nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2001

SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: Awaiting Repair In The Eternal Hootenanny, Preview of Murder, The Elephant Man--The Musical, The Last Laugh, At Home With the Nixons, Zoo, Perhaps I've Hatched

AWAITING REPAIR IN THE ETERNAL HOOTENANNY by Martin Denton
The FringeNYC program guide cautions that Awaiting Repair in the Eternal Hootenanny is not a show, and that’s true as far as it goes. So what is it, exactly? It’s an exciting adventure into theatrical creativity; a rare and thrilling glimpse of a process-in-process, one that promises interesting and intriguing stuff in the future, one that in fact delivers, already, a show-that’s-not-a-show that’s at least as entertaining, if not more so, than many of the other 180-something entries in this year’s festival. Awaiting Repair in the Eternal Hootenanny is the product of several months of workshops led by director-playwright Julia Lee Barclay, whose objective, according to the program, was to "teach and discover new tools for the creation of a theatrical language based on ever-shifting reality fields, rather than a static interpretation of a given set of circumstances." Now that may sound arcane, academic, and oblique; okay, it probably is all of those things. But Big Ideas have to start someplace, and Barclay’s work seems to me to be well on its way to becoming a Big Idea. If you saw her Word To Your Mama in last year’s FringeNYC, you’ve got an idea of what she’s after: a theatre of ideas that galvanizes and incites action through examination of intention and meaning. Word was, appropriately enough, rooted in its text. The workshops that have yielded this demonstration called Awaiting Repair in the Eternal Hootenanny are rooted in the actors themselves. A moment, now, while I name them: Fred Backus, Rachael Biernat, Dan Hope, Kimberly Justice, Scott Mendelsohn, Erin O’Leary, Robin Read, and Alyssa Simon. These are smart, dedicated artists who are exploring and discovering how to make meaningful theatre in original ways (and not just here but in their other work, I might add). From my perspective as an outsider looking in on what they’ve accomplished so far, I’d say that their time with Barclay has spawned significant results: enhanced concentration, attention to meaning and intention, development of ways to communicate verbally and non-verbally, with us and with each other. Hootenanny turns out to be about deepened focus and sharpened connections; it’s expanding the skill sets of these considerably talented individuals, as well. The unique opportunity that they afford us in this show-and-tell project is to watch them hone their craft, becoming better at what they do, right before our eyes. (And don’t doubt for a moment that having us in the room isn’t a necessary part of their dynamic.) So what’s the show—sorry, it’s not a show—like? It starts with a warm-up, in which each of the eight actors improvise an initial gesture/catchphrase for him or herself, and then reads a slip of paper containing a well-known cliché. (These have been solicited from the audience prior to the performance.) We watch as the actors improvise riffs on the catchphrases and clichés, playing with meaning and sound, deconstructing and reconstructing, experimentally, to see what original ideas might emerge from essential randomness. The core of the show builds on this fundamental notion, as the group breaks up into two teams of four, the first building theatre using cut-up techniques from assorted books and magazines, the second creating their piece from a trio of short narratives (two pre-selected, the third made up on the spot). What’s amazing is that the actors actually distill the noise into something meaningful. The second laboratory, in particular, jolts us with its evocation of mood—at the performance reviewed, it was a stillness as palpable as it was unexpected. Barclay watches the proceedings from the audience with unbridled enthusiasm and encouragement and joy; she’s as supportive a leader as you could hope for. She says that what the participants are doing is akin to jazz, and she’s absolutely right: this is improv to the nth degree. But what will emerge from her work is not going to turn up on "Who’s Line Is It, Anyway?" This is powerful theatrical technique, and the fruit it will bear will be nourishing and potent. What a kick to get a preview of it now.
PREVIEW OF MURDER by Trav S.D.
The Mazer Theater is the most far-flung venue in the NYC Fringe Festival, a community center auditorium deep in the bowels of Chinatown (forgive the culinary metaphor). Compelling the audience to negotiate dark winding alleys in an unfamiliar neighborhood, it couldn’t have been more aptly chosen for the Old School Theatre Company’s adaptation of Robert Leslie Bellem’s 1949 pulp thriller Preview of Murder. The company has staged a B movie, nothing more (unnecessary) and nothing less (thank God!) In addition to private eye novels and short stories, Bellem wrote episodes of "Superman", "The Lone Ranger" and "77 Sunset Strip". There’s not an ounce of pretension in his writing beyond what it takes to get his Hollywood detective Nick Ransom (Matt Wagner) in and out of this "whirlpool of india ink"--unless one counts the copious Chandleresque flights of purple prose such as, well, "whirlpool of india ink." The company is on the cutting edge of what appears to be an emerging genre: faithful (that is 100% camp-free) adaptations of (justly or unjustly) forgotten non-classics. In straight B-movie style, the cast delivers the goods, never letting us know they think themselves superior to such bizarre lines as "So what if you’re a no-legged guy with a missing arm and a face that would give dames the screaming mimis?" As at a period movie, the audience laughs when they feel the urge to (usually at such lines)--the rest of the time they merely enjoy the plot, which is designed like an amusement park ride. This one concerns murder, blackmail, Hollywood stars and a multiple amputee. Cast, directions, costumes and original music are all spot-on. My one adjustment would be the addition of some character quirks for Ransom, who at the moment is a bit generic and typed. But perhaps the adjustment would be a wrong instinct; no doubt Bellem’s main intention was to copy the success of more famous detective characters anyway.
The ELEPHANT MAN--THE MUSICAL by Eric Winick
While it’s by no means the worst new musical to hit New York stages this year, The Elephant Man is perhaps the most deceptively titled. Oh, he’s there, alright – John Merrick, the unfortunately disfigured soul with a heart of gold. So’s the slovenly sideshow barker who is initially Merrick’s keeper and protector. So’s the kindly doctor who sees the sensitive young man trapped in Merrick’s gnarled body. But all comparisons to any previous Elephant Man end there. This is, first and foremost, a play about sex and the musical theatre, in all their guts and glory. That its protagonist happens to be a horribly deformed chap named John Merrick is merely incidental. In this incarnation, set in the present, Merrick’s a singing, dancing everyman, devouring books on acting technique and hooked on show tunes. The real Merrick, of course, lived in the late nineteenth century, and if we are to believe what we’ve been told by Ashley Montagu, Bernard Pomerance, and David Lynch (purveyors of the book, play, and film versions of Merrick’s life, respectively), the man’s speaking voice was horribly impaired, his spine so twisted that walking was impossible without a cane. The idea of resetting Merrick’s life story as a musical has been done (in Mel Smith’s 1991 film The Tall Guy, featuring Jeff Goldblum and Emma Thompson), so what ground, one may ask, is left to cover? To their credit, authors Jeff Hylton, Tim Werenko, and Paul Jones have hit upon an intriguing premise. Instead of simply adding music to Merrick’s story, they’ve re-envisioned him as an outcast with a secret – he’s one hell of a hoofer. And for a while, the idea of a sashaying, crooning Elephant Man works. Sustaining such an outlandish idea, however, requires a razor-sharp, endlessly inventive libretto, and songs that keep our toes a-tapping; these qualities buoy both Bat Boy and Urinetown, parody-musicals that find the humor, and the subtlety, in their admittedly absurd situations. Unfortunately, Elephant has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Bookwriters Hylton and Werenko can’t stop winking at the audience, and the show’s nonstop parade of cheap sex jokes ("Oh, John, you came!" "No, but I’m here") quickly grows tiresome. While there are undeniable high points (the multi-syllabic "Ever’body Wants Their Life to be a Musical" is a standout), by the time Merrick hits the Broadway stage (in a vehicle titled "Pakky Derm Superstar" – get it?), all vestiges of humor have been wrung out, hung up, and left to fester. Luckily, the performers make up for the script’s shortcomings in spades. Hylton, in a dual role as the sideshow barker and an investor in Merrick’s show, is spot-on throughout. Kenneth Dine is appropriately oily as the leering doctor who’s also a playwright, and Jenna Morris (the most accomplished singer in the bunch) makes for a lovely, curvy Nurse Curvey. Only D.P. Duffy III, as Merrick, falters in his role, which may be more a result of the script he’s been handed than anything else. The Elephant Man has an undeniable appeal for lovers of musical theatre, and indeed, they were out in droves at the performance I caught. I’m sad to report that, beyond the obvious gifts of its performers, there’s not much more to recommend it.
THE LAST LAUGH by Trav S.D.
Picture Lewis and Martin, only with the "stooge" partner not as crazy or obnoxious as Jerry Lewis, a more subdued brand of goofiness--more like Dick Martin of Rowan and Martin. Picture if you will, then, Martin and Martin. These are the Rumoli Brothers of Canned Laughters’ The Last Laugh. Played by the real-life Firla Brothers (Brandon and Kurt), this talented team not only sings, dances, and is screamingly funny, but they work CLEAN. They do so unapologetically and unceremoniously. Whether it is a conscious decision or not I don’t know (their piece is, after all, is set in 1949), but the bottom line is, it is EFFECTIVE. If these guys wanted to take this piece out of the theatres and put it into night clubs, they could carve out a niche for themselves based solely on this oddity. They get consistent and constant laughs sheerly through character and a barrage of silly jokes. The plot of their show is the archetypical backstage thing: Rick (the suave, crooning brother) is torn between the woman he loves (Daniela Lama) and success in show business (which forces him to keep postponing their marriage). As in the Lewis and Martin vehicles, the wacky brother Benny is locked in some sort of pre-sexual stage and so has only one option: performing. The Firla Bros’ affection for one another and rapport on stage is palpable--they’ve probably been doing some version of this act since they were in short pants. Now they each have their own careers: Brandon will be seen in the upcoming series "Band of Brothers" and Kurt works as a stand-up comedian. But it would be a crying shame if they don’t continue to develop this act; it’s quite magical.
AT HOME WITH THE NIXONS by Trav S.D.
Eight plays into my NYC Fringe-going experience, I finally encounter one worthy of the name "Fringe." This hilarious experimental romp foists French dramatic theorist and poet Antonin Artaud on a stereotypical ’50s sit-com family--literally. The play is a sort of comedy sketch for the radical and very well read. No compromise is made. Artaud is Artauder than Artaud: by turns, morose, angry, and entirely incoherent. Yet, there he is, sitting at the dinner table with an American family. Nearly all of Artaud’s dialog is lifted verbatim from his seminal text The Theatre and Its Double. The pretexts for his Jeremiads are hilarous. Left alone with the houseguest, the Nixon’s young son, who is terrified of the ranting lunatic, tentitively asks, "Mr. Artaud, please tell me a bedtime story." Obliging him, Artaud smiles, puts his arm around the boy and begins: "RABIES!!! RABIES!!!" Best of all, the play works as a sort of metaphor for the dilemma of experimental theatre in modern America in general. In this world of almost total conformity, the slightest deviation is regarded as madness, as a thing to be feared and detested. The Ozzie and Harriet couple in this play politely tolerate Artaud as they would all houseguests, but he is dangerous--even lethal--to them. Yet he, not they, represents life. There are some elements of Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty in the production, including a wonderful dada climax which allows us to put a toe in the water of madness that Artaud probably experiences a good deal of the time. The cast is having a blast and all are firmly and successfully in the world of the absurd. The uncredited actor playing Artaud is a stand-out. Though at times he is guilty of either not understanding Artaud’s words, or failing to make us understand them (or at least trying to), his brooding and simmering, wide-eyed mental patient is the very embodiment of the last century’s greatest theatrical thinker.
ZOO by Eric Winick
In Zoo, the new play by Margarita Manwelyan and Jessica Rotondi, four characters find themselves stranded on a subway train beneath the East River. Scenes shot on hidden surveillance cameras are projected onto a screen somewhere in or nearby the subway car, forcing each to relive uncomfortable and/or embarrassing moments from their lives. That the location of this screen is never revealed matters little in a play like Zoo. Throwing logic and plausibility to the wind, the play’s central premise dares us to believe that humans trapped together in a subway car and shown video clips from their lives will, eventually, come to terms with their shortcomings, and those of others. Well, that’s the idea, anyway. Although the "scientists" who cook up this harebrained scheme claim to adhere to the strictest principles of scientific rigor, they are soon inking deals with webcasters and network executives, who see the potential for a Reality TV bonanza. When it becomes apparent that the "subjects" – a tidy microcosm consisting of Philip, the buttoned-down, anal executive (Jay Curtis); Tanya, an African-American woman with a chip on her shoulder (Alva French); Maureen, a shy, haunted young woman (Manwelyan); and Caleb, a long-haired stoner guitarist (Haskell King) – all have Big Secrets to divulge, ratings soar, and the play switches into encounter group mode, featuring commentary by the scientists and various home-bound audience members. I won’t spoil the surprise by revealing each character’s Major Crisis, but suffice it to say that all involve an act of violence, and all are appropriately earth-shattering. Which, in a nutshell, is one of the several problems underlying Zoo. How in God’s name have scientists managed to maneuver four young people, all of whom have recently committed acts of violence, onto the same subway car at the same time? How did the scientists know to plant surveillance cameras in these four characters’ homes or workplaces (or, in one instance, in the home of a casual acquaintance) at just the moment when the Horrible Act is perpetrated? Sadly, the answers to these questions are not forthcoming, and what begins as a darkly Orwellian nightmare quickly devolves into cloying, encounter-group mush. To be fair, the "Big Brother"-ish setup has promise, and there are decent ideas here; with slight alterations, Rotondi and Manwelyan could have created a very frightening or very funny piece of theatre. However, as directed by Rotondi with enough gravitas to sink the Statue of Liberty, Zoo becomes an unintended parody of every feel-good, New Age, touchy-feely play or film that’s crossed our path – a "Pay It Forward" for twenty-somethings. While the crises faced by each character, played out in unsettling detail onscreen, are real, and deserving of attention, the predicament in which they find themselves is so wildly implausible, believability evaporates before our eyes. Which is a shame, because the ambitious Zoo wants badly to confront some of the Serious Issues affecting today’s youth; ultimately, however, good intentions do not good theatre make.
PERHAPS I’VE HATCHED by Julie Congress
A real showcase piece for writer and director Michael Carbonaro, Perhaps I’ve Hatched is a collage of mime, magic, stand-up comedy and performance art. Unfortunately, about half of the performance falls into the latter category, an art form I neither understand nor really appreciate. Still, he seemed to be very good at what he was doing, but exactly what that was or why it was I cannot say. Carbonaro begins the show with some fairly humorous remarks on current topics, primarily cell phones. His thoughts then go on to music, continue coasting through a stream of up-to-date themes until he arrives at another segment in which he does some impressions (including Cher and various dinosaurs). It’s amusing, not brilliant. He goes on to do some magic tricks that were much better than I expected. For me this was the peak of the show, for next he goes into this weird mime in which he gradually becomes a robot. I have no idea what it was supposed to mean but he did do the miming quite well. Finally, Carbonaro comes out, clad only in a towel and carrying a can of what appeared to be shaving cream. He covered his upper half completely in this substance and then began to sculpt himself into different things, the only one I really recognized was when he becomes a skeleton. The first half of Perhaps I’ve Hatched is entertaining. Carbonaro’s pleasant and amusing, and quick when it comes to the conjuring. If you like a more out-there, kind of avant-garde, performance art show, you’ll like this. This isn’t to say it’s restricted only to people with these interests. Carbonaro makes a real effort to make his show accessible to many, through the humorous routines and magic tricks. So that even someone like me, who’s new to the whole performance art concept, won’t have a bad time seeing this show.