nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: The Joys Of Sex, Wig Shoppe, Maria Vai Com As Outras, Still, Not Herself Lately, A Yellow Butterfly Called Sphinx, Radio Radio, The Gift, The Hero Of The Slocum, The Birth Of Café Society, Project C: Is This A Dream?, Memory Is A Body Of Water
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THE JOYS OF SEX by David Fuller |
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The Joys of Sex, subtitled "A Naughty New Musical Revue," is
currently playing at the 14th Street Y. If you keep in mind that it is a
revue, and not a full musical comedy, you may have a good time. After
all, in a musical comedy one hopes to find a point, an
overarching theme, a reason for the production. But revues can simply be
joyous. There is a lot of joy on the stage in this revue, though
certainly the characters also go through their individual and collective
share of angst, as they explore aspects of heterosexual (and one
fleeting homosexual) couplings, uncouplings and relationships between
(and among?) the sexes. If there is a point to it all, it seems that
Melissa Levis, who wrote the book and lyrics, and David Weinstein, who
wrote the music (and shares book writing credit with Levis), want to
tell us that it is difficult to find the "joy" in the sex act, beyond
immediate pleasure, unless you’re "making love." Not really very heady
material. The choreography by Tesha Buss and the direction by Jeremy Dobrish add to the "joy" of the production. There is some very clever use of a particularly extensive collection of dildos, for example. The live band, under the direction of Weinstein at the keyboards and dubbed "Mike Axelrod and the Throbbing Threesome," provides fitting rock and roll accompaniment to the cast. And this cast is very good in a terrific ensemble effort. Christina L. Fadale, David Josefsberg, Stephanie Kurtzuba and Brandon Williams are equally engaging, sexy, and appealing, singing and dancing with, yes, "joy" and also providing poignant moments when called upon by the score. The acting and singing (and by extension the choreography and direction) carry this production. The writing does not. The book is predictable and the lyrics are obvious. The music is simple. However, seen in the light of a "revue" the writing serves its purpose: you are entertained. Just don’t go with high expectations. |
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WIG SHOPPE by Joanne Joseph |
In two acts and seventeen scenes, two women embody an array of
characters, treading the thin line between comedy and pathos, cliché and
original insight. Caitlin Barton, who hails from Brooklyn, is Fannie, a convincing non-posh Londoner who designs wigs and ends up having to deal with Lower East Side NYC denizens who drift into Patsy's Wig Shoppe while she tries desperately to be a good working girl. Jamie Melser is Peggy, who is from the American South and is a lazy employee, to say the least. Fannie and Peggy are both victims of bad behavior—by boyfriend or other circumstances—but the arc of their relationship reaches a decent rapprochement after all. Barton and Melser, who also wrote Wig Shoppe, play numerous other characters as well whose story lines weave through the evening cleverly. Melser is especially sharp as Dana, the Public Relations queen party scammer. Barton becomes fashion maven Mme Hermes and a male cop who comes to the shop to cross dress. Director Calvin Landis plays John, who works in "Distribution" at Gray Advertising. Remarkable to this reviewer—it is either felicitous costuming, or a massive Martha Graham upper body contraction, or both, that transforms Melser from a full-busted female to a concave, flat and scrawny dirty old man, who apparently is shell-shocked by the death of John Kennedy. NB: "Hail to the Chief" signals not only JFK, but all other US presidents, so this musical reference was not instantly clear. Musical interludes go on at some length, because the character transformations, forth and back, costume-wise, take time. Cliche and stereotyping are narrowly overcome in some scenes, by good acting...the little old man's lady love is not a woman, but his dog; John is not "somebody" but a mail room clerk; the Brit wig designer is not all she claims to be either. The actors have learned character work well. Wig Shoppe will have a full production in October in midtown. |
| MARIA VAI COM AS OUTRAS by Robin Reed |
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Regina Nejman certainly knows how to fill a space. In her first
evening-long piece, Maria Vai Com As Outras, she manages to pack
the empty University Settlement full of life, sound, rhythm and an
energy that goes from high and electric to quiet and introspective. I
walked into the theater sweaty, out of breath and flustered (in a
Fringe-y Frenzy I went to the Henry Street Settlement instead of the
University Settlement, then had to sprint the 10 crowded blocks to
arrive in the nick of time) and after the hour-long piece, left just as
breathless as when I walked in. The title, which translates into "Maria Who Follows The Others," is taken from a popular Brazilian saying that describes a person who follows the will of the group or someone without a very strong sense of self. Nejman and her company each play a girl (and one guy) named Maria. Yep, they’re all named Maria. They bang on the walls for Maria. They run around looking for Maria. They cry out for Maria. They are all at once in search of themselves, each other, and the balance between individuality and fitting in. Nejman blurs boundaries and breaks rules. Her choreography is fresh and incorporates everything from ballet to martial arts to gymnastics and acrobatics. The soundtrack rocks—several times I found my feet uncontrollably tapping along to beats ranging from traditional Samba to Lou Reed. Maria is a journey taken on by a vibrant group of young dancers. They are, in spots, a little green, but that only adds to the beauty of the piece. They tackle it with a delightful fearlessness and a refreshing sense of humor. It’s so rare to actually see dancers having fun. Their individuality shines through, challenging their status as a listless Maria. I wish I could put names and faces together in order to give specific applause to each performer, as each brought a unique life to the piece. If you’re looking for a little bit of everything, from the Fringe to Carnival in Rio, I highly recommend you find Maria. |
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STILL by Jeffrey Lewonczyk |
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In 1997, Susan McLaughlin Karp gave birth to a stillborn baby girl
named Mary. Still, which she wrote and performs, is her
attempt to come to grips with this tragedy, and, by all
appearances, she seems to be doing a remarkable job of it.
Despite the fact that with every performance she needs to relive
terrible events, the show is professional and well-polished. Truth be told, it’s the dichotomy between the polish and the messy emotions that provide the show with its strange energy. Karp is an engaging performer, and when she veers off into digressions, such as a description of her jealous revulsion to a hipster wedding she attended while pregnant, she provides the audience with a number of satisfying guffaws. She takes pains not to directly address her sorrow—when Mary was born, she tells of how she wanted to act as if it was the happiest moment of her life, and this atmosphere of grit teetering into denial blankets the entire show. Still, the audience can’t help but to catch the sadness that blows in through the cracks of the amiable, well-rehearsed surface. The most difficult moments to watch are the birth and its immediate aftermath, which take place in a plastic, inflatable kiddy pool. Karp veers back and forth between playfully reenacting the birth process (which would have been quite funny in another circumstance) and reminding us that she knew the baby was already dead while it was happening. The result is a rueful kind of gut confusion, which is no doubt in accordance with Karp’s attempts to put a brave face on a grave situation. In the end, it’s clear that Karp doesn’t want our pity, or even necessarily our sympathy. She is trying, instead, to make death appear more approachable, to keep it from gaining the upper hand. At times she succeeds admirably, while at others she makes the audience uncomfortable in ways she may or may not intend. But isn’t it natural to feel uncomfortable when a performer is telling us of the most intimate details of her body, her life, and the lost life of a child? The fact that she manages to do so without making us run for the exits or feel like leering rubberneckers is an accomplishment in itself. |
| NOT HERSELF LATELY by Melanie S. Armer |
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The premise of this three-person, three-song musical is the time-honored
story of a detective in search of a serial killer. The twist in Not
Herself Lately is given away by the title itself and revealed early
without suspense. It seems the killer’s motive is to regain her
husband’s attention. This intriguing idea is discarded quickly in favor
of the less believable one that she hates men and perhaps also wants to
feel like a man. The program boldly claims that we will "discover how much fun a musical can be if it leaves out the usual 7 boring songs and keeps only the 3 good ones." The material seems better suited to a cabaret setting, performed by a great comedian with just a few comic bits to string together the three songs. Neil Genzlinger has created a 35-minute script which according to its own title should be about the killer herself. Instead the plot follows the detective, Cap, played by Genzlinger. His apology in the program is surpassed only by his curtain call, made with a bag over his head. The text is punctuated with songs accompanied by Genzlinger on various acoustic stringed instruments and a bugle. The performers lack the tongue-in-cheek pizzazz required to really sell the essentially witty songs. There is no director credited, which could explain the overall blurriness of the show. The general aimlessness is manifested in the acting, costuming, and set. Some elements work in spite of themselves; the toy guns are funny. The set was so poorly constructed that parts of it actually collapsed the night that I saw it. The most promising performance of the evening was Arvie the "pre-teen" side-kick, played the night I saw the show by Tim Nowak. His singing voice is strong and true though somewhat untrained, and his commitment is refreshing, playing moments both comic and straight. The piece has heart behind it. The author’s use of the back page of the program (a list of books he suggests) offers insight to the true intent of this presentation: to leave intellect behind and enjoy the ride. Unfortunately the final effect is merely wandering and disorganized. |
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A YELLOW BUTTERFLY CALLED SPHINX by Danielle Duvall |
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If you’re hungry for a feast of sultry, clandestine exchanges, The New
Loft Ensemble’s A Yellow Butterfly Called Sphinx, written by
Christian Palustran, might be calling you. Josh Edelman directs this
interesting exploration of covert letters exchanged between a passionate
young math student and a female teacher, aching for camaraderie. The
letters are brought to life, in narrative form, by a group of six
dexterous young actors. All, save one, collectively play the role of the
anonymous student (or "the unknown factor"). The student, who
surreptitiously submits personal letters along with assigned homework,
initiates the exchange. The teacher, portrayed by Kristen Harlow,
discovers her student’s youthful and obsessive speculations on math,
personal philosophies and love—and then discovers the student’s extreme
(albeit anonymous) fixation on her private thoughts and responses.
Harlow is radiantly subtle as she teeters between what is morally
appropriate and her own needs. At times she is very difficult to hear,
as is the rest of the cast. However, as the play progresses, Harlow
skillfully takes us down a challenging, sometimes truly heartbreaking
road. The play serves as a delicious exchange between an unlikely twosome, who unveil their hidden, inner speculations on life, love, and personal boundaries. However, both the staging and choreography are overly expressionistic. The production feels alternative for the sake of being alternative, rather than truly serving the play. Also, I still can’t determine whether a) the actors have been directed to avoid their own sexuality or, b) are not yet comfortable enough with their bodies to meet the challenges of this quiet, covert and powerful material. They are capable and honest, but a bit flat. They seem so caught up in the post-modern movement work and theatricality (yes, they all wear black) that they neglect to include their own visceral, more primitive needs. This is crucial for the story of our student. For such an insatiably hungry piece of writing, it deserves a bit more natural flow. Less craft, more truth. That said, I'm still glad I saw A Yellow Butterfly Called Sphinx. I plan to keep my eye on The New Loft Ensemble, and on director Josh Edelman. It will be interesting to see what happens next. |
| RADIO RADIO by Mark O’Toole |
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Radio Radio is a presentation of two classic radio plays adapted
for the stage: Lucille Fletcher’s Sorry, Wrong Number and an
episode from the Broadway’s My Beat radio series of the 1950’s,
amusingly entitled Two Bullets, Twice Dead. Sorry, Wrong Number is an unwise attempt to translate a very tired old story to an entirely different medium. In fact, apart from being able to see a bed on the stage, it didn’t feel much like an adaptation at all. One suspects this came straight from the original radio play. It starts out promisingly like it’s going to be a tongue-in-cheek affair by having a radio announcer introduce the show, setting up what I thought was going to be a witty homage to all things radio. Instead I cheered on the killer when he finally turned up and wondered what had kept him from coming earlier. After a lengthy intermission, Two Bullets, Twice Dead makes an appearance. This is a frenetic show, entirely different in tone and pace than Sorry, Wrong Number. I wonder why the company put them together in the first place. This show follows Detective Clover, played by a competent and well-cast Matt Wagner, along his beat as he tries to piece together a murder. It seems more like a homage to 1950s film noir than to radio, but enjoyable nonetheless. There are more set changes in this show than sets at the U.S. Open. And even if pieces of furniture appear onstage at the wrong time, it only adds to the show. Despite some production snafus, this show was fun to watch. Dave Koenig stands out in the cast. He plays numerous characters to brilliant comic effect and is a joy to watch. In fact most of the cast were terrific, in particular Mike Gold, Dawne Seifert, Molly Lloyd, and Paul Schnee. Overall, while the second part of this sow is fun to watch, if you are going to bring two mediums together (obviously radio is not a visual medium), I would have liked to see something more creative and clever, being that this is 2002 after all. |
| THE GIFT by Natily Blair |
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First of all, I couldn’t help but agree with the man behind me who
said, "This place is absolutely inaccessible—you could defend
this place from attack." If you have never been to this newly
re-furbished venue, the FringeNYC website’s map and directions
to the East River Amphitheater are wrong. The map points to Pitt
and Grand—the Henry Street Settlement. You need to keep walking
down to the river and over the FDR Drive, if you can find the
right pedestrian bridge (2 blocks below Grand). [Editor’s Note:
Refer to the map in the FringeNYC Program Guide, which is
correct.] All I knew was that the group is called Flam Chen and that there was supposed to be fire involved. So I sat down and I waited…and waited. There are no programs to keep you interested or informed, so I just sat there and waited. After a whopping 55 minutes past scheduled curtain time, what finally unfolded was a mediocre dance concert where the props were on fire. There are loosely defined characters—a fool, a very tall emperor-type guy, an angel, and some weird harem girls and boys, but no more than you would find at a Renaissance Festival. Some of it’s cool and some of it is boring. There’s a "love scene" duet that’s beautiful and poetic, and some of the fool’s tricks (including juggling flaming balls) are neat. Most of the segments go on too long—long enough so that their flaming objects have gone out, but they keep dancing in the dark. Then it was over. 35 minutes of performance for 55 minutes of waiting. 6 minutes of interesting stuff spread out over 35. Luckily, it’s free. It’s a fantastic thing to stumble upon if you happen to be on an evening stroll with your sweetie or out of town relatives. Refined and actually rehearsed, it could be the next big thing, but it doesn’t seem like they have the organizational skills to pull it off. Overall, it seemed clumsy and way too self involved. The performers are having much more fun than the audience—like carnie masturbation. Which is kinda neat, but not worth the trek down there, unless you too are a carnie. |
| THE HERO OF THE SLOCUM by Lee Ramsey |
| Prior to seeing this production I had
never heard of the Slocum disaster. The General Slocum, an
excursion boat, burned in 1904 on the East River in full view of
thousands of New Yorkers and was the worst inland waterway disaster in
the history of the world with almost 1100 lives lost. Most of the dead
were German-American immigrants from the Lower East Side, and 185 bodies
were buried in a mass grave in the Lutheran Cemetery in Middle Village,
Queens. In the aftermath of the disaster there was a trial in which no
one would admit any responsibility. The lifeboats, life vests, and fire
hoses on the Slocum were all defective and apparently the captain
and crew were aware of this fact. Also, the state had passed all of the
aforementioned items on their most recent safety inspection. This play is based on the book The Hero of the Slocum Disaster, by Eric Blau, and tells the story of the fictional Edward Knittel who was fifteen at the time of the Slocum fire and who in a matter of minutes lost his mother, brother, two sisters and first love. The play is set in a bar in the Lower East Side in 1984, which the cantankerous Knittel has bought out for one night and paid the patrons (us) each $1000 to listen to him recount the the horrible events of June 15, 1904. Patrick Tull, who adapted Blau's book with Emily King, plays Knittel in this two-hour one-man show. The show desperately needs to be cut. King’s direction is very static; Tull sits on a bar stool in the upper left corner of the stage for almost the entire first act. There are some nice historical slides of the actual event used, but unfortunately the same ten or so slides are used over and over again. There is also some interesting band organ music provided by Allan Janus and a few other nice period musical excerpts; I would have liked more. Though Tull plays some 40 characters throughout the evening, there is no physical and very little vocal variety; it’s hard to keep our attention focused. Tull fares better in the shorter second act where he recounts the trial of the Slocum—he finally gets off that stool and there are more distinct differences between his characters. This really is a very interesting premise for a play. I just wish it had been told it in a more concise manner. |
| THE BIRTH OF
CAFÉ SOCIETY by Stephen Graybill |
| At FringeNYC this year there are a
variety of different shows. Personally, as a reviewer, I have had the
full fringe experience: from the brilliant to the…not-so-brilliant, one
might say. I have come to realize that the true heart of theater lives
within this international festival. Groups travel from across the globe
for this single chance to pour their heart and energy into one show that
expresses their artistic creativity. From Australia, Alejandra Canales has come to perform Iqbal Barkat’s show, The Birth of Café Society. Only at FringeNYC can you see a show such as this. Though I cannot speak for the other people who were in the audience with me, I am sure that this team has a heartfelt message to send to us about the topic of their play. However, what that message is might have been left at home. All I knew about the play when I walked in was all I knew about the play when I walked out: coffee is involved somehow. This one-woman show is performed with little to nothing to aid Canales. There is a suitcase at stage right, some other clothing at stage left, and a video screen behind her that shows videos of distracting images that help in no way but to entertain. Thankfully, Canales uses a different article of clothing for each character she presented. If she had not used the clothing I would not have registered a change in character, since her transformations are more or less non-existent. I would have been able to follow the script had the words been put together in a way that lent themselves to linear thought. It seemed more like an attempt at deep, dramatic, insightful thinking rather than the telling of a story. All in all, the show did not have a through line, a plot, a story, an arc, a sense of linear connection, or an actress able to play different characters. |
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PROJECT C: IS THIS A DREAM? by Leslie Bramm |
| If a person can control a dream as if
it were reality, making the dream just as real, then could reality be a
controlled dream? A waking, walking dream? If that's the case would we
be able to tell the difference between each state, if each state were
just itself flipped inside out? Does everything in our reality, dream or
not, have to have an origin that is explainable? Indeed, some things
"Just are". Nothing in Project C: Is This a Dream? is necessarily real. Even the audience was there and not there at the same time. A young couple, pretending to be Mexicans (but really not) wants to take us on a journey through a dreamscape. Or do they? Could this journey through dreams just be another dream? This ambitious 40-minute experiment was wrought at P.S. 122 in November of 2001. The energy and high level of angst in the play made me wonder if it was a response to the events of that previous September. This is just my interpretation. The piece made no attempt to answer any questions or reach any conclusions. Let alone a catharsis. That is where it became frustrating. Some would ask; "Does theatre always need to be political? To make social, moral, or emotional statements?" There are many schools of thought on this. I will now endeavor to answer the question once and for all..."Yes", always. Always, always, always! Otherwise it’s pointless, intellectual masturbation. Perhaps younger theatre artists haven't connected with this concept yet, this need for meaning. Those of us oh, so close to forty understand this need and would gladly sacrifice some of our fifteen minutes, for five minutes of the truth. Lest you think I didn't enjoy parts of the piece: Matthew Kinney and Michelle Ries give energetic and committed performances. The direction by Travis Chamberlain gets the job done. He is also credited as a co-creator. The strength of the piece lies in its brevity. Go check it out. Maybe it's me and I just didn't get it. While confounding some, Project C: Is this a Dream? will be sure to engage many others. |
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MEMORY IS A BODY OF WATER by Tim Cusack |
| This weekend, hundreds of thousands of
Americans of African descent will converge on our nation’s capital to
demand reparation payments for the centuries of enslavement, economic
deprivation, and socially sanctioned terrorism imposed upon black people
in this country. Three Washington D.C.–area African American women have
made an opposite journey, to New York, to present their dance/theatre
piece Memory Is a Body of Water, an at-times eloquently
passionate excavation of the history underlying this issue. Interweaving
events from different eras, the play is an attempt to trace the roots of
the present crisis in minority-dominated inner cities to the
blood-soaked ground of America’s racist culture. If the urgency and
complexity of the message at times overwhelms the work’s artistry or
resources, that’s not so much a criticism as it is a testament to these
women’s obvious deep commitment to saying something meaningful despite
limitations. A different woman assumes the focus for each of the play’s three sections: Rita Jean Kelly Burns dances the role of a slave ship prisoner; Tanisha Brady Christie plays a servant girl in early twentieth century Maryland who stabs her white employer; and, most notably, Lisa Biggs acts two women at the center of a shooting in the present-day District of Columbia—one is the graffiti-artist sister of the slain man, the other the woman, Ivy, who shoots him in an act of self-defense. Or is it black-on-black racist paranoia? The play and Biggs’ performance leaves that question uncomfortably open, implying others: How much culpability do we have for our actions when society, history and culture seem to force our hand? How do we, black and white, escape from the racialized stereotypes that poison our views of ourselves, as well as others? Unfortunately, Kristin Horton’s directorial efforts to exhume the big questions imbedded in the play often just end up throwing mud on the proceedings. Too many moments are emotionally "pushed," and the segues between sections often clumsily handled. Plus there are more characters than two actors can reasonably handle—requiring Biggs to play the final confrontation by herself verges on the ludicrous. At one point she reenacts the day Ivy began menstruating and, then her later forced initiation into performing oral sex. It’s a model of electron-speed transformations and subtle pantomime and by far the best acting work I’ve seen yet in the festival. One wishes her a future production of this worthy play to match her glorious talent. |
