nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2003
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: I Want the Whole World To See That I Can Cry!, The Trapped Family Singers, Love: A Multiple Choice Question, C.O.W.S. In Flight, Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of Making Whoopee II, A Discouraging Word, Lost, Cats Talk Back, Potty Mouth, Mother Divine, Why They Invented Dancing, Birdland
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I WANT THE WHOLE WORLD TO SEE THAT I CAN CRY! by Julie Congress |
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"You are grown up now. You must endure! You must be strong!" Erna’s
mother leaves her seventeen year-old daughter with these words as she
and Erna’s father are being forced from their home by Nazi officers.
Eventually, Erna will be left on her own in the Krakow Ghetto, three of
her brothers having escaped and the rest of her family having been
"liquidated": murdered or deported to the camps. Yet, despite it all,
Erna is strong. She endures labor camps such as Mathausen,
concentration camps such as Auschwitz, and death camps such as
Bergen-Belsen. She endures cattle cars and death marches. She endures an
absolute hell so horrific it’s almost incomprehensible. All of this is portrayed vividly, chillingly, and poignantly on the stage in I Want the Whole World to See That I Can Cry! An elderly yet vivacious woman, Erna (who now goes by Ester, her Hebrew name) is seated, peacefully knitting. The sudden sound of thunder momentarily preoccupies her, reminding her of the sounds of guns and shelling during World War II. She tries to go back to her wool, but she can’t concentrate on it. Finally, she begins to speak to the audience. Accompanied by pictures and film clips projected on the wall behind her, she shows us Poland, her house, her family. She begins to tell us of her experiences as a teenager and, as she does so, she is joined onstage by that younger version of herself. Together, they tell us her story. The cast is extraordinary. Lucille Patton perfectly encompasses Ester, while Kathy Searle gives a remarkable performance as the young, resilient Erna. Kurt Bauccio is terrifying as every Nazi in the play, jolting us in our seats with his fierce German commands. The set, by Rebecca Tanaman, is quite simple, and yet, partnered with the flawless direction of Moni Yakim (with Associate Director Mina Yakim), you can clearly visualize everything. In one scene Erna is at a morning roll call in a concentration camp. Searle stands alone on stage, yet we see the thousands of emaciated prisoners. The play, written by Miri Ben-Shalom, is based on the personal journals of Ester Herschberg, formerly Erna Holtzberg. At the very end, we see a filmed interview with the real Herschberg in which she reiterates the message of the play: we must never forget. |
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THE TRAPPED FAMILY SINGERS by Gyda Arber |
It was the strippers in Gypsy who first proclaimed, "You Gotta Get a
Gimmick." But while gimmicks may work for strippers, it is the rare show
that can take a gimmick and successfully sustain it for more than a few
minutes. The Trapped Family Singers is a series of musical sketches in
which the gimmick involves people who are forced to sing; however,
despite the best efforts of the talented cast, director, lyricist, and
composer, this show never gets much past its premise. The show begins with a stage manager (Alexander Gemignani) making the usual pre-show announcements, with the addition that a musicians’ strike may occur at any moment and that the show is on hold. Suddenly an irate audience member (Nick Wyman) demands that he be entertained immediately, coercing the stage manager into singing his pre-show announcements in a funny and entertaining opening number. After this scene, we are told that the strike has been postponed and the show can begin; five sketches involving families and different forced singing scenarios follow. The company is wonderful; kudos to director John Driver for casting such a talented and fun group of actors. The real standout is Gemignani, who succeeds in each of his roles and, thankfully, is given plenty of stage time to display his considerable skill. Amy Downing provides the most touching moment in the show with the beautiful "Come to Me," a lyrical number that showcases composer David Strickland’s talents. The score is primarily composed of pastiche numbers, so this is the only piece that allows Strickland’s sound to come through. Ellen Schwartz’s lyrics are filled with clever and unexpected rhymes (down on me/ SUV, edification/vacation) that reminded me of a modern Cole Porter. The book by Driver, Schwartz, and Strickland has some very funny dialogue, especially in the "Selassie, Come Home" sketch, but the forced singing gimmick gets in the way of the real storytelling these three are capable of, most noticeably in the nursery scene. The Trapped Family Singers is a light, diverting musical that has some very funny moments; unfortunately those moments aren’t quite enough to carry it. The talent involved in this show is clearly evident, however, so expect to be hearing these names again in the future. |
| LOVE: A MULTIPLE CHOICE QUESTION by Sharon Fogarty |
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Under the fine direction of Thom Garvey, Jamie Jackson and SoHee Youn’s
one-man Australian musical asks, "What is Love, Love" (as
opposed to plain old Love). The main character Jamie insists that
his relatives know this deep dark secret, and he courageously transports
us to his underbelly world of Wallagalong, Australia, where we happily
meet the "wise" elders of Jamie’s past and share his realization that
his family is not normal. Or rather, they are normal, but that normal is
threatening, horrific, boring, sleazy, and beautiful. Intimacy runs deep in this show, especially in Jackson’s unexpectedly tugging lyrics, as his voice ranges from a resonant rock to a booming baritone, transforming impressively for each character (including a few women and a dog). Composer Youn accompanies sensitively and provides unique and memorable tunes for Jackson, although curiously limited in pitch range, perhaps to diminish the actor’s vocal strain of toggling so many identities. Together, with Billy Rook’s character-capturing lighting, Garvey, Jackson and Youn have created an important, expressive and notable musical with virtually no set and one actor. Highly trained and frighteningly focused, Jackson flicks between the likeable, terrifying, and funny characters with expert skeletal and vocal transformation. They include Aunt Celeste, a spinster whose knowledge of men comes from working in a maternity ward; Dad, whose solo discloses his un-readiness to experience the gift of his wife; Mom, who humorously exposes her fantasies; Young Jamie, for whom Jackson’s articulate body becomes the testing, swinging limbs of a growing boy; and finally Sam, a three-legged dog with cab driver wisdom who pivots the plot. The transitions between characters could have gone more slowly for my taste, as the morphings are so beautiful to watch, and are gone instantaneously. Jackson is a must see; his exemplary command and striking presence are deserving of the big stage. |
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C.O.W.S. IN FLIGHT by Kevin Connell |
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What’s the point? – is a question that sadly went unanswered last
evening when I attended a performance of C.O.W.S. in Flight
at The Greenwich Street Theatre as part of the 2003 New York
International Fringe Festival. Basically, this production is a collection of (not so) original works by six students from the Summer Directing Lab at the Playwrights Horizons Theatre School. According to the program notes, this production began as an elective class, under the tutelage of Marleen Pennison. Apparently one of the main goals of the class is to create a 10-minute solo piece that involves any medium or combination of media appropriate to the idea, which could include text, movement, sound, or photography. Pennison makes a point to stress that "process" is primary to "product," which is commendable if the process truly unveiled any sense of purpose. Unfortunately, what was revealed last evening was nothing more than a procession of banal characters in predictable situations, words lacking dramatic context, and a production mostly shaped and underscored by a cacophony of music, slides and props that only made this process feel unduly produced, leaving me to ponder C.O.W.S.’ point. The only two cows worth milking in this production are Becca Johnson and Ben Knight. Johnson’s piece All I’m Losing is Me, finds success in its autobiographical nature. She takes command of the stage and trusts the simple honesty of her expressions. She utilizes music throughout the piece to give voice to that which she seems incapable of expressing, helping to greater illuminate the unspoken depths of her love for a boy named David. Ben Knight finds his dimension wrapped in the package of a lonely yet ever-smiling man in his piece Stuart Dee. The strange machinations of his Stuart intertwines incomplete sentences, random thoughts, and highly poetic analogies, as he discusses sandwiches, his cat Walter, and the escapades of his brother Mark. His character seems never to have grown up, to be eternally a child, secluded in the safety of his room where the beauty of imagination is primary—sad, yes, but compelling. This is a piece worthy of further development. I found Knight’s quirky and seemingly psychologically bent Stuart to be a welcome conclusion to this evening of mostly uninteresting works. |
| SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE SECRET OF MAKING WHOOPEE II: THE HOUDINI
INCIDENT by David Hilder |
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"There’s nothing like meningitis," says a slightly wistful Sir Arthur
Conan Doyle. He’s also slightly out of breath, having just performed a
spectacularly silly reenactment of death by said disease. His audience
is a beautiful woman, utterly enthralled. This moment is perfectly in keeping with every other element of Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of Making Whoopee II: The Houdini Incident by Sean Cunningham, directed with precision by Will Frears and Jackson Gay, and performed with daffy élan by a gifted cast of five. The show is an hour-long exploration of deep dark secrets, faux spiritualism, axe murder, necrophilia, a 12-year case of consumption, the superiority of the English over the Irish, and above all sodomy. Did I mention the musical numbers? You can probably determine from the above paragraph whether or not Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of Making Whoopee II: The Houdini Incident will appeal to you. Plot summary is useless here. If the script is not quite able to sustain the delirious, mercurial effervescence it demonstrates in its first ten minutes, and if it occasionally dips into cheap comedy rather than low comedy, it has many, many laughs to recommend it. And it is being given a terrific production in FringeNYC 2003. In particular, the costumes by Katherine Hampton Nolan are all terrific, ranging from sedate suits for Sir Arthur and his mentor, Dr. Bell, to lovely dresses for Mrs. Doyle, to Harry Houdini’s outlandish escape outfit. But above all kudos must go to the cast. As Doyle, Adrian LaTourelle centers the play with a dry aplomb which is all the funnier for being all too flappable. Rich Liccardo plays Dr. Bell (a man with far too many reasons, it seems, to keep hollering, "Never mind!") and other roles with a delightful mix of restraint and silliness. Brandon T. Miller, as Sherlock Holmes, Harry Houdini, and others, scores in every scene. Jason Lindner is particularly funny as Houdini’s brother Hardeen, with the funniest song ending of the evening. And as an assortment of women, Lael Logan nails every accent, lands every joke, and never allows the boys to have all the fun. If your taste runs toward Monty Python or SCTV, Sherlock Holmes and the Secret of Making Whoopee II: The Houdini Incident will be right up your alley. |
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A DISCOURAGING WORD by Terri Galvin |
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If brevity is the soul of wit, then surely recognition is at the heart
of political satire. Observational riffs are only as mordant as their
subject is topical and—in this post-modern era—media-saturated. Happily,
there is plenty to recognize in The Compound Eye's clever, incisive
production of A Discouraging Word. Bill Graves is the governor of Kansas who, through a series of Jesuitical moral manipulations that would render Henry V proud, concludes that his state's God-given right to an ocean has been denied long enough. The convenient solution to this heinous injustice? Why, annexing a coastal state, of course. Dismissing several potential candidates as "too big," "too swampy," and having "too many militia men," Graves and his lackeys quickly settle on seemingly vulnerable New Hampshire, and the war-justifying spin-machine grinds imperialistically into gear. Yet Kansas state government is not all manifest destiny and sweeping rhetorical flourish. Playwright-director Johanna Linsley also offers us bleak glimpses into the soulless, bureaucratic micro-management of the aptly named "Department of Everything." While not as boisterous a romp through "Capitol Steps" territory as the escalating military drama, these scenes provide a thoughtful, trenchant depth as two beleaguered civil servants struggle with existential issues of fulfillment, identity, and the essential nature of the human condition. Not the subject of current headlines, alas, but perhaps even more heartbreakingly relevant in today's radically altered world. The symbolism of these two story-lines can be heavy-handed at times, but the parody seldom descends into caricature. If pre-emptive interstate invasion is perhaps too obvious a metaphor for recent international events, the callow boy scouts who constitute the "troops" are a provocative, poignant, yet no less hilarious balance. Admittedly, the script would benefit from selective pruning, but Linsley's crisp direction and her talented cast navigate the comic excesses and philosophical subtleties with equal aplomb. The result is an exuberant, witty production exploring the power and, conversely, the limitations of language. What's ultimately more "discouraging": the ease with which charismatic rhetoric can mobilize the bovine masses, or an individual's private effort to define absolute meaning in an environment which cruelly mocks the attempt? So long as The Compound Eye continues in this vein, I suspect such questions will remain both eminently topical and keenly depicted. |
| LOST by Martin Denton |
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See this show. Lost, a musical by Jessica Grace Wing and Kirk Wood Bromley, is immensely moving, stunningly emotional, and wondrously theatrical. It’s a contemporary fairy/folk tale, blending the story of Hansel and Gretel with the legend of Virginia Dare and the Lost Colony. And it is—dazzlingly—a rule-breaking, genre-defying hybrid: part folk opera, part Grand Guignol spectacle, part loose-limbed hip-hop versification, Lost will in places remind you of Sweeney Todd and Into the Woods and Dark of the Moon, sometimes all at the same time. But you’ll never lose sight of the fact that you’re seeing a work of intense originality and passionate intelligence. The story, briefly, is of Gabby and Hanlon, young siblings who get lost in the woods one day and are lured by a mysterious man into the household of a witch named Mamba, in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains. Mamba sustains herself by harvesting the organs of children; she’s in need at the moment of a new brain and reproductive system, and she plots to obtain these from super-intelligent Hanlon and fertile, blooming Gabby. The boy and girl find allies in two of Mamba’s previous unwilling donors, a handsome young soldier named Silas and a sad young woman named Ivy, and also in a spectral white fawn. The tale proceeds in directions both expected and entirely surprising; I will let you find out for yourself what Bromley and Wing do with this deliberately awesome and grotesque material. What I will reveal is that they weave a kind of enchantment; with collaborators Chad Gracia (producer/dramaturg), Rob Urbinati (director), Jane Stein (sets and puppets), Jeff Nash (lighting), Karen Flood (costumes), Richard K. Kathlean and Erin McReynolds (makeup and hair), Martin Blessinger (orchestrations), and Valerie Berke Sciarra (musical direction and arrangements) they craft an intoxicating ninety minutes that is by turns funny, scary, uneasy, epic, and intimate. Lost is heartstoppingly uplifting and heartbreakingly sad, again sometimes simultaneously. It is unfailingly beautiful. Wing’s score is rich in variety and emotion. (Tragically, Wing died just a few days before completing it, so the promise indicated here so vividly will never be realized.) Bromley, author of pyrotechnic verse plays like Midnight Brainwash Revival and The American Revolution, has never written with such simplicity and maturity. Lost has a cast of sixteen (huge by FringeNYC standards) and includes several outstanding performances: April Vidal’s beguilingly innocent Gabby, Ted Malawer’s earnestly appealing Hanlon, Molly Karlin’s remarkable witch Mamba, Michael Ruby’s vivdly memorable Nut Knox (one of Mamba’s hoodoos), and Adam Kemmerer’s gorgeously sung Silas. Much more needs to be said about Lost—and it will be, for this show is bound to have a life after this festival. For now, just be sure to make Lost part of your FringeNYC experience. There is a theatrical treasure here awaiting your discovery. |
| CATS TALK BACK by Chad Gracia |
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In Cats Talk Back, former (faux) cast members from
Broadway’s longest running musical reunite on a panel moderated
by the New York Times critic Jesse McKinley (played by
New York Times critic Jesse McKinley). Over the course of
the hour-long discussion, we gain a glimpse into the lives of
five former felines. What follows is a smart, sassy and surprisingly funny hour of theater. There’s esoteric debate on the meanings of T.S. Eliot’s Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats (upon which Cats was based), a PETA protest, attacks by contemptuous Les Miz fans, cramped paw syndrome, and many more surprises. One of the best is a "recreation" of "Cats Kill," a number in which the cats devour a baby they find in their alley (the producers cut the song, we are told, compromising "Sir Andy’s" vision of a much darker and complex piece). It alone is worth the price of admission. We meet an aging diva, an ingénue, and a cat who just can’t adjust to life offstage. Brad Heberlee brings a zany Pythonesque physicality to his cat of questionable sexuality. And Frank Liotti plays an endearing Alpha Cat who initiates new female cast members into the troupe with a full body lick-down. An insightful script and sensitive acting rescues most of these characters from two dimensionality. Solid choreography (Nathaniel Nicco-Annan) and lighting design (Thomas Dunn) whisk us off to Broadway for a few flashbacks. Cats Talk Back is a more than a string of puns and silly routines—it contains a few truly touching moments. In the Q&A session, an angry East Village intellectual rises from the audience to accuse the cats of selling out. Instead of a wisecrack response, he is silenced (along with the rest of us) when the cats defend their pride with earnest and heartfelt speeches. The script could use a little tweaking to take full advantage of the cats’ interrelationships, and a reunion at the end feels under-explored. But all in all, I thoroughly enjoyed Cats Talk Back, laughing in the theatre and while writing this review. Writer-director Bess Wohl gives us not just a gimmick, but a witty and weird glimpse into the troubled lives of five out-of-work cats. |
| POTTY MOUTH by Tim Cusack |
| Every once in a while, a show will take
me completely by surprise, which is exactly what happened with Andy
Horwitz’s solo piece Potty Mouth. Now despite never having had a
lustful thought about a woman in my entire 34 years, the prospect of an
hour’s worth of another gay man’s sexual encounters had absolutely zero
appeal for me. Horwitz, however, proves to have a winningly
self-deprecating take on the whole men-who-have-sex-with-men thing, and
from the moment he walked out on stage and personally introduced himself
to each of the people in the audience, he had us in the palm of his
hand. He disarmingly builds on this capital of good will as he recounts
his sexual exploits both in New York and in Orlando during gay days at
Disney World. In some ways this is a classic loss-of-innocence
narrative, as our naïve hero discovers his own pair of "gay sex X-ray
specs," which enable him to "see" the enormous amount of gay cruising
and semi-public sex taking place all around him. Now this is really explicit stuff, complete with pantomimed sex acts and more dirty talk than an entire Kristen Bjorn porn video. What saves it from being a narcissistic mess is Horwitz’s commitment to refusing to compromise for one second the truth of his subjective experiences. Boredom, anxiety, disgust, confusion, tenderness, surprise—his is one of the few representations of sex that actually captures its complexity, as well as its inherent absurdity and potential to change your life. It’s also hilarious. If his final discovery that everything he needed he already had at "home" feels a bit like a platitude from Madonna’s Ray of Light album, it doesn’t make the sentiment any less true or necessary. Andy, you may have come to the realization that you were a "bad" self-loathing slut, but from the audience’s perspective you’re a very, very good slut. Keep having sex—and keep writing about it. |
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MOTHER DIVINE by Joanne Joseph |
| Laurel Vartabedian, author of the new
musical Mother Divine, presented at FringeNYC by the Western
Carolina Stage Company, tells us in her program note that she has
pursued an imaginary "what if" from the factual story of Father Divine.
He apparently believed he was God on Earth, and was of great solace to
many followers in Harlem during the Depression years. The "what if":
What if someone could come back from Death and get hers? The concept is intriguing, amusing, and entertaining. The first Mother Divine, played by the monumental Kat Williams, dies (The Divines, being God, aren't supposed to die), and Father Divine tells his flock that she has simply come back from the hospital transformed (into a svelte, very young blond creature played by Emily Slaughter). Direction of the piece is by Stephen Michael Ayers, who also plays Lester, the IRS spy sent to bust the extremely profitable Divine cult. It would have better served this clever script if the director and actor were not the same person. Some directorial elements are wanting: cues are not quickly picked up, slowing the pace and marring the continuity; and, as Lester, Ayers lays on shtick a bit beyond what is needed to nail the character. Sets, costumes, choreography (uncredited) and music (by Bill Evans) all are fine, and most fine is to have Rudy Roberson as Father Divine back on the New York stage. Roberson is currently on the faculty at Western Carolina University, and some of his students there are in this production, among them Bobbi Baker, who plays Miss Handsome Is As Handsome Does. The other Equity artist, Josh Cox, plays The Prodigal Son, in a comic pairing with Sarah Vartabedian as Miss Bountiful Plenty, a temporary virgin. All couples neatly end up in the clear light of day when Father Divine, to his surprise, actually does die, and wife number one, in the real heaven, achieves her revenge. The Greenwich House Theatre is especially congenial for this well-conceived and unpretentious musical. I recommend a visit now. It merits a New York production for a longer run in a larger venue down the road. |
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WHY THEY INVENTED DANCING by Tim Cusack |
| In Private Lives Noel Coward
famously remarks on the potency of pop music. Mikhael Garver’s
production of Why They Invented Dancing, which she and James
Estabrook have created from various texts by Charles Mee, exploits the
instant familiarity most of her audience will have with the songs
performed by Natalie (Elaine Robinson), backed up by a three-piece
combo, The Tubbs. In contrast to the simple scenarios of love and
romance melodized in the songs she sings, the relationships among the
characters on stage quickly become dizzily complicated, as love
triangles metastasize into quadrangles, pentagons, and hexagons. At the
core of the story is one family: Tessa (Kate McDermott); her parents,
Maria (Danica Ivancevic) and Frank (Jason Huysman); her brother,
Jonathan (David B. Causey); and their messy affectional entanglements.
Tessa agrees to translate some Italian inscriptions for James (John Zinn). They start a sort-of relationship, but Tessa can’t resist a fling with a charming Frenchman, Francois (Jason Vizza), not knowing that he’s her mother’s younger lover. Of course her mother has to take a lover since Tessa’s father is involved with another man, Edmund (James Estabrook). Meanwhile, Maria announces Jonathan’s engagement to his girlfriend Ariel (Jenna Hastings) without consulting either of them. There’s not enough room here to map every crag and gully of these liaisons, but what movingly emerges is the eternal human need for someone to love, despite our contemporary mistrust of anything that might tie us down too long in any one spot. As if to illustrate this point, Edith (Julie Mitre) and Harold (Phil Carlin) sit off to one side, never moving from their park bench. As they bicker, make up, and get by on their little piece of territory, we see the end results of a decades-long relationship. (Perhaps they are the grandparents the other characters keep referring to, or Tessa and James’s future.) The cast is uneven (Ivancevic, Vizza, Mitre, and Carlin were my favorites), and one wishes that Robinson had a better sense of pitch, but ultimately the real star is Mee’s text. He’s the closest thing we have to a Chekhov, and, with unfailing precision, his language expresses something painfully true about the double bind of a longing for independence and the fear of being alone. Why did they invent dancing? So they could feel like they could live. And for a brief time, so do we. |
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BIRDLAND by Scott Brooks |
| There is a lot going on in Birdland,
which is both written and directed by Joanne Hudson. The play opens with
a young man named Jonas Puck being interrogated and electrocuted. These
first few moments demonstrate some fun and flashy use of sound and light
and open the door to the world of doom and gloom that we are about to
enter. Birdland takes place in a non-specific farm/bible belt section of America after a catastrophic event has led to this area becoming a police state that all the birds have left. Jonas (Luke Leonard), a post-apocalyptic Tom Joad, lives with his put-upon mother Connie (Geraldine Bartlett), who is terrified that the "Sons of Abraham" will come get them and/or find out that Jonas has some psychic powers. All the ingredients are there for an interesting and dark tale, but in the end it does not work. The play moves achingly slowly and is frustratingly vague. The characters "Ma’am" and "I reckon" their way around as if they were in a Mark Twain novel, except for the ultra-modern, pierced town slut Mary Margaret (played with a sense of fun by Rebecca Poole), who seems to be in a completely different play. Worse, I kept feeling that the most interesting stuff was going on off stage, like the evil corporate-sponsored army that has polluted the world and is keeping order through fear. There is some good writing here but it needs to be cut almost in half, for the repetition becomes unbearable when held against what we DON’T know about this world. Sharon Sobel’s costumes are eye-catching and perfectly suited to each character. The few scenic elements by Spencer Eldridge set the tone well and Jiyoun Chang and Miniori Koike have some stellar moments with the lighting design. |
