nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: Pure, 'da kink in my hair, Perfect, A Night of Shitty Theatre, Selling Out, Fever Pitch, edWARd2, Flight Triptych, Sajjil (Record), Four Quarters, Heroin(e), Like Brothas
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PURE by Julie Congress |
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Pure tells the story of Dot, a privileged, materialistic
sixteen-year-old who has a near-fatal car accident. Dot attributes her
survival to having been chosen by God and therefore decides to live the
life of a saint—she stops eating, she gets rid of all her possessions,
she cuts off all her hair, and she starts to speak out against all those
things she once thought important. As her first crusade, Dot vows to
have everyone in town boycott a concert by a popular band, thus
canceling the performance. Expertly directed by Mary Catherine Burke, Pure has a hardworking and exceptional cast. Kate Downing brings Dot to life, making a character that seems improbable into a very plausible person. Julie Ann Williams and Stephen Douglas Wood play Dot’s worried but supportive parents, while David Wylie is her wacky, caring, dare-devil younger brother. As Dot’s best friend Jo, Fay Wolf, is neither cliché nor one-dimensional, despite a tendency to scream and say “Oh my God!” a lot. Finally, Spencer Driggers is Garnett, lead singer of the band Dot is boycotting, playing both the sexy, depraved English superstar of Dot’s imagination, as well as the much more down-to-earth, somewhat moral musician. All of the actors are highly talented and really bring the play to life. The script of Pure still needs some work, though it has a great deal of potential. The concept is a very interesting one, but the writing could be sharper and the ending feels too sudden. Also, the play overlooks one very important aspect of Dot’s new life. We learn what she is fighting against, but we never know what positive things she is going to do. All of the saints Dot talks about went out and fed the hungry, or nursed the sick, or worked for other humanitarian causes, but it’s unclear what, if anything, Dot will do to help society. It may be that the playwright, Mat Stuart, has done this intentionally, showing the audience that Dot really doesn’t have what it takes to be a saint, however, I am inclined to think that is not the case. Despite a few flaws, Pure is a very well-done, very interesting play that really deserves to be seen. |
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'DA KINK IN MY HAIR by Gregg Bellon |
In the words of playwright Trey Anthony, who also stars as Novellette,
the “hair-reading” proprietor of a beauty parlor somewhere in Canada,
'da kink in my hair: voices of black womyn is “a play that would
focus on the lives of black womyn and authentically reflect the joy,
hardship, and struggles of black womyn’s lives.” Its strength lies
mostly in the performances of the five-woman chorus, each of whom
wonderfully executes a monologue depicting issues in the lives of
Caribbean transplants—incest, homophobia, police brutality, etc. Of
particular note are Debbie Young as the 12-year-old Stacey Anne, whose
thick, raw, and purely authentic Jamaican accent endears you to her as
much as her spot-on, emotionally-wrenching portrayal of a female’s
sacrifice even at that early age; and Ordena Stephens as the ultra pious
Patsy, for her honest and completely believable portrayal of a much
older mother dealing with the loss of one son and the hope for a new
one. Ngozi Paul, Rachael-Lea Rickards, and Miranda Edwards do more than
merely round out the chorus and each have moments of pure organic magic,
even as they struggled, at the performance reviewed, with some
unsympathetic audience members. Experiencing their determined focus and
commitment through the heckling gave me great hope and satisfaction as a
theater artist. Thank you, ladies. We learn quickly that most, if not all, of the characters that we will see are first- or second-generation Caribbean immigrants. But how their immigrant experience—particularly their colonial Caribbean history within Canada, the beacon of multiculturalism and tolerance—plays into their perspective on these issues is only briefly touched upon by Anthony through the too-young Stacey Anne. Other issues, like the pressures felt by an up-and-coming businesswoman (played by Edwards) or the intolerance encountered by a lesbian (portrayed by Rickards), strike less as issues specific to black women and more as territory already covered. Even Stephens’ Patsy, who touches us deeply with her story of a son shot and left to bleed to death by white police, fails to impress a theater audience in the city of Louima, Diallo, Dorismond, Louis Gene, etc., while still very affecting and tragic. Loss, love, rejection, betrayal, abuse affect us all, and we each have our story to tell about it. So, while extremely engaging, entertaining, and emotionally charged, 'da kink in my hair needs to teach us more about why these women and their struggles are unique and distinct. |
| PERFECT by Eric Winick |
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In its program notes, the London-based Perpetual Motion Theatre lists
the many contexts of its performance piece Perfect, "a
fragmentary reflection on the word ‘perfect.’" The list includes
"dreams, fairytales, pop stars, Zen, idol worship, romantic illusion,
body paranoia, relationships, domesticity, childhood"—on and on. And
while all may indeed be touched on somewhere within the mishmash that is
Perfect, Emi Slater’s well-intentioned yet haphazard production
never seems to coalesce into a cohesive whole. Digital video, movement, monologues, audience participation, poetry, song, sign language, music—it’s all there, from Phillippe Spall’s eerie, Satchmo-inflected "What a Wonderful World" to Karin Heberlein’s fascinating mirror-image dance, an effect aided immeasurably by the stunning video work of Oogoo Maia. The questions remain: What does it all mean? And how are we supposed to feel when it’s over? The trouble with Perfect, it seems, is that the piece strives to be about so many things that it never quite achieves true poignancy. Sure, there’s a great deal to be said about love, but must it be crammed in alongside "social insecurity, achievement, self-help, physical (dis)ability, and lunacy"? Yes, there’s merit in assembling a Peter Brook-ian company of international performers, and attempting to forge a common language of sound, movement, and gesture—if the company has something to say. Yes, there are gorgeous stage pictures, many of which consist simply of bodies in motion—but what they’re in the service of, I couldn’t say. Perfect’s ensemble (which also includes Toby Hughes and Leticia Santa Fé) is a dedicated and attractive bunch, no question; I only wish they’d focused their energies on a more manageable word, like "Coherent." |
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A NIGHT OF SHITTY THEATRE by Leslie Bramm |
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Special Productions brings us A Night of Shitty Theatre.
The premise is simple: seven actor/comedians parody badly
written fictitious plays by fictitious playwrights. They ask the
question, “What is shitty theatre?” and then answer it, “I don’t
know I just know when I see it.” From there, they’re off. The
evening is light and entertaining enough, supported by an
extremely talented ensemble of actors, including Channon Booth,
Dina Drew, Tim McMurray, Tony Misiano, John Schiebler (the
group’s anchor), Jennifer True and Joe Wack (who wrote all the
pieces and directed the evening). They are all well rehearsed
and tight like a good rock band. This kind of evening is a
double-edged coin, however (to use a shitty metaphor). One has
to question the overall purpose. And since this is my shitty
review, here I go: Heads: Aristotle defines entertainment as being able to lift an audience out of itself. Out of their everyday lives and for that space of theatrical time transport them to the universe of the play(s). A near sold-out house, a hundred degree theatre, a bladder full of Brooklyn Lager, and yes, I was transported. That seems a noble enough purpose. And surely we in the downtown, experimental, theatre scene need to laugh at our own pretensions. My play, your play, the play we saw last week, with good bad acting almost anything can qualify as shitty theatre. Tails: We obviously crave shitty theatre. (Judging by a very enthusiastic audience response.) We also use it to distract us, to replace the television when the television’s not available. What we need more is theatre of substance. That too can be a simple enough premise. The balance between shitty theatre and theatre that’s meaningful is way out of whack. (Shitty is winning the race hands down.) So my question to Special Productions is, what would happen if you took an ensemble as talented and passionate as yours, then took on material equally funny, but more meaty and substantive? I don’t know, but I bet I’d know it when I saw it. |
| SELLING OUT by Danielle Duvall |
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Upon arrival at Strange Weather Theatre Company‘s Selling Out, you
might be offered one of a myriad little toy trinkets—anything to keep
you there, hence their point. Selling Out, a new play by Stephen
Horvat, is composed of three vignettes, each focusing on the various
ways we sell our souls for the sake of societal approval,
acknowledgement and, most importantly in this case, commercial success.
Of the three vignettes, the first works best. Joe Hickey and Katie Jay are exceptionally funny as slick, good-cop-bad-cop Disney ambassadors, out to claim another victim for mediocrity and the status quo. With Hickey and Jay on task, no tactical stone is unturned and it’s wrong-in-the-head hilarious. That said, Horvat’s writing, while at times somewhat clever and witty, lacks real depth; this piece feels more like a comedy sketch than a play. The other vignettes take us into two very limited, pseudo-intellectual and desperate theatre-wannabe worlds. Neither piece offers much in the way of an interesting hook to help Horvat make his larger point, though he does, here, attempt to correlate the character Hamlet with the need to be more true to one’s own artistic integrity. While I applaud such an effort, the writing just doesn’t measure up to this line of reasoning. That said, this company is made up of a very strong group of actors. These artists deserve more artistic food to chew on than the “MAD-TV”-style sketches here provide—I’d like to be there whenever that occurs. Christopher Andersson is uproarious as Andy, a frantic host of his graduate school showcase—ten years after they’ve all graduated. And the competent and rather enigmatic Matthew McIver brings laughter to us all with his obnoxious mime student character—you’ll want to shoot him. In the head. It works. Truly great comedy (as well as tragedy) is based in necessity. While I believe that Selling Out has a theme that is important and has the potential to be ridiculously funny, the execution in this case leaves one starving for deeper meaning and insight. |
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FEVER PITCH by Joseph Langham |
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The description said there’d be a PR Duo, a ukulele and a DJ. And darned
if they weren’t all there! Yet, still it wasn’t at all what I was
expecting. Truth be told, these four heroes of modern comedy exceeded
any expectations I held in my tiny little artist’s brain. The show kicked off with an introduction by our hosts Sedatem and Hyde, brought to us courtesy the newly founded Homeland Security Department. They’ve come all the way from Washington to ease our insecurities concerning the war on terror. How? By using a language all us Fringers (Fringees?) can plainly understand: Art. And who performs the art? None other than the great Cliff Von Clifton, non-verbal artist extraordinaire, with a little help from his pal (or not) DJ Monkey. Fever Pitch is incredible, and rife with surprises that I refuse to give away. Please note that I am snickering knowingly as I write these words. The borderline pig-faced PR Duo are energetically and flawlessly portrayed by Liz Turkel and Matt Chapman, who seethe with a chemistry not unlike that of the great comedy duos of the golden age. Think Abbott and Costello meets Burns and Allen meets Rumsfeld and Rice. DJ Monkey plays himself (and the turntables) quite nicely, keeping an ambient musical through-line consisting of familiar music and a strong back beat. But, the real standout of the evening is Greg Maupin’s Cliff Von Clifton. This man manages to say more with his body, some extremely subtle facial expressions, and a wide array of instruments and props, than all of the pot-bellied, round-assed politicians who ever stood before a podium. I left the theatre feeling elated. The jokes are hilarious and sobering all at the same time. This is some scary and touchy material these people are playing around with and I, personally, applaud them for it. I now implore you to drop all other FringeNYC plans and see this show. It is important. It is timely. And, above all else it is pure fun. |
| EDWARD2 by Aaron Leichter |
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Warning: patrons who attend the FringeNYC production of edWARd2
expecting Christopher Marlowe’s classic historical play will be sorely
disappointed. And theatergoers who have no idea who Marlowe was may be
lost, too. But otherwise, this play has everything that open-minded
Fringe-festers could want: it overflows with ingenious experimental
theatrics performed by a gung-ho ensemble of youthful actors. It only
fails in the moments when writer/director Anton Dudley attempts too much
rather than not enough. A completely new retelling of the story of the medieval English king whose scandalous lifestyle led to his own death, edWARd2 follows the love affair between Edward II and his courtier Gaveston. As Gaveston gains influence, his depravity (and the power that the king awards him) angers the nobility. Led by Mortimer, the nobles plunge the country into civil war, finally capturing the king and executing Gaveston. Dudley focuses on the love affair rather than the affairs of state: his play isn’t a statement about history but one about love, closer to Romeo and Juliet than Richard II. He’s written a script whose heightened verse accommodates the grandiose emotions of his protagonists, and, aside from a slow stretch before the climax, he tells his story at a good pace. The staging tends toward the experimental, with puppets and dancers creating a strangely compelling visual style. When, for example, was the last time you saw actors upstaged by foam vegetables? Unfortunately, this is as much a comment on the performers as on the vegetables. Of all the lead actors, only Trevor Oswalt, as Gaveston, gives a performance that matches the production’s quirkiness. He slinks across the stage like a film siren, but with a strange mechanical rhythm. The ensemble actors, on the other hand, maneuver their puppets and masks well, especially Allison Campbell, whose precise balletic movement alone sustains the play during the slower scenes. But Dudley too runs into problems, as his characters verbally explain what his staging has already showed us. Thus Edward’s rejected queen, played first by an actress and then by a puppet, wilts and shrinks and then explains that Edward’s rejection has caused her to wilt and shrink. This problem, however, doesn’t diminish the audacious complexity that Dudley has brought to 45 Bleecker. Though it doesn’t always work, edWARd2 is a vibrant production that fits right into the FringeNYC paradigm. |
| FLIGHT TRIPTYCH by Joseph Langham |
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Flight Triptych is a non-verbal solo performance piece by
Michelle Horacek. It’s described as magic and poetry, but I felt
it to be more modern dance circa early 1900s. I felt like the
first audience that saw Isadora Duncan perform: a bit lost. It is a relatively short and painless movement piece describing the evolution of a “creature”. The creature seemed to be stuck in the mud like a fish, then moved from water to land like a lizard, then discovered a go-go boot like a showgirl. It put on the go-go boot and began prancing around a bar stool, making sure that we knew it had a shapely body. There was some cigar smoking and booze drinking before it took off its boot and discovered flight in the form of a white feather boa. And that was about it. The set consisted of two Bed, Bath and Beyond style shower curtains, a barstool, and randomly placed objects for our creature to discover. I found Horacek to be an engaging performer. There were moments of nice humor and instances of connection with the audience. One audience member, in particular, seemed to be enjoying herself immensely, swaying her head to and fro in mimicry of the performer. I, however, did not find my head swaying, but on more than one occasion found my shoulders shrugging. It’s safe to say that there are some audiences out there that might enjoy a work of this type. I was just simply unmoved. |
| SAJJIL
(RECORD) by Antonio Sacre |
| You know how, when you’re flipping
through the FringeNYC program guide, you think you ought to see
something uplifting, but you really want to see one of the five shows
with “spanking” in the title instead? Well, put your fears to rest
brothers and sisters, because I’ve got good news. Sajjil (Record),
conceived, written, performed, and directed by members of Nibras, is
serious and entertaining. It’s well worth postponing those other guilty
pleasures, at least for a night or two. Described as a “theatrical testimonial,” Sajjil asks the question “What comes to your mind when you hear the word Arab?” The members of Nibras have spent the last year recording interviews with a wide cross section of Americans, trying to get at the core of what it is to be Arab in America. It appears that every member went out into their lives with a tape recorder, taping their families, friends, teachers, as well as strangers, and brought what they uncovered back to the group. Then, in the manner of Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues, they culled the most theatrical, revealing, and humorous moments and loosely threaded them together. The result is an educational and entertaining show about the incredible variety, beauty, and struggle of what it is to be Arab and Arab American. The writer/performers are committed, charismatic, and talented, expertly conveying more than thirty characters with passion, dignity, and much humor. I felt that the ensemble would have benefited from the voices of some older actors; Sajjil feels too much like the reflections of the younger generation. But the subject matter is crucially current: we are an ignorant people. Until 9/11, much of America knew nothing at all about Islam or what it means to be Arab in America. Many theatergoers want to be enlightened, want to be educated, want to know what we can do to make things better not just for ourselves, but for others as well. The questions are raised by Nibras, but never answered. Near the end of the show, they ask, “What should I do?” That’s a question well worth exploring. |
| FOUR QUARTERS by Liz Kimberlin |
| Four Quarters, a one-act play
by Christopher Heath now appearing at The Red Room, seems to be less
concerned with the destination and more with the journey of four
quarters struggling to come together to equal one. Ultimately, life
being life, they cannot succeed, but they sure as hell try. And through
the trying, the four quarters at least learn to become two solid halves.
The play is crisply directed by Gigi Wynn Perkins and performed by an
attractive, smart and very brave cast consisting of Jennifer Boutell,
Matthew George, Christin Nacke and Justin Nadal. There is one set piece:
a constantly disheveled bed that gets a lot of use over the course of an
hour. The “quarters” are Jo (Nacke) and Joe (Nadal) and Teri (Boutell) and Terry (George), who look for love for all the wrong reasons but find it anyway. Jo/Joe is insecure, hedonistic, filled with self-loathing, and only interested in “getting laid.” Secure, fun-loving Teri/Terry is in denial about her/his terminal cancer but desperate to make the most of every moment s/he has left. Jo/Joe and Teri/Terry meet, eat Thai food, go skydiving, fall in love, and use the bed a lot as the various combinations of quarters interact. Then Teri/Terry admits s/he’s going to be dying very soon, leaving Jo/Joe devastated. Fortunately, the play avoids most of the bipolar, yin-yang type clichés and lets the quarters be individual characters with individual relationships to each other. Although Mr. Heath still has a draft or two to go before Four Quarters really becomes a finished product, I nonetheless found it a very entertaining and compelling play. Only towards the end did my attention begin to wander. There are a few too many short blackouts with repetitive, borderline soap opera-ish “I love you, take me back” scenes that work against the play’s rhythm—as does Jo/Joe’s very PC, very sincere closing duologue about personal empowerment. However, these are minor quibbles. For me it was a mostly delightful, sometimes poignant hour that flew by. |
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HEROIN(E) by Terri Galvin |
| British author Arthur Koestler asserted
that "true creativity often starts where language ends," thus revealing
the writer's frequent frustration with his very means of expression.
Although the program notes suggest that Jennifer Weber, the creator of
Heroin(e), does not shrink from articulate verbal description,
she wisely omits language from her compelling onstage exploration of
addiction, desire, and artistic passion. Never attempting anything as
literal—and potentially limiting—as narrative, she offers instead raw,
rocket-fueled choreography externalizing the range of emotion provoked
by human need. The piece opens with a striking woman in diaphanous clothing beckoning fluidly to another figure who slowly, irresistibly approaches. Be she Muse or drug, her quietly hypnotic, mesmerizing lure belies the explosion of raucous club-culture cacophony to follow. Suddenly, six dancers, suitably attired by Cat Malik in ripped tank tops and low-slung cargo pants, and accompanied by the vibrant house stylings of DJ Professor Rockwell, propel themselves onstage. Terpsichore goes techno, and we are helplessly swept along in the rush. It is a credit to this talented, athletic cast that their physical and emotional commitment never flags. Fiercely, relentlessly immersed in each moment of hip-hop nirvana or agony, they move joyously and defiantly through spasmodic rhythms, refusing to be upstaged by the pounding insistence of the DJ's disjointed beat. Even subdued passages are elegantly suffused with simmering, contained energy, poised precipitously to erupt. Their efforts are ably complemented by notable visual touches. Lighting by Erik C. Bruce and Allegra Riggio is consistently effective, but its absence is stunning when swirling colored lights are held by dancers who invisibly, but no less passionately, cavort in sooty blackness. In the memorable final sequence, glistening, back-lit droplets seem themselves to be choreographed as they soar from dancers' water-soaked hair and clothing. Heroin(e) is not for the literal. It is a visual and aural phenomenon that forces us to venture where "language ends"—an expressive, if abstract, journey that even the most verbally inclined shouldn't regret taking. |
| LIKE BROTHAS by Chance Muehleck |
| How promising theatre is when it
attempts to look unflinchingly at marginalized lives. How frustrating,
then, when the experience becomes mired in predictability and confusion.
With Like Brothas, a harsh new full-length play running at PS
122, Hugh Fletcher certainly has his points to make about ghetto life;
but his rambling, patchwork script and awkward direction do little to
engage the hearts and minds of the uninitiated. Things begin well. We meet Malik (a forceful Jonathan Anderson) playing dominoes with his gangland friend Rey (Daryl Watson) and Rey’s eager younger brother Jay (Charles Harrison). The three communicate with such ease that an improv-like quality emerges, effectively belying the danger underneath. Drugs are a constant companion here, and we discover that Malik is as addicted to using them as he is to selling them. Soon, however, we move into more expected territory as Malik’s estranged wife Regina (Alison Campbell) appears, demanding money for the son he never sees. We also learn that Malik’s murdered brother Rico founded the very gang that our main character now controls, albeit shakily. Then there’s Malik’s father (Arnold Sidney), a crack addict who tries scoring from his son and has a gun stuck in his face for his trouble. None of these relationships are allowed to develop much beyond their plot points. There is the intermittent monologue where we are told things the writer was apparently not interested in expressing with dialogue (though Malik’s is quite powerful, weaving together his views on gang life and Martin Luther King in a courageous act of public confession). Characters come and go, deflecting the story and muddying the staging. Most disappointing is the lack of attention to detail and clear dramatic purpose; during the show, someone in the front row actually got up and opened the stage right door, only to emerge as a gang member in the next scene (did Fletcher think this wouldn’t be distracting?). Watson fares best under these circumstances; as the action progressed, and I became increasingly annoyed with Malik’s one angry note, I turned to Rey for some balance and complexity of feeling. But I wanted more from the tale itself, as part of a genre so fraught with clichés. I am hopeful that A Darker Hue Productions will learn from this production’s weaknesses, for there is obvious commitment among its members. |
