nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: White Cotton, On The Clock, Autoportraits, Jezebel The Justified, Love In Pieces, Espejo Blanco, Blaggers, Sticky Rice Queen, MedeaMachine, An Evening With Burton & Russell, Star, Room To Swing An Axe, Death In The City
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WHITE COTTON by Alyssa Simon |
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White Cotton takes place in the past and present life of Neelam,
a first-generation American woman of South Asian heritage. Three
actresses portray her at various points in her life: as a child
reluctantly listening to her grandmother’s tales of another time and
culture, as an independent and vibrant woman in her mid-twenties, and
then as a widow in her forties. Marilyn Gholson plays Neelam in her later years and serves as the narrator. Through flashbacks to her earlier life we see the people and events that have shaped who she is today. Sunita Mukhi as Deeda, a Bengali term for grandmother, is Neelam’s earliest influence. In one of the strongest scenes in the play, she gives young Neelam a white handkerchief scented with sandalwood and embroidered with the initials "VR." Neelam does not understand the importance of receiving such a gift and would rather listen to Led Zeppelin than her grandmother’s stories. Later, the meaning of the handkerchief becomes clear and serves as a symbol of the vast differences in choice and opportunity between women in modern American society and the women of her grandmother’s youth. As a young woman, Neelam (played by Reena Dutt who is also the playwright) has the freedom to go on spur-of-the-moment road trips with her non-Indian boyfriend, stay in hotels with him for the weekend, and even propose marriage. The marriage is performed by a justice of the peace and she phones her parents later to give the news. They are happy for her and there are no conflicts about tradition or marrying out of one’s faith or culture. I understand that this easy acceptance of Neelam’s choice by her parents is intended to highlight the contrast between her generation and her grandmother’s, however, there is no dramatic conflict. The grandmother’s story, which I do not want to give away here, would be a great play on its own because it has obstacles and suspense. Reena Dutt and Jonathan Wilde (in the role of Neelam’s boyfriend, John) have great chemistry. It’s easy to see that they are in love. Sunita Mukhi gives a standout performance as Deeda. According to her bio, she works frequently in New York City. I will definitely look for her name in hopes of seeing her perform again. |
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ON THE CLOCK by Tim Douglas Jensen |
On the Clock, a duet of darkly comedic one acts, both written by
Matthew Swan, is so much fun you will soon forget the heat (just dress
lightly and position yourself by a fan). The first piece, Selma’s Break, directed by Swan, takes place in an office break room as Selma (Jessie Hutcheson) begins to crack under the pressure of her superiors’ evaluations and scrutiny, a confidence which she shares with a coworker, Renee (Linda S. Nelson). It is immediately evident that Swan is a talented playwright. His lines regarding sexual harassment and an over-stuffed tote bag are priceless (I won’t cheat him by divulging them here). The play’s strongest point is in capturing the freakish world Corporate America can become. I was slightly distracted, however, by the entrance of a third character, Pam (Lisa M. Perry). The only function Pam seems to serve is to represent the more "pro-establishment" side but an extremely short-slit skirt and a pair of roller skates betrays this. (I never understood why Tootie wore them on "The Facts of Life" and I don’t understand it here.) Also distracting is the choice to have Hutcheson direct most of her performance directly toward the audience. I’m not sure if this presentational style is a directing or acting choice but it seems out of place, especially when she repeats this style in the second play. Nelson is particularly engaging as the vice-pushing Renee. The title may dictate the short length of this piece but it definitely could be explored and expanded. The second one act, RX, concerns an overly-dedicated pharmacist named Bobby (performed by Swan) whose desire to be of service deeply entrenches him in the lives of a trio of customers (Hutcheson, Perry, and Jonathan Marc Sherman). Besides confirming his place as a strong comedy writer (a scene regarding a customer’s tell-tale itch had me laughing hard enough to bring tears), Swan carries RX with his performance as Bobby. His balance of intrusiveness and dopey charm could be difficult for some actors but this is well within his grasp and it makes Bobby an unlikely hero. He’s endearing even if he is obsessed with his world of Kit Kats, condoms and various health products. The ensemble of actors works well under the solid direction of Carlo Vogel, who paces the piece masterfully. On the whole, On the Clock’s 45-minute running time seems much shorter. So, if you are in need of a good laugh and want to experience truly clever theatre, I have a prescription for you: Go see On the Clock. |
| JEZEBEL THE JUSTIFIED by Joel T |
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Playwright and director Jonathon Morgan is clearly a passionate artist,
full of righteous indignation. Unfortunately, his one-woman creation
Jezebel the Justified demonstrates the limitations of passion
without a clear focus. In his 50-minute piece, Morgan manages to touch on domestic abuse, abortion, lesbianism, rape, murder, and the perils of organized religion. The consequence of this breeze through a potpourri of hot-button social issues of the past and present is that each becomes two-dimensional. The audience tries desperately to connect to a wonderful character named Julia created by actress Natasha Grant but it becomes impossible because each of her concerns is quickly addressed in a series of rapid-fire clichés that show the playwright’s admirable angst, but unfortunately demonstrate no unique insight or perspective. Grant, an actress from Liverpool, performs well given the limitations of the script. She shows depth and maturity as an actress, seamlessly transforming herself from a timid young wife to a woman questioning God and striking out at her abusive husband. Her task is made more difficult by the play’s staging, which calls for disconcerting leaps between scenes of her character’s violent abuse by an unseen husband to her public denials in a religious self-help group. These uncomfortable changes occur in full frontal view of the audience a mere three feet away and result in empathy with the actress rather than her abused character. For all its noble geo-political intentions, Jezebel the Justified cannot overcome an unfocused script that is long on social sermonizing and short on true human connection. |
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LOVE IN PIECES by Tim Douglas Jensen |
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The program notes for Love In Pieces, a play in four parts,
describes Saturday Players as a new troupe looking to eliminate
physical boundaries between actors and audience by incorporating
the audience into the action on stage and encouraging audience
interaction by adding improvisational techniques to scripted
work. This led me to believe that Love In Pieces would be
such a piece. However, with the exception of a line tossed to
the audience and in-between scene introductions, this is not the
case. Love In Pieces is a contemporary retelling of scenes between well-known characters from myth and Shakespeare. Exploring boredom in the boudoir of Antony and Cleopatra, sibling secrets between Laertes and Ophelia, and the private discourse between Orpheus and Eurydice and Cupid and Psyche, playwright Sarah Morton cleverly tackles the possible "what ifs" in the four scenes. Each scene is language-heavy, leaning more on conversation than action and giving the large weight of execution to the abilities of the actors and guidance of their director. Unfortunately, Lisa Gardner and Ryan Brack play the four varied pairs with so much similarity that, without program notes and costume changes, it is difficult to distinguish one set from the next. The actors talk at each other, barely listening to each other, and the words just become words. Blackouts end each scene, followed by the raising of bland house lights and nonchalant scene introductions (sometimes mumbled) by the actors. Since all of the scene changes take place in front of the audience, perhaps incorporating more technically-imaginative scene changes could give the piece a well-needed thread and lift. Lisa Gardner (who also serves as director) stages Scene 3 well by using most of the very deep playing area (complete with seemingly ancient, large-based iron pillars) as Orpheus and Eurydice journey out of Hell, but I could have done without the bright white light aimed at my eyes throughout their trip. Writers perform or direct their own work often, which many say is ill-advised. We have many fine examples that it can be done…and done well. That being said, the combination of actors directing themselves is most dangerous. The director is usually an objective eye and if an actor is really focused on their work it is next to impossible to truly be objective about that work. Love In Pieces might benefit from Lisa Gardner choosing one hat or the other. |
| ESPEJO BLANCO (WHITE MIRROR) by Pamela Butler |
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Espejo Blanco/White Mirror at University Settlement is the vision
of Meredith Nadler, an American who has spent time in Mexico City and
felt the realities of those living there— up close. She and her Terra
Danza Teatro collaborators—Mexican actors, puppeteers, musicians, and a
poet—present the great city's transition from ancient to modern times
through dance and the spoken word. For those of you who follow any of the "Survivor" shows so popular on TV, this is an experience for you. You may be asked to participate in a game of survival, meaning you may be asked to physically get on the stage and play a game of life or death. Sound interesting? It definitely is. My companions and I did it, and, fortunately, we lived to tell the story. Espejo Blanco opens in an incense-smoky darkness with a plaintive song and haunting music from native instruments that suggest an ancient culture in close relation to nature. The sounds shriek and whistle with a kind of jungle rawness as the lights gradually illuminate the body of a man, naked, smooth-skinned and supple, head bowed and seated with his back to us. We contemplate the slow-motion movement of all his finely wrought musculature. It suggests birth, struggle, emergence. There is a magnificent white-cloaked apparition of larger-than-life proportion that appears and approaches an altar; the dance of a god. The performance progresses to the present and the incursion of cultures north and west. The music becomes bulldozers, jackhammers, tanks and gunfire, traffic. A man, a woman, a god all try to make their way, treading thin lines of survival, dealing with change and its disruption and danger to their existence. The dancers are passionate and expert—beautiful to watch. My only complaints are that at times the dialogue is drowned out by the music—a simple adjustment, and that the transitions from dance to dialogue are rough. Those minor problems aside, Espejo Blanco is an unforgettable experience. |
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BLAGGERS by Antonio Sacre |
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I loved this play. But will somebody please tell me what the hell they
are saying? I know they are speaking English, but the first ten minutes
were unintelligible to anybody not from the northern inner city of
Dublin, where Ciaran Creagh’s Blaggers takes place. I seriously
looked for subtitles or a translator, but none were to be found, just
eight measly words in a glossary in the program. Pity, too, because
Blaggers is some good crack (that’s Irish I think for a really
goodtime). The play opens with Mickser (Sean O’Shaughnessy), Sammy (Tina O’Connor) and Kylie (Sinead Murphy) planning some scheme to get rich quick. They are afraid of Johnny, but they need his help. When Johnny (Macdara Deery) storms in the room (think Ben Kingsley in Sexy Beast), they tell him they need his mother to put her house up as collateral so they can buy and then sell a bunch of drugs. When Johnny says he’ll never ask his mom to do that, they settle on robbing the local welfare office because they have a man on the inside. Johnny won’t agree to drive the getaway car until he meets the man. They call in their man on the inside, Ronan (Ed Coughlan), and Johnny asks why they should trust him. Ronan freaks out, goes all psycho on everybody (American idioms for going a little crazy) and in a hilariously over-the-top scene that’s worth the price of admission, convinces Johnny of his sincere desire to want to screw the dole office for slighting him. Johnny buys it, and everybody’s ready to roll (American slang for willing to commence the job). The second act contains the aftermath of the job, and is a gut-buster (American for really funny). It’s true there is no honor among thieves, as each of the players cross and double cross and triple cross each other, creating and breaking alliances that will keep you guessing. I won’t tell you what happens, because by then, you’ll be able to follow it all by yourselves. The writing is sharp, the acting wonderful (Deery is particularly convincing), and the play not to be missed. Check it out on the flip side, you’ll really dig it (old school American slang for "see this play"). Peace, out. |
| AN EVENING WITH BURTON & RUSSELL by Danielle Duvall |
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Occasionally, a slapstick twosome comes along who meld on a level well
above other comedy duos. The latest and greatest in this vein: the
veritable Arnie Burton & Jay Russell. These two extremely talented
actors volley and serve with fluidity and exceptional timing. While the
writing is hit-and-miss, I’d pay to listen to these clever gentlemen
read the phone book aloud. Under normal circumstances, I am not a huge fan of theatre that examines the world of theatre. I usually long for a magical mystery ride to the highlands of "Somewhere Else." That said, An Evening with Burton & Russell flies through a series of wildly entertaining vignettes and interludes, and mocks the disgustingly over-sincere theatre folk of the world at every turn. One vignette is particularly amusing for those who have ever studied an actor’s "process"—jumping from scathing jokes of Stanislavski to Strasberg to Viewpoints to Feldenchrist. Again, this is not material that falls under my Top Ten Most Important Topics to Cover in a Play. However, this is truly a unique opportunity to examine a bona fide team. With acerbic wit, Burton and Russell are simpatico to the N-th degree. The final vignette does not seem to fit with the rest of their presentation. A variation of the "I-want-to-go-to-New-York-and-be-a-star" theme, its theatrical conventions and story line differ greatly from earlier scenes. So much in fact, that we struggle to take the leap. It’s a different play—for a separate evening of theatre. Conversely, director Shelly Delaney brings some rather innovative and clever moments to this piece in particular. However, both Burton and Russell switch roles left and right (all throughout this scene) with ease and silky-smooth transitions. I wanted to buy them both a cold beer afterwards—an icy import. They’re wonderful. |
| STICKY RICE QUEEN by John Jordan |
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Sticky Rice Queen is an astounding, thought-provoking,
in-your-face, multimedia, one-man show that enlightens as well
as entertains. Now, I tend not to think of one-man shows at all…let alone as a work of art (i.e., a representation, a portrayal, a shaping). However, Steven Khan (writer/performer), Nicole Shiro (producer/director) and the Present Company (producer) have obviously worked very hard to represent, portray and shape Sticky Rice Queen into one of the most riveting 70 minutes of art I have ever seen. Khan portrays eight very distinct characters and their stories…with the common theme of gay Asians and their identity crises. Mostly live, some previously filmed. One very clever and touching story combines both, with Khan portraying a closeted Japanese businessman crooning at a karaoke bar, while a film montage reveals his love for a co-worker, thus explaining why he is so down. Other characters include: Lee the Asian Potato Queen; a "typical, bitchy," Chelsea Gym Queen (non-Asian, and as all the other characters, excellently portrayed by Khan); a Bangkok Boy forced into prostitution; an Asian Homo Thug; and, the overall best (if it is possible to pick a "best" story), Cory, a Southern Rice Queen, whose tale of young love is simply beautiful. (Not sure what a rice queen, potato queen or sticky queen is? Don’t fret, the Dragon Lady will explain all the necessary lingo in the first scene.) The music selections are exquisite, as is the overall direction. However, tighter transitions would be beneficial, and the one-man stage crew, positioned in the audience, would probably work better if somehow tied into the show. The production did get off to a shaky start…there were a few technical problems with the microphone wire and Khan seemed a bit apprehensive at the outset. But once he set the cord straight, with an appropriately-added improv of disgust ("stage hands"), he relaxed and found his place. (Note: I was at the very first performance and undoubtedly these few flaws will disappear.) I found myself getting pulled into each character, each story. Sticky Rice Queen has invited me to re-evaluate a few things in my own life, and for that I am grateful. |
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MEDEAMACHINE by Chance Muehleck |
| The Greeks have given us more fuel
to fire our contemporary theatre than perhaps any other group or time
period. We cannot escape their work, so why not reinvent it? Ian
Belton’s MedeaMachine is a non-linear wet dream based very
loosely on Euripides’ tragedy, tipping its absurdist cap to Heiner
Mueller and a host of other experimental artists. The production,
playing at The Present Company Theatorium, is a collection of scenes,
monologues and tableaus that is as stimulating as it is retrograde and
distancing. Our first clue that we needn’t take all this too seriously comes when an actor holds up a sign that reads, "This is an idea that was hip in the 90’s," followed by "The avant garde is dead." Possibly, but Belton and his actors are up to something. There is a constant, kinetic energy onstage that blends various presentational styles with willful, post-modern abandon. Actual accounts of killers (including Andrea Yates, the poor man’s Medea) run headlong into multi-faceted stories of a breast surgery gone wrong. The stage becomes littered with cereal boxes and severed body parts, while sound effects punctuate nearly every gesture. One man is teamed with (or pitted against) six bloodthirsty women, all of whom give tour-de-force performances; just as we begin to see these relationships deepen, we are ushered outside for the second part of the drama. It is then that Belton shows his hand as a writer/director who uses all the old tricks in the hopes of finding new ones. The audience is led across the street, via recorded boom-box directions, to a basketball court where our leading ladies dribble in matching orange jumpsuits. Some of the show’s best speeches are reserved for this location; however, the neighborhood itself becomes difficult to compete with, and I was frequently distracted by the heckling passerby. Clearly, this is not a company that believes less is more. Belton uses two automobiles in his denouement because, it seems, he can, just as a TV monitor wheeled onstage serves no necessary purpose. Perhaps he’s worried that our attention will wander, having no individual characters with which to engage. For all its cleverness, MedeaMachine is ultimately a rather cold experience; in a final act of defiance, the actors leave the playing area without a bow or backward glance. Belton’s rule-breaking homage to "downtown" theatre makes it a natural for FringeNYC, but I wonder if the next step is to evolve the whole genre into something truly cathartic. |
| STAR by Eva van Dok |
| Cygnet Productions’ Star
challenges us in valuable ways. The Canadian company's second show at
FringeNYC (after last year's hit Snapshot) is a tight,
professional, highly physical and fresh foray into a topic—the
Holocaust—that's been explored from just about every angle imaginable. Star tells the tale of Stella, a young Jewish woman and art model who uses her blonde hair and Dietrich-esque curves to pose as a Gentile and save herself from the horrors of a concentration camp. Once she has obtained her freedom, Stella (played by Samantha Swan) does the truly unthinkable: in an attempt to also save her parents, she works "undercover" with the Gestapo to seek out and turn in her fellow Jews. Old neighbors and friends are not spared, and Stella, who has the survival tactics of Attila the Hun, seems to show little remorse. Or that’s how it’s remembered by Isaac (Walter Boscariol), a Holocaust survivor who has been on a quest to find Stella, his schoolmate and first crush back in pre-war Berlin. His memory shifts from present-day Toronto to Germany during WWII. Cygnet’s talented ensemble of five help recreate Isaac’s memories for the audience by playing a total of 30 different characters who never leave the stage—a difficult feat of clarity to accomplish with even the most skilled of theatre companies. Cygnet succeeds in painting a personal, fresh and (dare I say) humorous account of Isaac’s journey, a man who is coming to terms with his memory of two unspeakable acts of violence that defined his life—the Holocaust, and the actions of a woman who supposedly sold her body, soul and, most tragically, her people, to the Third Reich. Swan, who also wrote the play, gives a cinematic portrait of a woman who betrays her country and her identity, but unfortunately falls short on the side of theatricality. She is fascinating to watch and obviously quite talented, but next to the physical and emotional mastery of most of the rest of the ensemble, she comes off as being one-dimensional, and doesn’t hook us into the complexity behind her motives or her soul. Because of this disparity, her well-written play, although a bit confusing at times, doesn’t live up to its potential. That being said, the performers back her up beautifully, especially Lauren Brotman, who plays Isaac’s wife, Stella’s mother, and a number of other characters. Although a bit tense at times, her passion and physical presence is stunning. The ensemble as a whole works together beautifully to bring simplicity and clarity to a very un-simple subject matter. Cygnet is a company to watch for in the International theatre scene, and their piece is well-worth seeing in this final week of Fringe frenzy. |
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ROOM TO SWING AN AXE by Chris Toland |
| Ask any rational person if they’d
prefer to be an alcoholic or not be one, and the latter choice seems
obvious. Why, then, are so many of us compelled to stay out too late,
have one too many, put the lampshade on our head? It’s because before it
turns ugly, it’s undeniably glamorous. If you’d like a peek into this
world while sparing your liver, head over to see Alex Dawson’s Room to
Swing an Axe. But be warned. It’s gonna get ugly. The play explores the friendship, if you can call it that, of Jack, a hard drinking, self-proclaimed writer, and Gaz, the suburban salesman who has latched onto him. Through alternating monologues, the two men give us their takes on themselves, each other, and what has brought and kept them together. More than their common love of booze has united this duo. Jack represents all that is cool and glamorous about drunks. As portrayed by Joseph Pacillo, he exudes self confidence and rough-around-the-edges sex appeal. He knows everyone. He tells the great stories. He is calm and focused, never slurring a word or losing his train of thought. To watch him take a drag from a cigarette or a pull from his whiskey bottle is to be twelve again, wishing you could do all the cool grownup stuff you saw in the movies. Gaz, played by Craig McNulty (with one of the most convincing states of progressing inebriation I have ever seen), is, simply, not Jack. Gaz’s obsession with Jack in many ways seems like latent homosexual desire, a fact he freely acknowledges, describing their frequent matches of "grab ass." Too bad it’s not that simple. You see, Gaz doesn’t want to bed Jack, he wants to be him. He analyzes and describes Jack’s every word and move, with alternating admiration and disdain. When Gaz points out that Jack likes nothing better than to be called a cad or a scoundrel, yet takes offense when accused of having a scoundrel’s actual qualities, we see this idiosyncrasy in Gaz himself. He’s as big a drunk as Jack, but with none of the coolness, and he hates himself, and Jack, because of it. Dawson has clearly spent a fair amount of time in barrooms observing the behavior of the drinker. His dialogue is dead on. His direction of the piece succeeds in creating a mood of haunting emptiness. McNulty and Pacillo deliver rich and captivating performances. Room to Swing an Axe is terrific. Don’t miss the last call on this one. |
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DEATH IN THE CITY by Hope Cartelli |
| While not an avid reader, I have
always been interested in the obituaries section of the New York
Times, and if there seems to be an interesting person’s life story
in miniature on any given day, I will gladly take the time to find out
more about them. This being the case, I was quite happy to check out No
Precedent Productions’ Death in the City, a smart and focused
dramatic improvisation piece that uses the Times’ obit section as
a springboard for every performance. The cast chooses the particular
obit to be used and recreates the deceased’s life right before the
audience’s eyes. The show starts outside the theatre. Copies of that day’s obituaries from the New York Times are handed out and a cutout of the obituary chosen for the performance is taped to the theatre’s door. The cast assumes the roles of the deceased and those mentioned in the obit as well as other characters conjured by the cast in the name of fleshing out the story. The subject at the performance I attended was Steven Yokich, a retired president of the United Automobile Workers union who died from a stroke at the age of 66. Playing the obit as written, the cast effortlessly created union meetings, strikes, and golf outings and negotiations with industry honchos. But it was the slight takings of liberty that were the most interesting and effective. They seemed to have the most fun when hypothesizing moments out of Yokich’s youth, such as why he quit high school, and, later, his home life, including a funny, endearing scene of a younger Yokich waking up his teenage daughter at 4 a.m. to demand of her what ten things she hoped to accomplish that day. Comedic moments, while plentiful, are not the bread and butter of this group, and this cleared the path to making Yokich’s story even more real and making the case for the cast that they cared about their subject and how they presented him. The tone of certain scenes touched on soap-operatic at times and reminded me of those biographies written for elementary school readers in their simplicity and utter sincerity. It didn’t matter a bit in the end: one reason there are obit enthusiasts is they simply enjoy a daily dose of lives of people they have never known delivered with some finesse. Death in the City successfully delivers that dose. |
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AUTOPORTRAITS by Tim Cusack |
| By far the most enjoyable evening I’ve
spent at FringeNYC, Kathleen Dyer’s Autoportraits is also the
only show I’ve seen with a coherent directorial/choreographic presence
and concern for aesthetic presentation. Dyer (as befits her name) also
designed the costumes, and her witty recombinations of cast-off finery
serve both to add color and texture to the evening and to ground each
piece in a specific reality. What’s even more satisfying is that, even
though there are six separate dances on the program (one of which is by
another company), they function much like thematically linked short
stories—character sketches of women in different time periods and life
stages. If Eudora Welty had made choreography instead of literature, I
imagine this is what it would have looked like. Add to that terrific
performers, fabulous (largely live) music plus a great 11th hour comedy
number (about dancer/waiters, choreographed by Erica Murkofsky), and who
needs Broadway? Two of my favorite pieces in the evening, "East Whistwaddle Ladies" and "Self Portrait (at 12 we got earrings)," explore the varying ways girls socialize each other into adult women. In EWL, Dyer seems to be instructing Theresa Duhon and Laura Halm in the proper rituals of gentility. I think of her as an Edwardian maiden aunt with her young charges. They perform odd little bourrées and rock back and forth as if impersonating ladies’ fans. Duhon keeps rebelling against this upbringing by rolling her hips and breaking out of formation. Maybe it’s because of the music—South Asian- and Caribbean-influenced sounds from the Penguin Café Orchestra. It’s such a genial world, that the silent communal scream at the end feels unearned and out of place. "Self-Portrait..." (percussive music composed and drummed live by PJ Merola) graphs a female friendship from playground to prom to singles’ scene. In grade school, Dyer and Duhon play intricate hand games in their jumpsuits, but while their backs are turned, all of the other girls exchange schoolgirl uniforms for bright dress. Duhon would rather hang with the cool girls than with the clingy Dyer. Soon, everyone graduates to another level of maturity and slips on all-black ensembles. It’s at this point that we lose the main thread of the two women’s relationship. After building up the narrative interest, the story leaves us hanging—not that we mind so much when these gals are dancing up a storm. |
