FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 1

What's Wrong With This Picture? I'm In It!
reviewed by Joanne Joseph

Opening Night of FringeNYC, 8/13/04, big excitement in the air, and torrential rain, and not-quite-ready with synchronization of sound cues, but a friendly audience nonetheless.

The premise of the play is that Russel—a young man from Crown Heights, played by playwright Neil Feigeles—tries to find the "one" true mate, and encounters a series of escalatingly nightmarish women, including a lusting "flying nun" next to him on the plane to LA, a nerdy prune who turns into a dominatrix, a bellowing controlling maneater, and best of all a lovely miss whose orgasms last over an hour. Russel's parents, of course, are sitcom nightmares as well. Mom, however, says "Later on when you have children you'll know why I worry" to her grown son on the phone, perpetually checking up on him. Here at least is some ring of truth beneath the stereotype.

The premise has interest, and, so the program tells us, is absolutely true, all this happened in real life. The truth, I feel, has gotten somewhat lost because all the characters are relegated to stereotypes, outrageous and unsubtle, and the comedy does not land. Especially, as Miss Bellowing Nightmare enumerates the twelve reasons why the unsatisfactory "Russel is gay"—the day after in real life Governor Mc Greevey upstaged everyone with his real life declaration.

Original music, pleasant and not too obtrusive, by Brian McAllister, is interlaced with the vignettes, and needs to overcome the opening night tech jitters to be in synch with dialogue, though the actors dealt well with the iffy sound cues. The various women are played by Jiffy Reed, Gladys Murphy-Ryan, Erika Sumner, Cheniqua Carr, and Karen Rousso (most of them doubling). They are physically dazzling and delicious, and sometimes freshly clever. The parents are played by Louisa Poster, who also plays Yenta, and David Thomas Crowe, whose fatherly instruction comes by way of Playboy magazine.

The stage set is commendably spare. Director Greg Vorob would do well to encourage a better grip on stage-wandering and over-gesturing, when the monologue is the central event, which, as the play is structured, is the case throughout.

Anyone high on nostalgia for schlemiels who need to find themselves, leading, at the finale, to his decision to get help, may enjoy this 90-minute journey of not very funny true anguish.

Graceland
reviewed by John Samuel Jordan

Suspicious minds need not worry: Graceland done and got me all shook up.

Robert S. Woods (Bo Buchanan on One Life To Live), Loyita Chapel Woods, and Chapwood Enterprises, Inc. present the FringeNYC 2004 audience with a poignant slice-of-American pie filled with humor and first-rate, top-of-the-chart performances.

Now, you don’t have to be an Elvis aficionado to appreciate this story… it’s not about Elvis. It’s about people—real people—getting through life and learning to let go.

Janelle is a hard-working and supportive wife, guilt-ridden over her unfulfilled relationship with her comatose mother. To make amends, she decides to take Mom to the one place she always wanted to go: Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, the home of the King of Rock n’ Roll. We never actually see Mom, but through the clever writing of Donald Steele, we hear Janelle’s interpretation of their “conversations.” Next up is Lana Turner, a part-time Elvis impersonator and part-time psychic, who is just trying to get from point A to point B every day to make a good life for her teenage daughter, Donny and Marie (yep, that’s her full first name). When these characters’ paths cross, we all learn a little bit more about ourselves.

Nicole Taylor, as Janelle, is superb. Taylor graces Graceland with her versatility, timing, and commitment. Kudos to her. Ellen Dolan (Margo Hughes on As the World Turns) plays Lana Turner as one hard headed woman. Her “Elvis” is good (I would have liked to see a little more pelvic thrusts) but she really shines in her scenes with Johnin E. Reade as her daughter. Reade rounds out this trio of very talented women with an equally vibrant take on her role. Mark Hofmaier strategically downplays Janelle’s down-on-his-luck husband, Tom.

The direction by David M. Pincus is right on. The transitions/overlaps between scenes are perfectly orchestrated and move the piece along quite well. The set by John Kenny, lighting by Bob Bessoir, and costumes by Kat Martin are practical and complete this overall gem of a play.

9/11--The Book of Job
reviewed by Matt Freeman

9/11—The Book of Job is a messy, passionate and precarious piece. Daniel Ashkenasi, the playwright and director, clearly wrote it in the fit of confusion and anger that followed the World Trade Center attack. The tone poem that resulted is loose on structure, but awash with biblical and apocalyptic language. The promised “courtroom” is actually a bare stage of performers, singing and speaking with conviction.

For a New Yorker who was present during the eponymous event, the piece never quite coalesces. Using Job as an everyman American is at best conceptually bold, at worst lacking in much perspective. Considering the amount of suffering and death in Africa or the Middle East, the idea that God somehow was cruel and unknowable for allowing the Towers to fall strikes me as a bit egocentric and, frankly, uniquely American mythology. There is also a dizzying misrepresentation of Job here, even as wonderfully sung and enacted by Joel Briel. Job seems too earnest, too clean, and simply unhappy: a far cry from the biblical Job who was cruelly tortured and viciously abused by his own God. Job’s wife, again sung beautifully by Jamie Matthews, seems uncharacteristically and wholly supportive: a non-entity who generically offers encouragement and harmony.

That being said, there were and are plenty of us deservedly enraged and terrified by the event, and that collective voice cries out here in music and dance. The songs, some of them oddly “popular,” some quite beautiful, ponder at almost everything: commercialism, religious bigotry, warmongering, the quest for meaning, swelling nationalism and a grasp for resolution. Flawed as it may be, with its solid cast and poetic tone (all of the text was taken either from an unspecified version of the Bible or the news media), 9/11—The Book of Job is a truthful artifact of Ashkenasi’s turmoil and our national post 9/11 pathos.

Wrong Barbarians
reviewed by Martin Denton

Wrong Barbarians, Timothy Nolan's timely exploration of the personal politics of terror, confronts two very important issues. The first is the way that fear that often overrides rationality in times of uncertainty: in the play, Mrs. Stone, an intelligent, liberal-minded, clear-headed woman, finds herself becoming more and more worried as she observes the possibly odd behavior of a man seated at a nearby table in a coffee shop. He's just sitting alone reading a newspaper and occasionally talking on a cellphone; but he's got dark skin and he's wearing a Muslim skullcap: he must be one of them, she finds herself thinking.

The other issue in this play is the source of this fear. Mrs. Stone is a history teacher, and she believes that knowledge is the best cure for anxiety. Yet, post-9/11 life seems to be changing the rules: terror alerts and government warnings to be aware of our surroundings and to report suspicious activity have put her, with so many others, on edge. A pair of encounters with an FBI Special Agent named Reilly reveal the unsettling notion that the administration may indeed want its citizens perpetually in panic mode: it's easy to lead, Nolan suggests, when the led are living in fear.

Wrong Barbarians portrays our scary and shameful historical moment incisively—Nolan gets inside the heads of both Mrs. Stone and the man she thinks could well be a terrorist (whose name is Adam) with real specificity. At its best, the play captures the jumble of colliding notions and emotions that are conflicting most of us; there's a thought-provoking scene early on, for example, in which Adam is questioned by a pair of police officers (about the backpack that he accidentally left on the subway) while Mrs. Stone ponders the American flag pin that she has worn since 9/11 and what it signifies. To the FBI agent, she says, "You're the government. Tell me what to do." Her cry in the dark resonates powerfully.

Unfortunately, though the play's intentions and objectives are important and laudable, it doesn't fully succeed, at least in this production. The staging, by Vincent Marano, is sometimes problematic, as is Marano's lighting: the script plays and replays moments as scenarios form in Mrs. Stone's and Adam's minds, but it's not always clear whose reality we're viewing at any given time; there are also passages in which Adam remembers his father, a Master Sergeant in the U.S. Army, which feel digressive and beside the point. That said, Wrong Barbarians is nevertheless worth your time. Depending on where you are in the process of choosing or not choosing to be ruled by fear, this play may prove instructive, cathartic, or perhaps even both.

The actors—Patricia Sones (Mrs. Stone), Gil Deeble (Adam), Harry Burney (Adam's Father/Police Officer), Tod Engle (Mr. Tepper, one of Mrs. Stones' fellow teachers/Police Officer), and especially Gena Bardwell (Special Agent Reilly/Waitress)—all do commendable work.

Big Trouble in Little Hazzard
reviewed by Eric Winick

Parody’s a funny thing. Sometimes. When the material being lampooned is familiar, laughs just seem to come with the territory. They’re built in, per se, like a gag reflex, or a Pavlovian response. In the case of Big Trouble In Little Hazzard, parody is served up in generous portions, and, if audience response is any indication (as it often is), the show’s affectionate send-up of TV staple The Dukes Of Hazzard strikes chords. The question, then: with so many yuks predetermined, are any actually earned?

As penned by Peter Katona and Greg Derelian, and directed by Will Frears, Big Trouble wants it all ways—cardboard cars careen about the cramped stage, characters in laughable wigs and stuffed jeans swank down the aisles, breasts heaving, butts extended. This is Hazzard County, after all, where plots run thin and innuendo runs rampant. It’s not all that far from the original, which made few attempts to hide its inherent silliness: a coupla good ‘ol boys, never meanin’ no harm, takin’ on a gaggle of corrupt lawmen hell-bent on bringin’ ‘em to justice, once and for all. Oh, and some T & A.

Have I mentioned that Big Trouble is a parody? Therein lies the rub. Presenting a take-off on what was, essentially, a parody itself takes skill, and in this sense, Big Trouble is only half-successful. Authors Katona and Derelian (who play Bo and Luke, respectively) seem to have decided from the outset that they’ve got hilarity on their hands, and Frears gives them the production they expect, an hour-long parade of postmodern winking and milking—'80s references, sexual hijinks to satisfy both hetero (Boss Hogg’s mistaken perception that Daisy’s new “jugs” are filled with moonshine) and homo (the love seems to be a bit more than brotherly), and, to drive the PC point home, an African-American character with a thing for big butts.

As Sheriff Coltrane, Remy Auberjonois practically walks off with it all, suffocating himself in a consonant-spewing apoplexy. Under Frears’ frenetic direction, the rest of the cast has little to do but mug, and only a few rise above the level of simple impersonation. That said, they are an energetic and committed bunch, and they are ably supported by the clever design work of Robin Vest and Ilona Somogyi. One only wishes—and may the Lord strike me down for saying so—they’d all taken things a bit more seriously.

Whither Batavia?
reviewed by J Jordan & Don Jordan

Every year we attend the FringeNYC Festival we expect to experience certain things: low-budget shows in makeshift theaters all across Lower Manhattan, at times offering an opportunity for real creativity and originality. Whither Batavia?, written and directed by Barry Hall, takes place in one such setting—Players Studio 3C, a microscopic, dimly lit room decidedly removed from the chaos of MacDougal Street. Audience members quiet themselves upon entering the room, either because they are immediately greeted by a casket on stage or they are so surprised that anyone would suggest performing a show in such cramped, thrown-together quarters. That aside, the beauty of the set design for this show is that it can take place in any small room, and the lone casket sets the tone for what could be a very intimate piece of theater.

After the first of many blackouts, three men wearing virtually identical suits with ties appear behind the casket, gazing at and discussing the woman whose body supposedly lies inside it, a process that sets the pattern of the show. After each blackout the men reappear, sometimes in the same lineup, sometimes not, as different characters discussing a different woman. This happened so often and so quickly we both lost track of who any of the men (or deceased women) were supposed to be. The purpose of the play seems to be about the universality of death and how the living define themselves by their relationship to the deceased. (Don thinks the play is about masculinity as well, universal or not, as each of the characters in the scenarios are men who compete with each other in some way—who knew her best? For whom did she make a special pie? Who changed her life or which of their myriad lives did she change?)

Ultimately, we struggled to identify with the characters, due mostly to the play’s text. While Hall’s fast-paced dialogue is rhythmic, sometimes fun, and full of wit, it moves along too quickly for the players to discover the depth of the situations in which they find themselves. Having the three players portray different characters throughout the piece keeps any of the scenes from providing us with the universal truths the author seems to be aiming for.

Hanging Chad
reviewed by Martin Denton

There were just eleven people in the audience at the opening of Hanging Chad, while hundreds were downstairs earlier the same day enjoying Granola! The Musical. This is precisely what Greg Klein is concerned about, and why he has written and directed Hanging Chad for this year's FringeNYC. The obvious subject of his play is the abuses that occurred in the Presidential election in Florida in 2000; just beneath the surface simmer—no, boil—a host of issues related to where our country is right now: the war in Iraq, the Patriot Act, anti-environmental legislation, and many others. (Just this morning on MSNBC there was a report about the "business-friendly" erosion of OSHA regulations protecting workers from tuberculosis and other harmful conditions.) The point is: Hanging Chad is timely and pertinent—it's about the direction that our government and country is heading and our responsibility to be informed and exercise our voting rights to influence that direction. And yet it's almost certainly going to prove to be a hard sell in a society that thinks it's more important to sell TV commercials via reality shows than provide comprehensive coverage of a national political party's convention.

Hanging Chad is a solo play, performed by Jordan Deas, about an African American man who, through a bureaucratic mishap that may not have been entirely accidental, found himself disenfranchised in the 2000 Presidential election. Because Huey Michael Charles shared the same name as a convicted felon, he was struck from the voting rolls in Florida. Now Huey has returned to his home state of New York (he was born in Harlem) to spread the word about what happened to him. He also uses his hour in front of us to reflect and rant on some of the changes that have occurred in the United States since the Republicans took over in 2000; he ends his time with a call to action that starts, appropriately, with each of us heading to the voting booth on November 2.

Opponents of the present administration—the people likeliest to see Hanging Chad—will find very little new in all of this; Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11, for example, covers much of the same ground (and more potently, too). Nevertheless, one has to admire Klein and Deas for taking their passions so seriously: how many of us have given up most of their summer to try to rouse our fellow Americans to political action?

I wish, though, that Klein had written more of a play and less of a speech. Though Hanging Chad includes some familial background and the occasional humorous anecdote, it's never remotely dramatic (except for the inherent drama of the fate of the nation). Klein might be more persuasive—and it might be easier to persuade people to come listen—if he wrote a character who showed, rather than told, what his disenfranchisement meant to him (and to us).

My companion and I left the show wondering how true the fictional Huey's story actually is—why, for example, has there been no class action suit suing for the violated voting rights of people like him? Or: perhaps there has been; certainly one of the points of Hanging Chad is that the media has been remiss in covering all sides of this particular issue.

The Blue Rocks
reviewed by Seth Duerr

It is interesting to consider that what accrues the most box office in the world is the Hollywood blockbuster film, involving on the whole little or no work from the audience’s imagination, and yet Shakespeare, Shaw, and Sophocles still seem to survive. There is however a danger in this: though every production of “classical” theater has the potential to serve as testament to the need for such work, all too often what happens in fact is that it turns the masses off to such stylization in terms of text, presentation, or ideals.

This paradox may well be seen in The Blue Rocks, Izumi Ashizawa’s ambitious new work, a “fusion of traditional Japanese Noh theatre and Greek tragedy with original music and masks”. Ashizawa’s self-ascribed desire to “represent old culture/religion vs. new culture/religion” is exactly what holds her production back from attaining fruition. Do not mistake, all the technical elements, the signatures of Noh theatre, are around to make this production seem what it has not yet become; the masks are present, the painstaking movement, the elaborate costumes (for some of the actors) are here. What is missing is the discipline and the drive.

There is an extremely talented group of actors working on this piece, all with spectacular credentials (many Yale alumni are involved on stage and off), and surely the most enjoyable part of the show is the music of Simos Papanas. Unfortunately, talent is not enough on its own.

The story is that of Jason, a hopeful for the throne, sent on an almost surely fatal journey (caused by famous “Blue Rocks” in his way) by the ruler who is trying to keep his kingdom. The program asks that we understand that Jason’s decision to betray the Blue Rocks as a means of getting to his journey’s end is the reason why later on Jason’s famous lover, Medea, will slaughter their children. The dilemma here is that while the program notes (written by Yale Classicist Gregory Francis Viggiano), are very detailed, what they describe never seems to take form on the stage. If  Ashizawa is as concerned to “shed light on contemporary political and cultural conflicts” as the program says she is, then much work must be done to make this clear to the audience.

With discipline (something not easily gained this late in the game) Matthew Osborne’s Jason would be able to appear far more at ease physically, and the wonderful emotional life Kristen Hunter has created, as the Spirit of the Blue Rocks, would be far more resonant. As the Rocks themselves, Signe Grant and Taylor Krauss are to be congratulated, as they are a prime example of what effect this style can have at its best. Alas, they point up Ashizawa’s coming up short on the rest of the production.

Mimi Le Duck
reviewed by Pamela Butler

This delightful musical adventure of 44-year-old Miriam Sanders (Annie Golden), a Mormon housewife from Ketchum, Idaho, takes us to Paris, France (not Paris, Texas). The ghost of Ernest Hemmingway (Allan Fitzpatrick) persuades the guileless Miriam to reinvent herself, give up pastels, and find her flash. Miriam has always painted—ducks. She churns out fowl portraits for the likes of the Home Shopping Network. Restless for change, she paints ducks of a different—well—“color” might not exactly cover it. Cashing in her nest egg, she flies the coop and the story flowers.

Miriam, voicing sweet, almost childlike naiveté, ultimately finds the strength of her womanly resolve in a run-down cabaret in Paris, where Hemingway once stayed. Her loving husband Peter (Bryan Scott Johnson) extolling the virtues of the good life, radiates guilt, terror and spinelessness, but goes to bring her home.

The denizens of the place Miriam finds herself make up the rest of the bohemian cast. An able French oyster shucker, Claude (Robert Dusold) yearns for change and dreams his life is a mystery he wants to solve. The specters of his ancestors haunt him, filling his head with doubt. His hilarious argument with them foretells his future (in the guise of his dream persona, Claude might prefer black briefs). Mme. Vallet, the proprietress (Nada Rowand), Ziggy, an old French war veteran (Donald Grody), Clay, the angry sculptress (Kristine Zbornik), and her Gypsy lover (Louis Tucci), all participate in Miriam’s transformation and their own. All are perfectly cast and rise to the material.

The play moves along at a brisk pace, Act I providing a crisp, clean set up for Act II. The second act gets off to a bumpy start and never quite gains solid footing. Opening night jitters might be the bug. Of note is the love song Ziggy sings to Mme. Vallet, delivered with such quality and feeling, I was near tears.

Much drinking and plastic glass clinking somehow thud in the midst of the excellent musicianship of the trio behind the scenes. It is directed by Thomas Caruso, with musical direction by Chris Fenwick; accolades to Brian Feinstein, the composer, and Diana Hansen-Young, the bookwriter/lyricist of this quirky but sound work. Lighting design (Chris Dallos), sound design (Michael Creason) and costume design (Carol Brys) all add to the unity of the piece. A FringeNYC event to put near the top of your list!

All Good Things
reviewed by David Pumo

There’s really only one reason to do another '60s rock-and-roll bio: The music, of course. If the music wasn’t great, there’s no reason to waste our time with the story. At the premiere of All Good Things (directed by David Roth, with a book by Michael Eric Stein), the four young men who recreate the music of the almost-made-it rock group The Remains had the audience on its feet. Of course it’s easy for me, weaned on Herman’s Hermits and Meet the Beatles, to find a soft spot for this vintage. What’s less subjective, though, is the quality of the performances. Ryan Link, Anthony Rand, Daniel Hall, and Clayton Fletcher, who portray the members of the band, are all talented musician working tightly together and off each other to create a great sound, and to provide a live experience—eighteen songs in all—that you just don’t get from all those black-and-white TV clips of '60s guitar bands standing like statues on variety shows.

If anything is missing from this ambitious show on a shoe-string budget, it’s… a budget. You know: twenty actors instead of five to add atmosphere; sets rolling on and off to smooth out the transitions between the songs and the story; real club and concert lighting. But, hey, this is the FringeNYC Festival, a place where you gladly imagine all of that (and imagine some producer in the audience imagining it too), a place where all things technical are forgiven if the show has heart. All Good Things has a heart the size of Madison Square Garden.

Many of the story elements are predictable—drug use, infidelity with groupies, fights with parents about college. But there’s enough about The Remains that kicks them up a notch to make the story worth telling. They appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show, had a significant critical following—notably including Crawdaddy magazine’s Jon Landau—and they opened for the Beatles on a major tour. Their saga is frustrating to watch, and artists in the audience will empathize with the embittering story of reaching significant signposts, only to discover that there wasn’t quite enough to push you over to the other side. But all musicals—even semi-tragic biographies—end on an upbeat. And so All Good Things leaves us feeling triumphant with a finale off of their 2002 comeback album.

The story is told as a flashback. The drummer, Chip Damiani, is being interviewed for a radio show. I’m not a big fan of this type of narration. Trust the story to tell itself. Maybe when the show has a higher budget, that part will seem smoother. And who knows? If their history is any indication, The Remains, and All Good Things, might be around for a long time.

Fatwa
reviewed by David Reinwald

Alter Ego Productions presents the world premiere of Fatwa, a satire in which two attention-seeking friends learn that it is not an easy task to try and acquire a fatwa, the ultimate Islamic death edict. The premise surrounds a competitive friendship between two not-so-famous authors, Michael Jordan (Joe Jamrog) and Mohammed Ali (Jerry Matz), whose recognizable names have so far brought them little of the acclaim they've been seeking.

As authors, both Michael and Mohammed have written similar works, with Michael’s being more outrageously blasphemous in its content than Mohammed’s poetic output. Michael desires fame and hopes to earn it through a decree of fatwa. The plot ensues when Michael causes Mohammed to believe that a fatwa has been set for Michael’s death. The two then advance into a scheme to fake Michael’s death, in the hopes that as a result, the public would come to see the fatwa as reality, and the sales of Michael's book would soar above the total of eighty copies.

Explosive in its irony, Fatwa is written with impeccable wit by Anuvab Pal. The dialogue is entertaining and engaging. And it is a treat to see two veteran and seasoned actors like Jamrog and Matz take the stage at Fringe NYC. What I felt was missing from the play, though, was drawn out when it was revealed that Michael had caused an accident which killed Mohammed’s wife. Suddenly, there was a back-story to this story that received no emotional attention. I believe it would be not only insightful to learn how this traumatic incident has impacted the two friends, but also essential to the nature of the plot.

Without revealing the end, I will just say that the closing moments of the show lose the gained intensity that was built up in earlier parts. Thus, the end becomes quite predictable, and once again, the closing scene lacks the emotional depth it needs. The author would do well to shorten some of the sections that seem to ramble on toward the end and replace them with a fuller picture of the aftermath of the situation.

Nevertheless, Fatwa is a show that should be seen for the unique wit of its writing and the cleverness of the story that it tells.

Reddy or Not!
reviewed by David Reinwald

When performers Joanna Parson and Lance Werth accidentally end up in the same dream sequence, this show and the battle for the ultimate Helen Reddy fanship begin. The performers play caricatures of themselves—Joanna, an independent, sultry woman opposite Lance, an overly excited gay man.

The show is a montage of vignettes of the drama, the insecurities, and the rescuing sentimentality of Miss (or is that Ms.?) Helen Reddy in Joanna and Lance's lives. For those unaware, Helen Reddy was noted for her feminist musical idiom of the '70s including such hits as “I Am Woman” and “Ain’t No Way to Treat a Lady.”

While the show is truly less of an homage to Reddy herself, it is a sign of the times, showing us the ways that music enwraps us in splendor as a metaphor for our lives. Here, it also entraps us in comic jest. Reddy or Not! is full of lighthearted campiness, where the music gets us to tap our toes and throws us back to an era gone by. Midway through, Parson brings the show to its height with her soulful singing of “Angie Baby.” Meanwhile, Werth’s jovial expression and playfulness add to the charm of the performance.

While I admittedly did not connect to or understand every comic subtlety jam-packed into the one-hour show, the audience remained incredibly amused, seeming to find a piece of themselves in every corner. The show emphasizes a certain type of giddy enjoyment that is a welcome release, even when it feels like it's a step away from powerful statements Reddy’s music was really trying to emanate. However, the real question is what would Helen, who is still alive and kickin’ in her sixties, think of all of this? Was her music of serious intent or just a passing fancy?

“You and Me Against the World” . . . Joanna and Lance? You decide.