nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: Almost Obscene, Raw Footage, Death Of Frank, Assorted States And Clean Living, Skin Around The Earth, Matt & Ben, Inventing Color, Patty Red Pants, Miss Julie, The Welcoming Committee, The Last Nickel, Two
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ALMOST OBSCENE by Ivo Tomasini |
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"I want to be plugged in" is the first line we hear in the one-hour
one-man show Almost Obscene, written and performed by Joe Raiola
and directed by Barbara Pitcher at P.S. 122. Lying down and stretching
as if just awakening, Raiola begins with a soft, tender reminiscence of
a time spent in the serenity of the wilderness. For a moment, we think
that we’re in for a long, tree-hugging babbling of a die-hard granola
head. Until, that is, Raiola graphically proceeds to demonstrate, with
precise pelvic thrusts, just how it is that he literally "plugged in" to
mother earth. In the tradition of George Carlin, (whom Raiola later cites as one of his direct influences), we are immediately drawn into the cynical, comical, jeering and energetic modern day commentary of a man frustrated with our excessively driven American way of life. "We drive everywhere…even to the bus stop!" The delivery of his monologue is dynamically played out in a manner that seems to rattle the audience from their sluggish mind set. Raiola’s social and political points come at us like the quick jabs of a boxer, and before we can recover, he’s already combined another flurry of cynicisms to keep us alert. Meanwhile, he bobs and weaves in and out of everything from the corruption of Catholicism to that of ice-skating, not to mention America’s megalomaniacal obsession with censorship as a power tool. Hilarious at times, thought-provoking at others, Almost Obscene doesn’t leave much room for speculation as one topic is quickly shoved off to the side by the next. This is an enjoyable performance whose subject matter we’ve all heard before, but leaves us feeling stirred and awakened, like a good ol’ Italian back of the hand. Leaning less towards a play, this is the raw, analytical commentary of a man who seems to be doing anything but acting. The recommendation for the day is to visit this piece of mind spin for anyone in need of a good, hardy dose of post-9/11 wake-me-up. |
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RAW FOOTAGE by Chance Muehleck |
Early in Laurel Haines’ full-length dark comedy Raw Footage, our
protagonist Christopher (J. Garrett Glaser) says to his overly insistent
boss, "It takes fearlessness to look at death for what it is." It also
takes a certain kind of playwright to deal with issues of loss, truth,
and mass media in very funny, if not always completely honest, terms.
Haines wants us to pay attention to ourselves and the things we take for
granted (love and family, mostly); her writing and this production by
The Red Handed Theater Company don’t quite meet that challenge, but
their efforts are commendable. A young girl (Jamie, played with great stillness by Elizabeth Tidy) is dying. Her family is brutish and grossly unsupportive; a pill-popping nurse is also present (C.J. Gelfand), though her back story and reasons for being there made little sense to me. Into the mix comes Christopher, a filmmaker whose company, Raw Footage, is producing a documentary based around Jamie’s death. It is with Christopher that we most closely identify, as he runs the gamut from inexperienced boy scout to desperate sellout; after a particularly candid exchange between Jamie’s parents, he yells "Cut!" and we are artfully made aware of the thin line between real life and "reel" life. Raw Footage is at its best when it examines this paradox, for it informs our perception of the play itself and implicates us in its events. Less successful is the overall tone of the production; Mark Armstrong directs some scenes as borderline slapstick, undercutting the play’s more harrowing moments. Certain characters are presented to us as caricatures (the nurse; Christopher’s boss Betty, played with hysterical fury by Irene McDonnell), and by the second act many of them have become the sum of their stereotypes; this is probably the point, but it only helps expose the play’s machinery, not its satire. To Armstrong’s credit, he keeps the show moving at a brisk pace. The actors are focused, though not always on the same things. And the production elements are ambitious yet haphazard, particularly the use of a video screen where we occasionally see the results of Christopher’s handiwork (it doesn’t tell us anything very new about what happens onstage). FringeNYC is an ideal venue for new plays to find themselves and their audiences; let that idea be your guide as you make your way to La Tea to see Raw Footage. |
| DEATH OF FRANK by Ken Urban |
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This new production of Stephen Belber’s 1997 play by the Sum of Us
Theater Company hits all the right notes. Well acted and inventively
directed, this show needs to be on your "must see" list for this year’s
FringeNYC. Belber is best known for his play Tape which was made into a film last year by Slacker director Richard Linklater, as well as his role as Associate Writer on The Laramie Project. This early play finds Belber exploring Christopher Durang territory—desire that crosses the boundaries of what is "right"—with plenty of deft comic touches. But while Durang tackles taboos by piling on the laughs, Belber is not afraid to address the more serious side of his subject. That Belber is able to do this without ever succumbing to a forced sense of gravitas is impressive. Roommates and best friends, Peter (Raymond James Hill) and Natalie (Alexa Dubreuil) are, to put it nicely, extremely close siblings. To put it plainly, Peter wants to sleep with his sister. This desire is held in check only by the incest taboo and Peter’s love of gardening, which serves as his substitute for social interaction. Things grow complicated when Natalie’s new boyfriend Frank (Paul Keany) enters the picture. Frank is a rougher, older man, who runs a mysterious construction business and has a penchant for talking with his fists. Spurned Peter finds his own romantic muse in cunning linguist Lynn (Tessa Gibbons), a spoken word artist with a love of words and unloaded firearms. Brother and sister are equally jealous of each other’s objects of desire and after a fateful day involving a garden hoe, things are never the same for the pair. While the terrain of Death of Frank feels familiar, Belber’s script surprises. He finds a great deal of depth in the plight of these four characters, particularly Peter’s ambiguous sexual exploits. Director Nancy S. Chu uses a number of simple yet effective staging techniques, the most prominent being an onstage stage manager who hands out props and supplies sound effects. Such subtle touches give important moments added vitality. The cast all do excellent work. Their years working together at the Atlantic Theatre’s Acting School shows. Hill and Keany, in particular, turn in highly effective performances as Peter and Frank. |
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ASSORTED STATES AND CLEAN LIVING by Amy Heath Bell |
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In the program for Assorted States and Clean Living the
producing company, Blindspot, describes themselves as "an
out-of-the-ordinary sketch and improvisation company that
challenges the parameters of the ‘improv’ norm. Combining
elements of abstract physical work and political/social satire…"
Now that sounds like a show to see! Unfortunately, what you get
instead is an uneven evening with short, vaguely familiar
sketches, a dance number, an uneasy improv game, no political
satire, and overused and unoriginal stereotypes. Not to totally mislead you, there are a couple of really funny sketches; standouts include the All-Star Financial Stockbroker, a Party in the Hamptons, and the Sunshine Jet Stewardesses, although the inclusion of a Value Jet joke kind of brings into question the timeliness of the satire here (weren’t Value Jet jokes all the rage about five years ago?). There is a lot of potential in many of the sketches, but regrettably they either go on long after the funny moment has passed, or stop just short of reaching a final moment. The actors (Will Koehl, Marci Lacenere, Leslie Meisel, Molly Prather, Lennon Parham, Carter Roy) are all energetic and clearly talented, but director Kevin Scott needs to lend them more of a hand. A judicious eye is needed to trim the fat and shape these pieces into a more coherent show and a more relevant social satire. |
| SKIN AROUND THE EARTH by Alyssa Simon |
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In Greek mythology, the son of Achilles abandoned the great warrior
Philoctetes on the island of Lemnos with a giant festering snakebite
wound on his foot. In Skin Around The Earth, a takeoff and
commentary on that myth, Neoptolemus, who is Achilles’ son, and Odysseus
return to Lemnos ten years later to bring Philoctetes back to fight in
the Trojan War. I’ve been told the myth of Philoctetes can be interpreted psychologically as the self-pity and loathing of one’s own making that can keep one stranded on an island . That would seem to be the case in this version, where Philoctetes (played by Valerie Geffner) takes erotic pleasure in aggravating the wound with a whip and has ecstatic seizures from the pain. Geffner’s androgynous appearance, physical strength, and command of language make her a credible warrior. Nick Sattinger as Neoptolemus and Eli Rarey as Odysseus are both effective in quiet moments when they are emotionally connected to what they are saying. This is especially true of the last scene in the play where Neoptolemus speaks. Other times, though, I think that director Filip Marinovich (who is also the playwright) has not yet found clear motives for his characters’ actions or justification for busy stage movement. At these moments, the action becomes frenetic and objectives get lost in yelling and screaming. Interspersed with the plot, Patrick Roetzel is a one-man Greek chorus dressed like and resembling Rod Serling from "The Twilight Zone." His straight delivery, right out of a tourist brochure about the island of Lemnos, is a very funny touch. Also, Ahmed Khouja plays the xylophone and percussion to augment the action. Hannah Snyder-Beck plays Woundbird, a singing angel and hallucination. I was confused about the Christian symbol of the angel in a vision and didn’t know the reason for it. Neither was I sure about the reason for over ten service desk bells on the stage that were rung often and seemingly at random. Was it to show a shift in tactic or change in mood? Time passing? I would be interested to know. |
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MATT & BEN by Eric Winick |
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By this point, with back-to-back summer releases of The Bourne
Identity and The Sum of All Fears, the diametrically-opposed
styles and personalities of Matt Damon and Ben Affleck are so firmly
etched that many have forgotten their "humble" beginnings as scribes of
the Oscar-winning screenplay Good Will Hunting. Not Mindy Kaling
and Brenda Withers, the Dartmouth-educated creators of Matt & Ben, a
scathing commentary on the creation of that much-lauded work. With a few
sharp, well-placed kicks, these two talented comediennes remind us that,
before they were stars, these boys were just a couple of underworked
Everyactors chasing pipe dreams of literary stardom. Set in Ben’s apartment, which is appropriately adorned with Red Sox banners and a School Ties poster, we meet the boys as they are attempting, fruitlessly, to adapt Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye for the screen. What follows is less a meditation on talent and its many guises than a cautionary tale on the nature of artistic collaboration. When a copy of the Hunting script drops mysteriously from the heavens (realism, be gone), the boys realize they’re being tested by a Higher Power; at stake is nothing less than the bond of friendship that has served them for well over a decade. There’s much that’s hilarious here, and if the acting is uneven, the writing and unbridled sense of invention more than compensate for the production’s weaker moments. My initial concern that the premise would sustain its novelty no longer than, say, a half-hour, proved unfounded. The authors get considerable mileage out of exploiting the differences between the boys, almost to the point of contempt: while Damon (Withers) is portrayed as a serious-minded, khaki-clad artiste, Affleck (Kaling) comes off as a semi-illiterate boob who subsists on a diet of Kix and Gatorade. Although both are thanked in the program, it’s unclear as to whether they gave their blessing to the production; audiences expecting a loving tribute had best look elsewhere. By the time the boys realize they’re nothing without each other, you may be tempted to wonder just what their appeal is as individuals. |
| INVENTING COLOR by Saviana Condeescu |
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I have always wondered why some plays that are well written, have clever
lines, and a strong and clear metaphor, don’t succeed in seducing the
audience. Viewing Inventing Color helped me with one of the
answers I was looking for. The story of four hard-working engineers who invented Trinitron—a revolutionary device which set the basis for color television and computer screens—is a bitter one and conveys the powerful message of the individual exploited and manipulated by the corporate system in a society worshiping the god of money. Although spiced with some "dirty" and political jokes, the play seemed to me rather an undeveloped script for film or an outline for a novel. Shapiro, who is known as a novelist and screenwriter, is obviously very good at exploring subtle psychological states and inner dramas which can be developed by the techniques of cinematography and prose. But as a play, lacks a power to surprise and capture you in its world, and occasionally fails at the "dramatic tension" exam. The director Siobhan Reynolds and the actors do their very best in the difficult circumstances of an intelligent and thick story with a great recipe—all ingredients have a huge potential—and a result not too easy for one’s stomach. Nevertheless, this arthurmillerian drama of honest, talented, nice, wise "losers," prisoners of the 9-5 daily routine, has its power to impress and it might be a trigger for some revelatory insights. |
| PATTY RED PANTS by Matt Freeman |
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"Little Red Riding Hood" as a Freudian sexual awakening is not a
new concept. Patty Red Pants proves to be provocative and
entertaining despite treading these well-charted waters. This
production has just what you’re looking for at FringeNYC: youth,
ambition and invention. Using Red Riding Hood as a backdrop, playwright Trista Baldwin treats us to the friendship of Patty Red Pants and Becky Bloom. Budding teens, they navigate an adolescent dreamscape, danger at every turn. "Wolves" abound: Denny’s waiters, aggressive stepfathers and young boyfriends all take on the same ominous shape. Pervading even the most trivial conversation is the murder of "Lisa Michelle," a babysitter who wandered too far into the nearby woods alone. Director Tania I. Kirkman’s expertise is evident here as Trista Baldwin’s dense script could have been incomprehensible in lesser hands. The production never lets up, taking us to familiar places even as we are disoriented by the ever shifting narrative. It’s dizzying, but well under control. In aid of Kirkman’s vision is a well realized design, especially the variations of "wolf" costuming and the lighting of the "forest." The three actors are wonderful. Susan O’Connor is fantastic as Patty; awkwardly graceful and wonderfully funny. The audience adored her. Romy Nordlinger is a tiny powerhouse, infusing Becky Bloom with such dignity that even her self-doubt seems empowered. Chris Libby, saddled with some of the script’s most thankless material, wins the audience with an inherent sweetness. He performs the parade of desperate seducers with a constant wink. He, too, is in on the joke. The scripts soars and crashes; not everything works. It was alienating that every male presented was a wolf in disguise. Still, the male here is never the point...he is the fearsome "other." Baldwin moves from the poetic to the mundane skillfully, but doesn’t seem completely in command of the material. In the end, little is resolved, only to be blamed on faulty memory. I felt ready for more. Patty Red Pants is a wonderful journey that deserves a sharper ending. |
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MISS JULIE by J Grawemeyer |
| Stepping into Miss Julie,
Strindberg's timeless tale of misogyny, I was pleasantly surprised to
hear teen pop star Britney Spears' "I'm Not that Innocent" in the
background, coupled with the dubious lip-synching of a girl dressed as
Britney who, with gyrating hips, introduces us to Miss Julie's world.
With all the media hoopla surrounding Spears' sexuality and quest for
independence (in the teen pop world, anyway) I thought the comparison
between Britney and Miss Julie would be interesting. In Dana Edell's adaptation Miss Julie wears a pink wig, a T-shirt that says "Slut" and a corset. She is socially fallen, bitter and libidinous, and here the correlation between Miss Julie and Britney ends. Miss Julie asks if she is "the first or the last," positing whether she is a new breed of woman, a feminist (the play was written before the turn of the 20th century), or the last woman without the benefit of feminism. The director flirts with the idea of Britney as the new breed, but that theme is never fully realized and the familiar story of a repressed woman’s seduction of/by her servant plays out as expected. I left asking "What is the correlation between Britney and Miss Julie?" Both wild women, but that seems to be all they have in common. There are a few thrills, including the brilliant costumes and the addition of the chorus, a group of peasant-whores-cum-Greek goddesses who create the world of and emphasize certain moments in the play, but who are so interesting they become distracting. The principals, Nurit Monacelli (Miss Julie), Malinda Walford (Christine), and Tommy Schrider (Jean) are all capable and fun to watch. The set design is fantastic—an amphitheater inset with a movable rope, within which the principles endlessly struggle. The sound design is so loud at times one cannot hear the actors. I was also concerned about the Count's boots: The Count, Miss Julie's father, is a forbidding, fearsome man, and likewise so should be his boots. Here they are treated as another comedic element, which undermines the message of the play. Ultimately, though, the play is fun, the only version of Miss Julie I have actually enjoyed. |
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THE WELCOMING COMMITTEE by Anthony Pennino |
| The excellent play The Welcoming
Committee by Melissa Rayworth follows two separate story lines, both
of which inform and serve as a counterpoint to one another. Jess (played
by Rayworth herself) is held by the police in the People’s Republic of
China for alleged involvement with proscribed spiritual groups. She is
questioned by Gao (Tony Cheng), who demands that she sign an apology for
her activities. She is visited by Miller (Greg Skura) from the American
embassy who tells her to apologize. Back in the United States, two college professors, Maggie (Heather Grayson) and Peter (Tony Finn), are playing host to Guan (Michael Carroll), a Chinese Muslim student. Guan’s activities are suspicious, and Maggie believes he is a terrorist. Eventually, Peter succumbs to Maggie’s paranoia and turns Guan in to the INS. Rayworth’s play explores issues of freedom versus security. It is particularly chilling because in it, a government which we have been conditioned to believe is reprehensible suddenly becomes understandable. Rayworth does not shy away from the idea that we are adopting some of the PRC’s practices as we realize there are other worse monsters out there. Director Judith Stevens-Ly masterfully builds the tension and stakes in each scene. The acting across the board is superb. Rayworth captures perfectly the mix of naiveté and outrage of an American abroad. Cheng makes his interrogator menacing but still quite human. Skura gives a superb performance as he blends the cynicism and pragmatism of Miller. Carroll is very likeable as the Chinese exchange student; he evokes sorrow when we realize he is destined for a similar fate as Jess’s. Finn does a good job in his journey from believing in Guan to turning against him. And Grayson is simply terrific as someone who knows she is being irrational but cannot stop herself. If I have a complaint, it is this: at forty minutes, the show is too short. As I was becoming totally invested in the twin worlds of the play and the characters that inhabit them, the lights came down for the curtain call. Rayworth definitely has the makings of a full-length play here. |
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THE LAST NICKEL by Eric Winick |
| It’s clear from the outset of The
Last Nickel that Something Has Happened. A bed floats in the
blackened void of TNC’s dank, eerie cabaret space, projecting a sense of
loneliness, of being cut off from the natural world. And while this
feeling increases exponentially over the course of this play by Jane
Shepard, the material has been treated so hamfistedly by Living Room
Arts that what begins as a promising exploration of the bond between
sisters in the wake of a traumatic experience ends up no deeper than an
After-School special, a melodramatic take on death and the scars it
leaves behind. Without divulging the specific event that brings together sisters Jo and Jamie, it suffices to say that the nature of the event isn’t made manifest until later in the play, allowing for clever clue-dropping throughout. Jo, the younger sister, attempts to wake Jamie through a series of increasingly histrionic actions, such as singing, dancing, and (in the play’s best comic flourish) playing a slide trombone. Jamie is initially annoyed by Jo’s ranting, but as mentioned, something is wrong with this picture, and Jamie’s irritation with Jo soon turns to frantic concern. Supplementing the main action is a chorus of hand puppets who emerge intermittently from behind the headboard to provide running commentary. While there is merit in plumbing the depths of sisterly relationships in the shadow of life-changing events, Ms. Shepard’s play strives for poignancy, only to descend (inevitably?) into bathos. It’s difficult to determine who’s more at fault here, the playwright or director Melanie S. Armer, whose overly stagy direction has the sisters bouncing insanely around the set in a re-creation of childhood abandon. Reyna Kahan’s shrill Jo (whose age is never clear) becomes tiring a few minutes in; the relatively understated Lori Brigantino fares somewhat better, despite being saddled with a character who can’t decide whether to commit suicide or embark on an eating disorder. Worst of all are the puppets, a staggeringly artificial device that seems to have been devised merely to spoon-feed the audience unnecessary subtext and backstory. |
| TWO by Joanne Joseph |
| Josh Hecht, the director, greets the
audience and explains that Two, a play about a couple in the
thrall of fighting, struggling to either make amends or walk away, is
triple-cast. At the opening performance, two women, Catherine Glenn and
Diana Windorst, were the couple, one cold, hard and angry, the other
soft, vulnerable and angry. Hecht tells us to keep our ticket stubs,
come back and see the second cast at half price, and if we really
persevere and come to the third cast performance, we can get in for
free. The other casts provide the other two alternatives—a heterosexual
and gay male couple. Cast B is Patrick Darragh and Diana Windorst, and
Cast C is Spencer Aste and Patrick Darragh. It would be of interest to
see how the changes are wrung by all versions of the couple. It struck
me that the company could do one performance of the script abbreviated,
go three rounds with it, and the comparison could be viewed all in one
sitting. My companion and I were first impressed that this appeared to be a Beckett update. The two do not look at each other; they murmur, mumble, and vocally gyrate their grievances and fumings. Both are struggling to overcome the silences that have fallen between them. At one point, one puts on her coat and almost leaves, a logical move—but no, this is only one of a seemingly endless yes-no go-round. Dialogue reverts to the couple's past, and dramatic movement bogs down a bit. My companion was nodding, but the audience was glued to every murmur and shift. The set, by Andromache Chalfant, is wonderfully evocative, with two tall thin white, somewhat abstract straight chairs, a white window frame, a white rug for curling up on, a white spindle for an LP to play on ("Pachelbel's Canon"), a white mirror at an odd angle, and a white book case, all etched brightly and airily within the black box. The actors, barefoot, in jeans and jerseys, wrung every emotion every possible way. It's up to the watchers to decide how deeply they are drawn to and sympathize with these two confused and mercurial characters. Hecht urges the audience at the opening to come close and fill up the front rows, because the play is so intimate. Physical proximity can help, and perhaps as the run progresses the convictions of the actors will ease into greater depths. |
