nytheatre Archive
FringeNYC 2003
SHOW REVIEWS ON THIS PAGE: Gulag Ha Ha, Loserville,
Emergency Non-Stop, Who Popped Papi Chulo?, Eliot & Estlin, Deranged Chronicles,
The Semen Tree, WTC View, Sides... The Fear Is Real, Along the Way, Mock the
Knife, Divided We Fall
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GULAG HA HA by Fred Backus |
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In a series of short scenes, the dynamics of prison society are twisted
and examined in Gulag Ha Ha. Inmates entertain each other with
tall tales, and then turn on each other. Guards terrorize inmates, and
then become inmates and are terrorized in turn, as playwright Jason
Craig and fellow players Jessica Jelliffe and Parnell Klug skillfully
shift from archetype to archetype to the eerie live sound effects and
music of David Malloy. In the spirit of the Open Theatre, these four performers exemplify true collaborative and ensemble work. And perhaps not surprisingly, they rely heavily on the existentialist tradition in the overall aesthetic and philosophy of the piece. In doing so, they do run the risk of presenting something that does not seem altogether new—one almost expects this treatment in a non-linear prison piece dealing with brutality and the human spirit. The script’s existential musings also feel familiar. But there is a lyric beauty to the poetry, and while it may fall short of profound in many moments, there are other moments when it does indeed hit its mark. Belying its title, there are few moments of out-and-out hilarity in Gulag Ha Ha. One is never completely horrified either, as the piece hovers over emotions in an intellectual and philosophical sphere, making it difficult to fully invest in the inmates’ lust for life as they struggle to maintain their humanity. Instead, the tone of the piece remains surprisingly and perhaps too consistently in a place of lukewarm unease. But it does work this way, for what certainly hits home is the mind-numbing tedium of the world these characters inhabit. Thankfully, the piece itself doesn’t ever fall into tedium. One reason is the effectively terse design of this production. The simple costumes, the stark use of practical lighting, and the beautifully simple live music and sounds all are accomplished with enough imagination to overcome their repetitiveness and make the piece stylistically engaging. Gulag Ha Ha would be greatly enhanced by more moments of stillness and greater detailed and disciplined physical work, but the cast has a strong physical connection to each other and an excellent sense of spatial awareness, which compliments the lyricism of the script nicely. It is, in fact, the clear dedication of the ensemble to both the material and to each other that ultimately makes Gulag Ha Ha successful. |
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LOSERVILLE by Michael Feldman |
Being a solo performer myself, I had an extensive
array of artists that I looked up to as I was growing up that included
such greats as John Leguizamo, Deb Margolin, Danny Hoch, and Lily
Tomlin. If I had known back then of Michael Sepesy, the writer and
performer of Loserville, he would undoubtedly have been on that
list as well. Loserville is a collection of fourteen monologues each taking satirical aim at some of our country’s most cherished obsessions, including sports, Christian values, and New Age self-improvement. With chameleon-like versatility, Sepesy completely transforms into each offbeat, quirky character, never becoming a caricature and never commenting on himself. Just simple, seemingly effortless, depictions of each character—this is satire at its finest. His portrayals are as crisp and vivid as his writing. It‘s truly astonishing to watch a three-dimensional person and storyline unfold in a matter of minutes, which is how long each monologue lasts. The script should be a cherished gift for any actor itching for new material to perform or audition with. At the performance I was at, Sepesy received a round of applause after each monologue was finished, and boy was it deserved. When Loserville isn’t wildly hilarious, it is strikingly poignant, but it's never slow or dull. Through fourteen monologues, the piece never loses steam and always leaves the audience craving more. Loserville is smartly directed by Nancy Burkinshaw, and I hope that she and Sepesy continue to collaborate in the future, for all our sakes. The only upsetting part of this entire experience for me was when I read that Sepesy is a teacher in Ohio, and not New York where I currently reside. Overall, SEE THIS SHOW. It’s hysterical, powerful, intelligent, significant theatre that will make you think as much as it makes you laugh. |
| EMERGENCY NON-STOP by Julie Blumenthal |
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While it's inherently not my favorite genre, I appreciate light comedy
as much as the next Joe if it's well done. However, like a soufflé, if
comedic fare isn't executed properly, it falls flat and can be pretty
unappetizing. Sadly, this is the case with Emergency Non-Stop, a
"medical musical comedy" that despite its title comes screeching to a
halt all too frequently, and never manages to build up much momentum to
begin with. The plot is fairly standard: Shy but sex-kittenish nurse loves clueless and egotistical yet good-hearted doctor; dying President must be saved to avert a major war; throw in an incognito starlet, goofy gangsters, and give the nurse horns (well, I'm not sure why that was necessary) and you're all set. Writer-director John Cecil's script is clever enough, well-leavened with the requisite innuendo (the lovelorn nurse mourns that for the oblivious doctor of her affections, all she does is "handle his tools"), broad characterizations (with names to match), and plenty of one-liners of the camp/wince-worthy variety ("They just brought him in without a head—and the head is a very important part of the body."). The songs have a cute doo-wop flavor, and if they're not memorable, they are enjoyable. As with all material of this style, pacing and delivery is 90% of the game. But under Cecil's direction, the show is neither bigger nor faster, and hence isn't very funny. There is some real talent on display: Military man General Quarters (Christopher Booth) comes the closest to supplying the needed size and energy to his role, but it's still a losing battle; Nurse Rose (Julee Sullivan) comes alive during her big number; and as B-movie star Karla Tartt, Thea McCartan has a lovely voice and vivacious energy. The remainder of the cast have their moments, and as a whole the ensemble makes a real effort. But overall, the effect is that of a school production: plenty of enthusiasm, but very little polish or direction. A perfect example occurs in one number while Ms Tartt is under anesthesia. Midway through the song, she begins to clap along under her sheet. It's the right idea, but writ much too small. The show at large suffers from just such a muffling of its own potential. If Cecil and company can find a way to whip off the sheets, Emergency Non-Stop may get rolling. |
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WHO POPPED PAPI CHULO? by Gregg Bellon |
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With Who Popped Papi Chulo?, Dan Domingues and David Lavine
have created a great one-man vehicle for its star, Mr. Domingues.
Essentially the story is of the rise and fall of Enrique Chulo,
Cuban balsero-cum-starfucker who finds himself in purgatory
fighting for his soul against the charges of three females. The
play provides Domingues the room to showcase his well-crafted
skill at transformation and physical articulation but paints a
rather simple and stereotypical portrait of its characters. Domingues, who could pass as Antonio Banderas’ younger brother, gives Chulo a thick Ricky-Ricardo accent and a Miami pool boy outfit circa 1965; his characterization blends vaudevillian physical comedy with the broadness of drag (though he never changes costume). Sunning his well-toned, well-oiled Latin lover loins by the swimming pool at some Miami Beach Howard Johnson, Chulo basks in the immigrant American-Dream-success story of his life when an anonymous killer fires five bullets into him—specifically, into his face and his "papi chulo," the sources of his charm and maldad. The scene shifts (minimally and efficiently) to purgatory, where Chulo has to defend his soul against the charges of his sexecutioner (sic), Cassandra. Hand on hip, chin thrown up, and British accent in full effect, Cassandra testifies to Chulo’s humble beginnings as a runaway balsero, fresh off the boat, who crashed through her bathroom skylight one fateful hot, steamy Miami night. Domingues is at his best as he transforms into each of the three female "witnesses" who each have valid yet evil reasons for damning Chulo, each of whom will have to testify through Chulo’s body. Ay, caramba, what a clusterf***! Actually it becomes quite fun to watch, as we meet Takima, Head of Hair and Makeup on "Chulo Live" and mother of Chulo’s bastard mulatto child, and Samantha, corn-fed, fresh-off-the-bus American Idol wanna-be… and Satan worshipper. Throw in Abuelito Chulo and Domingues does full-time on five characters. But for all the layers and back-and-forth, the plot seems rather thin. Chulo himself refers to the television dramas that shaped his perception of the U.S.—Dynasty, Falcon Crest, Dallas—and this story line seems to fit right in with that group. Lavine and Domingues’ writing and Ted Sod’s direction show great technical precision, but the enduring feeling of the piece is of fake palm trees and fake accents. But like a great lounge act, it satisfies that guilty pleasure of fluffy, laugh-while-you-watch fun. |
| ELIOT & ESTLIN by Andrea Lepcio |
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Eliot & Estlin is part of my blackout story as I was originally
scheduled to see it on that famous Thursday night. To an extent, the
play is about missed connections, about people operating in the dark. In
other words, it’s about young love and novice lesbians. Set on a train ride to New York, two friends have brought along their current lovers. While all four are played by female actors, one is portraying a man. Although I read this in the program note, it was not clear in performance. The three characters that wear pants all have a similar degree of androgyny in their appearance. Names are similarly male or androgynous—in fact some characters have more than one name. As a result, I watched the play assuming all four characters were lesbian. And I was never quite sure of the sex of the off-stage characters. So when Richard betrays Estlin, I had no idea if she was really a woman who had slept with another woman or another man, or if he was really a man who had slept with a man. There’s a stiff, synthetic quality to the writing and the acting that may be a deliberate choice of both playwright Olivia Kienzel and director Rebecca Longworth. Eliot (Holly Sheppard) and Estlin (Cheri Mims), both budding actors, tend to put on airs and Noah (Aransas Thomas) plays at being a femme fatale. Richard (Aubyn Philabaum) is the only character who speaks simply. The youthful banter gets stale before the conflict takes off. As Eliot and Estlin get close to getting what they want and Richard gets closer to losing, the artifice in language and performance continued keeping me at a distance and unmoved. All that said, it is fun watching girls kiss on stage (which they do plenty). Hell, it’s fun to watch anyone kiss on stage. And the sexual merry-go-round is a contemporary rite of passage—particularly for BDOCs (Big Dykes on Campus) and LTGs (Lesbians Till Graduation) alike. Kienzel captures how attractions in one’s college years can interlock amongst a group of friends. Kudos to the collaborators for putting lesbians on stage. |
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DERANGED CHRONICLES by Gregg Bellon |
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Deranged Chronicles (Cronicas Desquiciadas), presented by the
Water People Theater Company, is an enjoyable, well-acted chronicle of
"21st Century inhibitions." Indira Paez’s vibrant, intelligent
monologues about love, commitment, sex, and happiness come to life
through the rhythmic and articulate Latin American ensemble of Rebeca
Aleman, Ofelia Marin, Samuel Morett, and Leonard Zelig The Water People’s press release asserts that Deranged is "a mélange of emotions that Latinos experience vividly and with a passion that is unrivaled by any other culture." And while most of these emotions are not exclusive to Latinos, the expressive passionate humor with which they are portrayed certainly attests to the sincerity of the Latinidad they represent. Paez’s writing succeeds by intertwining her passionate themes through diverse Latino nationalities. The ensemble moves in graceful unison, but individually each performer exudes a proud and unique nationalism. Mostly satirical, sarcastic stories delivered in direct address to the audience, Deranged strikes a chord of "reality" theater. In a moment of true live-theatre bravura, Samuel Morett audaciously climbs into the first row of seats and delivers his energetic spot-on monologues to the audience as if we were all in his living room. Rebecca Aleman, co-founding member of Water People, blows us all away as a woman who’s been left and forgotten with the sentimentality and raw emotional vulnerability of our Latinas. As "Pareja Feliz" (Happy Couple), Ofelia Marin with her endearing Catalan accent and Leonard Zelig with his subtle, underplayed charm journey from giddy humility to humble shame to shameful acceptance of their anomaly: perfect happiness. This piece embodies many of the strengths of Paez’s writing with its insight into the simplicity of love, the compulsion to conform, and the sad reality of modern life. Director Leonard Zelig (no, not that Zelig) unites these themes and performances with choreographed montages and minimal set changes that keep the momentum up through musical interludes of classic Latin orchestrations. I can’t say enough how impressed I was with performers who brought it all out onstage in spite of a tragically small turnout. Look for great things from this young Latino ensemble. Deranged Chronicles is performed in Spanish at some shows and in English at others; the show I reviewed was in Spanish. |
| THE SEMEN TREE by Stan Richardson |
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The most winning aspect of The Semen Tree is writer/performer
Angel Abcede’s overwhelming desire to be there. Clearly he could benefit
from seeing more theatre (and performance art), as well as from a
dramaturgical collaborator, but Abcede saves his loosely-focused and
often jejune theatre-piece from being embarrassing because he has the
exuberance of a child finally having his say. His "say" begins with an arch rundown of his life’s accomplishments—most proudly, his column for Gay Chicago Magazine in which he gave the Asian male perspective on matters of gay culture. The quipped excerpts on the dubious myth of Asian submissiveness or the size of the Asian penis (settled? at the end in the well-worn literalization of the phrase "emotionally naked") are less pioneering than he thinks, but they still make engaging fodder. The longing which (intermittently) organizes his autobiographical play is the desire for there to be no difference between himself and the paradigmatic Young White Male whom he finds (and is conditioned to find) so attractive; when he is closest to this sense of loss is when the play is most engaging and occasionally insightful. The songs and dances are unremarkable, and the latter half lacks a narrative throughline (and I’m under the impression one is intended.) I’m also under the impression that with his title, Abcede is referencing Pamela Gien’s masterful The Syringa Tree, but the one small underdeveloped anecdote that seems to justify this homage, does not. But what is important and memorable about The Semen Tree is the pain (past and very present) of being an outsider in one’s own sexuality, and hopefully Abcede will continue to make theatre using that in a more direct and focused way. |
| WTC VIEW by Spencer Chandler |
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Brian Sloan’s new play WTC View, effortlessly staged by
Andrew Volkoff, is about Eric, a neurotic gay photographer
living in Manhattan who, as the title indicates, enjoys a view
of the World Trade Center from his downtown apartment. 9/11
changes that, and even though he’s now left with no roommate, a
view of Ground Zero, and the wrenching smell of burnt electrics
and flesh, the prospective tenants who come to see the apartment
aren’t deterred. Reminiscent of Kennedy’s Children, with
a heavy dose of slice-of-life self-exploration, WTC View
offers an overview of New Yorkers soldiering on in the face of
unspeakable tragedy. Like the musings of Americans upon the assassination of JFK, these characters all have their unique perspective on 9/11, and each represents a different background. Yet central in all the scenes is Eric and his struggles post-breakup with his boyfriend, along with his devoted friend Josie in whom he regularly confides. The resulting dichotomy between personal and public feels like a constantly shifting aperture: muscular passages follow reality-conversation, communal commentaries give way to Eric’s navel gazing and panic attacks. It’s smoothly written, but by waging ideological and conversational battles on multiple fronts in the same flow, the play as a whole feels unfocused. Which isn’t to say there aren’t bright spots. The cast has an overall easy familiarity with each other and show great chemistry, and the audience responded regularly with robust laughter. Jeremy Beazlie is an appealingly fussy Brit who comes to see the apartment, and Lucas Papaelias conquers his role as a noble derelict with impossibly beautiful timing, conveying sleaze and sweetness with irresistible zeal. Liz Kapplow as Josie has a vocal and physical confidence that is strikingly good, and Michael Linstroth as an uptight Democrat succeeds fully. Michael Urie as Eric has the unfortunate burden of carrying on for two intermissionless hours in repetitive poses and inert self-examination. And Jay Gillespie and Nick Potenzieri, fine actors both, suffer from entering the fray after the 90-minute mark, when the direction, writing, and minimal set design have begun to tire. Jim Van Bergen's sound design plays its role with good taste, creating a haunting and effective city soundscape throughout. The events of 9/11 have inspired a great many artists to delve deeply into the human condition. Sloan and Volkoff give it a good shot, but against such monumental expanse, even finely observed dialogue and scenes begin to feel dated as soon as they're uttered. It’s a tough nut for anyone writing about 9/11 to crack. |
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SIDES… THE FEAR IS REAL by Kelly McAllister |
| Sides: the parts of a script that
actors are asked to prepare or read as part of the audition process. And
now, also, a very funny hour of sketch comedy, presented by Mr. Miyagi’s
Theatre Company. A lot of the material, according to the program,
consists of actual sides gathered by the cast, and friends of the cast,
during auditions for films and other productions. Every sketch is a
different audition of some type, and every sketch is very funny. I like
this show for several reasons. Not only does it make me laugh, it is
smart, current, and unapologetic. The cast is a talented young group of
Asian American actors, many of whom have had a fair deal of success.
Some of the scenes address the ordeals that an Asian American goes
through at an audition, but not all, and never with a sense of
self-righteousness. There are several scenes with an insane casting director named Cass, hilariously played by Cindy Cheung. Cheung is outrageous as Cass, but never goes so far over the top that you don’t believe her. In another scene, Rodney To is fantastic as a playwright/director who seems to live in his own little world, and sees nothing wrong with contradicting himself on a constant basis. Hoon Lee, who has an amazing presence on stage, is great as the straight man to a pair of idiotic casting directors who try to not-so-subtly get him to read a part with a stereotypical Asian accent. Rounding out the fine cast are Sekiya Billman, Peter Kim, and Paul Juhn. This is a great company that works very well together. The one thing I would like more of from this show is a deeper exploration of the frustrations and degradations that happen to actors at auditions. The company is obviously quite talented, and has the ability to hold an audiences attention—but after about 45 minutes of jokes on the same theme, I wanted a little more depth. But this is a small complaint. If you enjoy laughing out loud, good acting, and having fun, you should go see Sides. If not, get some help. And go see Sides anyway. |
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ALONG THE WAY by Terri Galvin |
| Last time you negotiated Dante's
seventh circle—that putrid, rat-infested inferno also known as the New
York City subway system—were you inspired to jump out of your seat
(assuming you managed to get one) and break into song? Did six other
passengers spontaneously join in glorious, a cappella harmonies
so ethereal that for one moment you imagined that if anything could
deliver you from third-rail hell into paradise (or at least your
scheduled stop), it would be tunes this, … uh, "transporting"? No? Well, what if you raced to the Independent, snarling from yet another MTA snafu, frustrated beyond all human endurance, loathing both this city and all its denizens, only to be entranced by a sweet little New York-themed show called Along the Way? Using the metaphor of the quintessential underground "journey," this beguiling collection of original songs chronicles the vicissitudes of surviving a city we often love to hate. Through challenges as varied as opening a bank account to impending parenthood, six characters pursue true love, the fulfillment of their dreams, and apartment leases that outlast relationships. Their one common link? Like the rest of us in this "wonderful town," they all ride in a hole in the ground. Shawn Churchman's staging efficiently transforms settings from a Queens-bound N train to a Broadway casting call and more, and his choreography provides a spirited visual complement to both the musical numbers and their transitions. The framing device of interspersed subway scenes can be tenuous, but what's lacking in narrative continuity is made up for by charm. The performances are earnestly committed, the lyrics knowing and clever, and the harmonies as lush as an instrumental orchestration. If these very virtues leave us longing for a more traditional book, it's a petty quibble given such droll numbers as "No Dental"—in which a quietly seething office temp rages against her plight in reggae-tinged rhythms. Clearly resonant with a youthful, artistic audience, Along the Way is so engaging that one hopes the ensemble (Kristen Anderson, Greg Christopher, James-Allen Ford, Russ Kaplan, Sara Levine, and Karla Momberger; they also wrote the show) will eventually expand its characters beyond the realm of bright, aspiring twenty-somethings. No matter—for now, at least, it's obvious that whatever route these winsome performers take, most FringeNYC-goers will happily go along for the ride. |
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MOCK THE KNIFE by Evan Crook |
| Less than two minutes into Mock the
Knife, my friend and I realized we were the only two of the twelve
audience members who did not have personal ties to the artists involved.
Why does this matter? Well, as the rest of those in attendance laughed
at almost everything emanating from the actors’ mouths, I could not help
feeling that this show was a private joke to which only insiders were
privy. Perhaps they laughed because the star/author, Eric Bland, was
behaving just as he does when entertaining in his living room. Or maybe
it was because he was doing something very different from what his
friends are used to seeing him do as they socialize on the sofa.
Whatever the case, I did not get it. Although there are two actors, Eric Bland and Charlie Hewson, this is very much Bland’s show. As a playwright, Bland is clearly intelligent and possesses a satiric sense of humor. His monologues are filled with references suggesting the span of his education and his tongue-in-cheek wit. However, all good storytelling is based on the basic principles of Aristotelian drama: action, conflict, and reversals. Mock The Knife, lacking these pillars, is an intermittently clever stream of conscious rant on a theme that is not quite clear. As an actor, Bland is anything but his name. He is extremely charismatic. The feverish pace at which he speaks, sometimes difficult to understand, provides a throbbing rhythm to the piece that is at times almost musical. But charisma without focus does not a performance make. Bland is an amoeba of ungrounded energy. Because the piece plays like an extended monologue, Hewson, is left with little to do or play. One difficulty with a play written for the writer to also perform is that it is nearly impossible to tell what the contributions of the director are. This certainly holds true here. Nonetheless, it is the director’s responsibility to assert his vision on a production, and it seems that director Josh Boak was either unable or unwilling to rein his star. Aside from the pure shock value of having his actors eat soap and lick sticks of butter (or margarine) like ice cream cones, Boak makes little use of his props, actors, or the space. As a play, Mock The Knife fails on the fundamental level. There is no sense of forward direction, no dramatic tension. If there is an underlying theme, then it is communicated poorly. |
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DIVIDED WE FALL by Christopher Moore |
| Divided We Fall by the SF
Buffoons is a rare effort which invests an old theatrical tradition with
rich new blood, and the uncompromising result is unsettling and
rewarding at the same time. With a style that evokes elements of Samuel
Beckett (Mars Wind’s endearing Chicken Wing seems like Lucky’s luckless
cousin from Waiting For Godot) and the political theatre of Dario
Fo, there is an enlightened twinkle behind the eyes of these moronic
devils. Eric Wilcox’s manic Idiot/papa appears to be the ring leader and
his monkeyboy (a demonic performer named Riddle) joins with the
offensive El Borracho (the craftily crude Noe Zavala) and Maria, a
nose-picking female who is able to produce money from her bottom (an
unpredictable performance by Nari Tommassetti) to complete the cast of
idiots who dance, fornicate, defecate, merry-make, and expostulate on
the state of the human condition. As a creative ensemble, this group is entirely committed and aggressively comic. Their boldness has no limits. The relationship between the audience and the performers is at the core of this type of theatre. I had fake urine sprinkled at me (moments after it was sprinkled on a flag), I had fake feces tossed my way, I was insulted directly, I was smelled, I was offended, I wanted to leave, and yet I was unexpectedly moved by a message both political and emotional. Moments of grotesque humor give way to moments of genuine pathos, and then suddenly I felt awful for feeling anything at all. At times, the buffoons sit in the audience, and serve as a literal reminder that we are all buffoons in the end. The content is mature and juvenile at the same time. The games end in violence, the violence ends in laughter, the references are immediate and topical, and the entire piece is offensive and disturbing, but you will laugh in spite of yourself. The language is harsh, the humor is crude, the performers are relentless in taking the audience to the edge of bad taste, and then are not shy about taking us over the edge several times. The cast plays on expectations, titillates and aggravates, woos us and then shuns us a moment later. The ghoulishly haunting score by Andrew Cushin and Scott Jacobson recalls medieval pageantry, as do the costumes of the buffoons themselves, but make no mistake, these are buffoons for our times. This is an exciting and boldly pure fringe performance. |
