nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2002
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: "We're From The Fifties!", Fragile Deliveries, The Ghost Of Firs Nikolaich, Crash Bound, It's A Detective Agency, Piano Punk and Hokum!, The Time Cycle, Babylon, Long Island, Dryclean, Cryolumia, Sherlock Holmes..., The Trill Of The Thrush, El Poder De Cuatro
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"WE’RE FROM THE FIFTIES!" by Martin Denton |
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The premise of "We’re from the Fifties!", a concert-cum-musical
comedy written and performed by Al Del Bene and Brett Duggan, is that a
rock duo called The Extra-Ordinaries has traveled in time from the 1950s
to the present day. Here, presumably unscathed by the events and changes
of five decades, Sal and Rusty perform a concert at the fictional Gemini
Theatre, showcasing their "bad-boy" hits from long ago. Del Bene and Duggan tell us in the show’s program that they’re going for "politically incorrect satire." What that translates to here is putting naughty lyrics to classic rock & roll tunes, with sentiments like "my mother is a bitch" and "my girlfriend is a crack whore." Recognizing the one-joke nature of this premise, Del Bene and Duggan shift gears quickly (if inexplicably), having their duo perform their 50s-inflected takes on contemporary genres like gangsta’ rap (with Duggan in his underwear) and, more promisingly, alternative music (a song about choices—see the dictionary). They also bring out a couple of special guests—Sal’s hermaphrodite brother/sister "Flip" (Duggan in a dress, low-cut to reveal his ample chest hair), and, in the show’s best number, Harry Connick, Jr. (providing Del Bene with an opportunity to do a dead-on impersonation, performing "Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off" with a clever parody lyric about the Catholic church). Del Bene reveals real flair in this Connick number; one wonders if he has other singers in his repertory. Duggan is a mean guitarist, meanwhile, and throws himself with manic energy into everything that happens in the show. The writing in "We’re from the Fifties!" is the weak link, unfortunately; the faux lyrics are mostly sophomoric and have neither bite nor point or view. At the performance attended, the show’s running time was just 30 minutes, significantly cut from the announced hour-and-a-half; whether that’s a purely artistic decision or due to some other cause, it’s a wise choice: it doesn’t seem likely that The Extra-Ordinaries could sustain a longer set. Del Bene and Duggan come across as talented performers; I hope they can come up with some more interesting material for their next gig. |
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FRAGILE DELIVERIES by Soline McLain |
When watching a play, audiences often expect a "delivery" of some sort
(whether in the form of entertainment or a moral lesson). Despite its
title, Fragile Deliveries does not have too much to offer to its
audiences. The play tells the story of a pharmacist, Melanie, who is
tired of her repetitive, single life, so she writes angst-filled poetry.
In this twist on the "boy-meets-girl" story, a drug dealer (Sammy) tries
to pick Melanie up at a bus stop. She winds up taking his phone number
and inviting him on a date. However, it turns out that his "fragile
deliveries" are really drugs, and he plans to use her as a drug source. Both Lisa Moss as Melanie and Nelson Lugo as Sammy give fair performances considering the script with which they are dealing. Melissa Osborn’s play is both unbelievable and unrealistic. I never believed that either of the two leads was attracted to the other. However, all of a sudden, Melanie is willing to give up her whole life for a drug dealer who is clearly using her. (This is not only clear to the audience, it’s clear to Melanie.) Gail Herendeen as Melanie’s best friend Turner is a breath of fresh air and life in this production. Her characterization is both humorous and realistic. The director seems to think that it is necessary to distinguish between the various settings by having one particular prop to delineate each one. While this seems a reasonable idea for a show on a budget and with time constraints, the lack of blackouts to accompany such changes leaves the actors carrying props at inappropriate times and making audible references to them. For instance, Melanie returns home drunk from a bar carrying an hourglass that represents her apartment. When Melanie’s best friend Turner tries to warn her about Sammy, Melanie replies, "You wouldn’t understand." I could not help noticing the irony of it—not only does Turner not understand, but the rest of the audience does not either. |
| THE GHOST OF FIRS NIKOLAICH by Aaron Leichter |
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There’s a danger in writing and producing a play that refers back to
earlier theatre. Tom Stoppard, for example, is an assured playwright,
who could be reasonably sure that viewers of Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern are Dead would catch the references to Hamlet. But
The Ghost of Firs Nikolaich, a FringeNYC offering at Theatre for the
New City, refers back to Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard, a classic
though cerebral work of 20th-century theater theatre that many
theatergoers know only by reputation. Fortunately, Sam Mossler’s play does stake out its own territory, which turns out to be a Naked Gun-style parody of Chekhovian life. Slaps, split takes, and pratfalls, dialogue like "Hello, Ivan – " "Grisha." "Gesundheit!" plus bawdy vulgarities and a surprise appearance by Cossacks—all of these gimmicks take precedence over the story of the Popov household. As in Chekhov, the servants bicker, a middle-class businessman drinks too much vodka and needs money, and the lovely sisters Sonya and Varushka gaze wistfully into the distance as they talk about falling in love. But in this play, a ghostly servant begins cleaning up after them. All of this is funny, as far as it goes, but it never goes very far. There’s a difference between comedy and mere silliness, and Ghost of Firs Nikolaich goes for the latter when it might have attained the former. Even sadder, the humor gets in the way of the generally fine performances. Bryan Brendle, as Trotsky, shares a very nice scene with Meghan Love as Varushka, as they get high in the garden and talk about those Chekhovian topics of love, death, and the future. But generally, director Tim Herman doesn’t infuse the stage with much energy, and the work of his design team is as hit-and-miss as the gags. Though the play avoids becoming an in-joke on Chekhov’s style, The Ghost of Firs Nikolaich veers too far into farce. It only succeeds when it takes the comedy seriously, and falls flat when it goes out of its way to make a joke. Although fans of Chekhov probably won't enjoy Firs, even fans of Mel Brooks-style humor may end up frustrated at the half-hearted attempt and lost potential for comedy. |
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CRASH BOUND by Aaron Leichter |
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While some plays impress their audience through their urgency and
relevancy, others entertain their audience without exploring
their ideas too deeply. Crash Bound, an offering by the
FringeNYC Festival at Arthur’s Dress Shop, watches two airplane
passengers dream of better lives, calculate the probabilities of
an accident, and refuse to fall in love on the first leg of
their flight to L.A. As far as this plot goes, it’s acceptable,
although its execution meanders a great deal, lacking the arcs
needed to sustain tension. But playwright/actress Nina Waluschka
adds a series of references to Anton Chekhov’s plays. Sometimes
they’re humorous and provide the characters with depth, as when
her character muses, "I’m all three sisters rolled into one."
But often, these comments fly by so quickly that the audience
can’t connect them to the situation: the conceit comes across as
random. Waluschka and her acting partner Michael Onorato gamely play up the flights of fancy that their characters live their lives by, but neither quite convinces the audience that they believe in the preposterous notions. Even more problematically, Waluschka, Onorato, and director Julie Blumenthal don’t provide the story with tension and urgency. Mercifully short, Crash Bound only gets off the ground in its last beats, but by that time, its audience has bailed out. |
| IT’S A DETECTIVE AGENCY (AND EVERYONE’S ENGLISH) by Aaron Leichter |
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As the house doors open to welcome the audience into It’s a Detective
Agency (And Everyone’s English), Elvis Costello croons over the
loudspeakers. Although the play itself doesn’t resemble the geeky new
wave rocker (aside from both being British, and the fact that Costello
wrote a song called "Watching the Detectives"), they have a common
style: the work may seem abrasive at first, but it finally wins you over
with a desire to entertain on its own terms. The play’s setup is simple: the employees of a detective agency (an English one) have one day to solve a case or they lose their jobs. Of course, these gumshoes—broadly drawn characters like spinster June Bride and blind twit Devon St. Ponce—can’t even find their own intern, who’s been missing for months and is the only competent bloodhound of the bunch. To add to their problems, someone’s spiked their tea, and they’re sipping their way to a narcotic dreamworld in which every wish is fulfilled. Apparently this agency is in Monty Python’s jurisdiction: the audience is treated to silly walks, broad accents, big wigs, fat suits, waxed moustaches, and other absurd sight gags. But since the cast plays it like no joke is too gut-wrenchingly bad to tell, the premise only grows funnier. Detective Agency seems to be full of improvisationally developed scenarios and characters, probably because the writers (Dan Berrett, Mark Hervey, Mike Rock, and Andrea Rosen) play the sleuths themselves. And the ad-hoc set has a slapped-together look that reinforces this feeling. In fact, Detective Agency’s anything-goes attitude ingratiates itself with the audience, making it far more fun than it has any right to be. Clever props (check out the milk cartons) and quick costume changes prove that the company has planned the entire evening carefully. By the finale, a song-and-dance number complete with a deadpan Brit in rainbow spandex leotard boogying to the disco hit "Best of My Love," you can’t stop watching these detectives. |
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PIANO PUNK AND HOKUM! by Ivo Tomasini |
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A talented musician, composer, and writer, Adam Weiner connects with his
audience with foot-tapping zeal right from the get-go in his one-hour
music showcase titled Piano Punk and Hokum! Weiner, accompanied
by bassist David Pinzur and percussionist Raky Sastri, generates a
palpable energy reminiscent of the George Clooney bluegrass trio
performance during the final scene of O Brother Where Art Thou? Weiner’s abilities as a lyricist and musician surprisingly exceed expectations for such a young, up-and-coming composer. Adding to this advantage is his showmanship, which flows with the ease and confidence of a mature performer. Taking you through a gauntlet of emotional levels, his songs can sway the listener from whimsical rockabilly/blues numbers about having the cure for the flu or the sickly feeling one suffers from getting up too fast; to more sinisterly comical ones like "Shaking The Vending Machine." His deftness as a songwriter/performer is again demonstrated by his capacity to relieve the rock and roll/swing vibe with retrospective and dramatic overtones while still retaining the element of subtle humor, such as in the pleasant ballad titled "In the Sea." Only on a few occasions during the performance did I feel a bit inundated by Weiner’s tendency to take the set over the top, with an array of cabaret/musical numbers that cry for attention with extra melodrama, such as in "Eyes in the Back of Your Head" or "Hey Molly." This dramatic tendency is a sign of Weiner’s true calling that he will some day become a great songwriter for major musicals. As a capper, the set ends with a plate of sentimental mush, which asks us to sing along to the feel-good chorus of "Shine a Light," a song whose lack of timing and long chorus makes it difficult for the audience to chime in to. |
| THE TIME CYCLE by David Fuller |
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NaCl Theater operates out of New York City and the Catskills. For
FringeNYC, they’re presenting The Time Cycle in the basement
theatre at 45 Bleecker Street. The Time Cycle is a 35-minute
children's show centered around the time traveler Grace the Ace (Tannis
Kowalchuk) and her efforts to reverse her backwards course through time
(her time machine is broken) in order to get back to her present, the
year 2202. Along the way she encounters a young Albert Einstein (Rosaruby
Glaberman), Leonardo da Vinci (Brad Krumholtz), and an enigmatic 11th
century scientist/mystic, Miss Terra (Laura May). This is an original piece created by Kowalchuk and Krumholtz, co-founders of NaCl, with the collaboration of Megan Wyler. The company is very well trained in voice and movement skills, making for an enjoyable event. There is beautifully harmonized a capella singing (credited as "Traditional"), stilt walking, pratfalling, and even a few lessons about the nature of technology versus the spirit. It is a pleasant, entertaining, funny show, but be forewarned, it is really for the youngsters (probably ages 5 to 8). |
| BABYLON, LONG ISLAND by Mark O’Toole |
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Babylon, long island is a 90-minute one-man, one-act show,
written, directed and performed by Gregg Tomé in his first
appearance in FringeNYC. Tomé is no newcomer to the theatre,
however, having performed in various off-off Broadway
productions and in Los Angeles. In fact, Babylon, long island
was first performed at the Theatre at the Improv in Los Angeles.
Tomé’s experience shows. Babylon may very well be the finest show in FringeNYC this year. Babylon is a nostalgic tale of Tomé’s hometown of Babylon, Long Island during the summer of 1977, woven together in a series of witty monologues delivered by nine men whose lives are intertwined. Each character is a resident, indeed a fixture, of this small town; each is a philosopher and likes to talk. What do they talk about? Themselves—but there are motifs that traverse their speeches—they all share an appreciation for the cyclical nature of transition, life, history, the environment ... and Babylon’s sewage system. An old man called "Hi-Hello" likes to shout at schoolchildren from the porch of his nursing home and asks where you’re going and where you’ve been. "Nanzo K’Manzo," a young man who cruises the town on a bicycle wearing a cape and goggles to convince everyone he’s crazy, talks about breaking out of the "circle" called normality. The "Cesspool Man," a plumber steeped in the history of the town’s sewage, tells us about little "circles" in the earth waiting for the return of the individual cesspool. "Furaha," "the only black kid in town" speaks from within the circle of the wrestling ring, where he has become the town’s star athlete. "Donnie," who makes an unseen appearance in all of the other vignettes, talks about little red "dots" connecting Babylon to the rest of the world. There is no overstating that this story is complex and well written. Each character manages to tell us a little about the others so well that I was looking forward to seeing some of them long before they made their appearance. I’m still thinking about them. Likewise, one cannot overemphasize that the show is marvelously performed by Tomé and perfectly executed by his crew. Lights dim after each monologue, classic rock fades gently in, and Tomé peels off layers of clothing to make each transition to a new character. Without missing a beat, he picks up an innocuous-looking prop in a corner of the stage, the spotlight flashes back on, and he turns to the crowd with a startlingly different face, voice and personality. I could have sworn there were nine actors on the stage, not one. While the memory play is hardly original, this show has everything it needs to make its mark: a deeply inspired story, a remarkable performance and perfect timing. |
| DRYCLEAN: AN
ADDICT’S STORY by Tim Cusack |
| Ah, Ludlow Street, le
bouelvard des reves de la vie boheme. O’Neill had his flophouses and
bars of Downtown Manhattan and the West Village in which to look for
redemption in the desiccated faces of society’s rejects; Andrew Bauer
has this stretch of the Good Old Lower East Side. Once the domain of
alternative theatre makers and junkies (not necessarily mutually
exclusive categories), it’s now a playground for the young privileged
class. Bohemia is dead; long live its deloused simulacrum. In some ways Dryclean: An Addict’s Story presents a mirror image of this process. It is rank, vomitus-encrusted existence transfigured into drama fit for the intellectual gentility. Like O’Neill, Bauer seems to be drawing on personal experience from the safe distance of years and sobriety for this phantasmagoric story of an addict’s last fix. And like the daddy of serious American drama, Bauer is attempting to illumine his lowlifes with mytho-poetic transcendence. Of course, part of the play’s point is you can’t create anything as an artist/addict unless you "kick." That the play exists at all in its present form would seem to be a testament to the truth of this axiom. The extent to which all of this works for you greatly depends on your relationship to the social processes alluded to above and your tolerance for a shot of sweetening spirituality being used to cut the acrid bite of reality. Personally, I’m fine with this aesthetic strategy, as long as it doesn’t tip over into preciousness or pretension. Bauer’s play, thankfully, does neither, largely because of its narrative drive and the surprising amount of humor he distills from the situation. By keeping the play focused on the immediate narcotic need of his lead character Brendon (Jason Bauer) to score those final bags of the "white lady" before the arrival of the mysterious Sandman (the Iceman’s younger brother?), Bauer keeps the dramatic tension skillfully coiled. And by never letting us forget the dramatic consequences of the action—either Brandon will get enough drugs to ease his transition out of the city and into rehab or he will get enough drugs to obliterate himself—he also manages to invest us in its outcome. The humor comes largely courtesy of the ghost of Brandon’s deceased best friend Doberman (Richard Herron, in a play-stealing performance), a literally dopey, endearing fellow sent to Brandon with one last message from the great beyond. |
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CRYOLUMIA by Julie Congress |
| Giant blocks of ice,
chainsaws, and blow torches - oh my! Cryolumia is a dramatic
visual experience in which the aforementioned blocks of ice are cut
(using the aforementioned chainsaws) into much smaller blocks and placed
on a metal object resembling a demented hat rack, until it eventually
looks more like a modern-art tree. Various lighting effects are used and
at points the ice becomes most beautiful, almost magical looking, the
way the light is reflected through it. The drone of the chainsaws is
supplemented by new age music and swiftly moving, abstract multimedia
images are projected, creating an overall effect that is sometimes
eerie, sometimes lovely, but mainly monotonous. Is there a point to Cryolumia? Is it frivolous and self indulgent? Is it a good thing to be doing in the middle of a drought? You decide. Still, Cryolumia is a very interesting and striking visual piece, and for 30 minutes of free entertainment, there is nothing wrong with it. |
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SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE SECRET OF MAKING WHOOPEE by Ivanna Cullinan |
Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of Making Whoopee by Sean Cunningham is an amiable romp through Holmesian motifs. The game is afoot when, while suffering yet another of Holmes’ dissertations on his own brilliance, Dr. Watson ferrets out Sherlock’s dark secret. No, no, not the boring cocaine addiction stuff (although that will be used to great comic effect by Benjamin Davis as Holmes). Much more shockingly, and to the delighted machismo of the dull but very married Watson, the experienced detective is a…virgin. And oh, what revenge the Doctor has in giving the great man his comeuppance. Let the case of the battling over-compensators begin! How much emotional support can you expect from an elder brother? What will Inspector Lestrade do if he finds out? Will the great mind ever be able to focus again? Is there any accent with greater comic possibilities than Scottish? (Thank you, Tommy Schrider for making that seem doubtful.) Everyone is implicated as accessories to the mayhem—the entire cast is great fun and fully committed. The action shifts deftly with the strategic use of screens and the work does not lag under Davis McCallum’s direction. The piece may not be what is generally thought of as a musical, as it is very light on the song front (four, to be exact and though fun, quite short ditties at that). However, the writing amuses and takes advantage of all available puns (as in "Don’t shit me, Sherlock!"). The humor tends to rely more on violence than the tease the term "whoopee" led me to expect. It does tend to be a very male piece overall, going on at length about the stereotypically oppressive reputation of the Victorian era and underutilizing its strong female cast. Susan Ferrara plays both Irene Adler and Mrs. Watson hilariously, and Rose Grimmond’s Doctor Moriarty is a joy. This show proves it elementary that the extremes of sexual insecurity can be the source of an enormous amount of entertainment. |
| THE TRILL OF THE THRUSH by Terri Galvin |
| What is the point behind modern
adaptations of beloved stories? To sprinkle restorative literary
erudition across the parched philistinism of American pop culture?
Perhaps. That is, until the Weinstein brothers tally the grosses and
forge ahead to the next costumed Gwyneth-vehicle of clipped diction and
smolderingly repressed sensuality. Here in the less mercenary realm of
FringeNYC, we can only hope for nobler motives—if not more perfect
execution. The TRill of the Thrush reveals an obviously heartfelt esteem for its original source, "The Nightingale and the Rose." In Oscar Wilde's sublime tale of love consecrated by ultimate self-abnegation, a Nightingale overhears a callow young Student lamenting the lack of a red rose to offer his beloved. Asking in return only that the Student be a "true" lover and contending that "love is better than life," she willingly sacrifices her own heart's blood to procure the elusive blossom. The story exhibits little of Wilde's trademark arch glibness, but in questioning whether any human being might merit such immolation, it is nonetheless steeped in subtly ruthless cynicism and acute, tragic irony. This production's highly stylized vocabulary of movement, however, feels frustratingly at odds with the depth of its thematic content. As adapted and directed by Zoe Mackler, performers glide onstage into striking tableaux, their expressionless faces dreamily delivering lines in formal, measured cadences that are seldom directed to one another but are instead impassively wafted out to an entranced, but mystified audience. At times the somnolent pace resonates with inconsolable yearning or elegiac foreshadowing, but it rarely approaches a dramatic intensity commensurate with the text. Ritualistic repetition of dialogue and echoing, whispered fragments of recorded voice-overs do little to mitigate the pervasive sense of disconnect, even during the transcendent, anguished climax. Interdisciplinary ARts Project has created an elegant collaboration, complete with exquisite, evocative music and a skilled, impeccably pedigreed cast. In the noble tradition of Fringe experimentation, its limitations as an adaptation do not preclude satisfactions of it own, sui generis, nature. Miramax fans, on the other hand, need only await the next Merchant-Ivory blockbuster. |
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EL PODER DE CUATRO by Gregg Bellon |
| Frustrating! My apologies to teatro de
los interesados for my bluntness. But frustration shadowed me as I
walked home tonight from el poder de cuatro, "a hallucination
inspired by the hidden symbolic meaning found in: the number four, the
Axiom of (famed alchemist) Maria Profitessa, and powdered beverages"…
like the frustration from a Matthew Barney movie or a Daniel Johnston
composition where the artist appears to be appeasing a greater internal
need to produce the piece rather than the desiring need to present it. What unfolds on stage is "some slides, some modern dance, some video of an old woman in North Carolina" mixed with too much intellectualizing, some social commentary, some not-so-good-maybe-even-gratuitous humor (cotton panties with ironed-on "fantasstic" [sic]), and repetition, repetition, repetition. And yet several of the elements impress, demand to be acknowledged: the detailed aesthetic apparent in the design, movement, and stage pictures; the large wooden cube that dominates the stage and houses a dancer who pops up and out of it, handing out props and costumes. But others just pile the bricks on that wall of frustration: the projected photos of landscapes titled in Spanish (which was "probably not (to) be spoken") with the names of the seasons, the cycles of the moon, etc., obvious sets of four; the very use (co-opting) of Spanish in these titles and the main title to no organic end or connection except a satirical reference to Velasquez and Goya (not the more apt Buñuel and Dali). Ultimately, the effect "in the room" was that of a gallery: ART theatre. The cast embraced the aesthetic and executed superbly (the rule not the exception this year at FringeNYC), never condescending in the midst of so much pontification. Cast members, all credited as creators, include: Sara Lamm, also writer; Matthew Brookshire, also director/co-choreographer; Sion Dayson, also choreographer; Ben Cherry; and Robyne Parrish which begs the question, "Who was watching, listening, taking notes?" The sense that this piece was created in the mirror contained the performances inside the fourth wall, for performer not audience, preventing it from engaging us and with us. |
