that she get married and breed a son to replace him on
the throne. However, the oracles have decreed that Atalanta, the fastest
runner in the land, remain unmarried or she will be "a captive all her
days." A deal is struck whereby any man who can beat Atalanta in a foot
race may have her hand in marriage, but if she wins the race, she kills
her opponent. With the intervention of the goddess Aphrodite, Atalanta
finds herself running against Hippomenes. Torn between her love for
Hippomenes and a desire to maintain her independence Atalanta must
choose whether to win or lose the race. The conflict in pierced! centers around the search for the answer to the age-old question, "how do you love someone completely and still hold on to who you are and what makes you unique?" Ginna Hoben’s journey to answer this as author and actress is a funny, touching, action packed ride. As Atalanta, whether she’s running the race of her life or being drugged by the powers of a goddess into a surprising dance of new love, Hoben truly wears her heart on her sleeve allowing her emotions to play over not only her face, but her entire body. She has a beautiful voice that fully commands her space and enriches the text. Tony Speciale’s directing is sharp and creative, using fabric, lights, and one simple set piece to create beautiful pictures and continually move the show forward. Joanna Buckner’s lighting design makes great use of the small space. It’s always a joy to see what truly creative people can do with good material, especially on a small budget. pierced! is a wonderful example of that ingenuity. |
| A SLANT OF
SUN by Scott Brooks |
| A Slant of Sun is a one
woman performance bravely undertaken by Beth Tascione who is as
instantly likeable as she is easy on the eyes. She tells the story of
her newborn Jeremy, and what happens when she and her husband discover
at age two that there is something wrong with his behavior and
interaction skills. Lump in throat, they take Jeremy to some doctors who
eventually diagnose him with Pervasive Developmental Disorder. Mom’s
love and strength never waiver as she regales us with tales of how she
distracts him from withdrawing through constant distraction and puzzle
making. If this sounds a little dry for an evening of theatre that’s because it is. For all of Tascione’s unwavering energy the piece felt rehearsed rather than discovered, like a story being told over a cup of tea. The language at times seems contrived and rambling, "Like someone reading from a book," I thought. After examining the program, I discovered why. It basically was. The play was adapted from a memoir of the same name by Tascione herself. A noteworthy task any day, but that is why the piece feels safely told after the fact; remembered rather than experienced. I wanted to like this play, because of the actress, so badly I almost gave myself a nosebleed, but alas, not this time. |
