FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 2

Hot Pineapples Fermenting in the Sun
reviewed by Eric Winick

Avant-garde’s a tricky thing to pull off. It requires, more often than not, patience on the part of the audience, which must labor (often in vain) to find meaning within a gnarled structure, or to put disparate scenes of chaos into something resembling order.

I’ll be honest. I’ve just returned from seeing Hot Pineapples Fermenting in the Sun, and I haven’t the foggiest idea what it’s about. And believe me, I’ve seen, and occasionally enjoyed, a good deal of experimental theater. Let me take a look at the press release. Maybe that’ll clarify things.

“An elegiac ‘anti-narrative,’ the work… boldly uses the classical relationships between Agamemnon and Iphigenia as a blueprint, as well as the model of Pavlovian stimulus-response experiments, [to] explore and explode notions of American nationalism, blind patriotism, and the collapse of the individual blighted by endless media-streams and bellicose doctrines.”

Nope.

Since this is a review, and I’m obligated to give you a sense of the experience of watching this play, allow me to present the following observations:

• The play is credited to two authors: Mia Sorensen, and one Efiginia Fulcrum, who is, to some extent, the play’s focal point, in that the play is Ms. Sorensen/Fulcrum’s attempt to determine the true meaning of her name, which has something to do with her mother’s love of soap operas and the Greek Iphigenia cycle.
• The play contains several cacaphonous scenes in which its nine actors talk, scream, sing, and shout inexplicable, seemingly unrelated lines, often simultaneously, while words are randomly lobbed in from offstage.
• There are several digital video sequences, shot by Sean Peter Genell, in which a young newscaster interacts with Efiginia’s (onstage) mother in an attempt to determine (a) the writer’s true identity, and (b) why Ms. Fulcrum is now, mysteriously, dead.
• There are discussions about the state of Iowa, from which Efiginia allegedly hails, as well as debates by two men called “Frederick Motherfucking Jameson.”

Starting to get the picture? Ultimately, as its title implies, Hot Pineapples is pure self-indulgence, a college project that should never have been performed outside the classroom. Don’t get me wrong: there’s a place for avant-garde performance art in this world. But wouldn’t it be possible, every now and then, to let the rest of us in on the joke?

Decoding the Tablecloth
reviewed by Joanne Joseph

Fringe festivals seem to encompass everything from thrown-together-overnight embryonic works all the way up to the sublime and totally polished, previously performed. Some few gems have come off fringes onto main stems, as we know.

Decoding the Tablecloth happily belongs in the second category. It is playing at the Paul Sharpe Contemporary Art Space, six floors up a little private elevator, on Walker Street.

Two dozen complex characters, deftly brought to life in sparing but deeply moving strokes, delineate five generations of a Polish family, some of whom the Nazis destroyed, others who escaped to Argentina, and then to America (Brooklyn, Westchester, New Jersey).

Playwright-performer Gabriela Kohen is well trained as an actor (American Conservatory Theatre, SITI) and as a person who can deftly call together a vast stretch of personal and extended family history. Commendable especially after so much documentation has come and gone concerning the Holocaust that to treat it freshly and honestly, without exploitation or sentimentality, is a gift indeed to us all.

Many issues unfold—parental violence, social cruelty, loyalty and caring, enduring love—there is comedy next to tears—all provided by one lithe body, voice, and face. Kohen is two elderly grandmothers, a macho tango dancing father, a timid school child, a snotty teenage girl, an air-guitar-playing teenage boy, herself at early and at mature stages—to name a few.

Direction by Connie Grappo, affecting music, careful use of props, excellent command of regional Englishes (New Jersey twist prominent), Spanish of various locales, Polish, Yiddish—all are to be praised for accuracy and poignancy.

The performance I saw (Saturday matinee) received a well-deserved standing ovation. It can be safely said that this is one of the goodies to be discovered at FringeNYC.

Confessions of a Mormon Boy
reviewed by Maggie Bell

As I looked around on opening night of FringeNYC, there was something magical about seeing people in groups everywhere supporting theatre, rain or shine. For his part, writer/performer Steven Fales carried this excitement into a brave performance of his one-man show, Confessions of a Mormon Boy.

Confessions is an autobiography of a sixth-generation Mormon whose transformation goes against everything he has known. Although the title implies that this show is about Mormonism, the story merely begins there—Confessions is really an epic about being gay and about allowing oneself to be imperfect. Fales' performance comes deeply from his heart and is admirably honest. Stories of self-discovery are often told, but this one has a rare humility.

As a devout Mormon, Fales seeks years of therapy to "correct" his sexuality. He marries and has two children because it is "right." But by the age of 30, Fales cannot take the misery of following what is wrong for him. He divorces, comes out as a gay man, and faces excommunication. We see through his text how much pain this puts Fales through. Still, he speaks of his wife, parents, and children with reverence and respect. After this, we follow his arrival in New York, his time as a male escort, his plunge into the world of drugs, and finally, the fear and resolution that helped him turn his life around.

Jack Hofsiss directs Confessions simply, allowing Fales to explore his story as himself. The show is magnetic when Fales acts out his most vulnerable moments, such as when he is drunk in the Roxy (a Manhattan gay bar) or when he speaks of his children. He shows a bravado through his body, but a simple sadness in his eyes. His plastic “Mormon smile” becomes a metaphor, lost when Fales feels lost and found again as he grows.

Hofsiss aptly stages Fales to find moments in which to slow down and let us into his emotions, but a few more would be better. Fales speaks in a clipped, jovial tone through much of the story, making him seem at times too defensive. His sharing so many detailed rules of Mormonism bogs down the narrative; however, it was effective in revealing why it was so hard for Fales to break away from that life.

Confessions of a Mormon Boy is from a courageous soul who is willing to share what he has learned through the wild journey of life. Steven Fales came through a metamorphosis to realize that it is all right to be himself. He made me feel grateful to be imperfect.

stirring
reviewed by Loren Noveck

Anyone who’s ever browsed the Salon.com personals, become someone’s Friendster buddy, or become somewhat obsessed with the author of a favorite blog will recognize—perhaps a little uncomfortably—the world of stirring, which takes its inspiration and most of its text from a broad variety of Internet dating sites, blogs, and urban online communities. Director/creator Shoshona Currier and dramaturg Charles Forbes have mined this almost limitless resource incisively, if perhaps a bit cynically, creating an array of interconnected characters who are all too often lying while claiming to be more truthful than they’ve ever been in relationships before. They use the found language elegantly and cleverly, building believable dialogue from and around the adapted text.

Despite their origins in cyber-profiles, the characters are fleshed out and their relationships are engaging, the gay characters perhaps a little less so than the straight (which is no doubt partly due to the fact that there are fewer of them and therefore fewer relationship permutations possible for them). I was especially moved by Joy (Jen Taher), author of a hard-hitting blog whose off-line personality slowly emerges over the course of the piece; Laura (Sarah Elliott), who’s trying through this process to come to terms with her own needs and internal contradictions; and Trip (Chime Day Serra), the honey-tongued playboy who may or may not actually have his ego and his heart invested. The clever costumes (styled by Karl Ruckdeschel) walk the fine line between character and caricature, and instantly signal the Williamsburg-hipster setting of the piece.

Currier and Forbes also attempt to intertwine this modern-day narrative with the story of Pygmalion, adding recitations from the Roman myth in between scenes. I completely understand intellectually the connections they’re drawing between the sculptor who created his own perfect woman, and the solitary typist who conjures up the ideal lover on the other end of the keyboard. In performance, though, the segments of formal, classical prose were hard to follow, and tended to pull me emotionally out of the piece. There were moments when the highly patterned blocking also made the piece feel a little too abstract.

I find myself wishing a bit forlornly that stirring would have infused a little more sincerity and a little less duplicity into its depiction of the world of online interactions—which may just mean that I felt for these characters, and I wanted them to find what they were looking for.

Freddie
reviewed by John Samuel Jordan

Freddie, written by Jessie Robles and performed by Jessie Baade (the same person), is whacky, good, old-fashioned Borscht Belt fun. (FYI: the Borscht Belt embodies the theaters and nightclubs associated with the Jewish summer resorts in the Catskill Mountains.)

The premise alone is hilarious. A Catholic girl named Freddie is visited by an angel from her bedroom closet. "Go forth and entertain in the mountains. Don't forget to tip your wait staff," beckons the spirit of Jewish comic Freddie Roman. Our little heroine then begins to spew out zingers at unsuspecting relatives during a family sing-a-long as if she were already a Borscht Belt pro with turrets, and, against her mother’s wishes, develops a crush on Danny Kaye. She believes in her destiny and prepares for her calling.

Does she make it? Go find out for yourself, you will be glad you did. I attended the premiere FringeNYC performance for Freddie. There were only six of us in the audience. Perhaps it was the early afternoon timeslot, or the unfamiliarity of the trip to Pace University’s Spotlight Lounge. Whatever the reason, the reason needs to go away. Baade’s unique blend of deadpan, dry, and sluggish humor deserves a jam-packed, laughing audience.

One of the best bits is when her lesbian sister Gracie insists on becoming Freddie’s manager after Gracie’s partner (also named Gracie) passes on. Baade’s interpretation of Gracie is priceless.

Semi-hidden and situated upstage right for most of the performance is Jason Baade, who reads a few minor characters, including the angels and a priest. Whenever Freddie goes to confession, Ms. Baade mimes Freddie’s actions while Mr. Baade provides the sound effects. It’s a brilliant gag.

Director Alysa Wishingrad works well to keep the piece moving. Projections and set design by Dara Wishingrad are also brilliant. Just a handful of slide projections appear to set the mood. It’s not overdone, nor obtrusive. The sound design by Ins and Outs is quite odd: “Look At Me, I’m Sandra Dee” plays over an early monologue and is quite a distraction. Then “To Sir With Love” plays randomly throughout the rest of the show. But in retrospect, these choices are also brilliant, as is the entire production.

Vampire Cowboy Trilogy
reviewed by Neal Utterback

Ok, I may be biased.

I love vampires.

I love cowboys.

And I’ve been known to love a trilogy or three.

That said, Vampire Cowboy Trilogy is an innovative, energetic theatrical treat. Co-creators Qui Nguyen and Robert Ross Parker’s endeavor far transcends the term “fightsical,” which is volleyed around of late. The play blends film noir, comic book camp, and undead teenage cheerleaders into a seamless athletic event.

Nguyen, who also choreographed the fights, makes use of an arsenal of weaponry to often delightful comic effect. Director Parker controls the intimate Collective: Unconscious space with efficient, calculated staging.

The ensemble of actors is truly first-rate. A friend and I literally sat inches from the cast and, although swords and various body parts flew about, neither of us felt the least bit uncomfortable. That, in my book, is the mark of a well choreographed and well executed fight sequence. They are all lovely performers with particular attention going to Melissa Paladino.

It is, forgive the pun, bloody great.

The First Step
reviewed by Lee Ramsey

The First Step, an autobiographical new play by Henry Covery, features an ensemble of five very hard working actors, of whom Jason Currie and Ali Anderson, both playing multiple roles, are the standouts.

The problem with this play is that it can't decide what it wants to be. Is it a play about sexual addiction, or a play about being gay, or is it an AIDS play? The most interesting choice and the one that works beautifully is that it's a play about sexual addiction. But the author doesn't seem to think that that's enough (but it is, it's more than enough) and he muddies the play by adding the gay and AIDS storylines.

The First Step is the story of Joe, a sex addict, played by Jeff Meacham, and it chronicles his encounters with "tricks," interactions with family and friends, and eventually the recovery program that saves his life after it seems to bottom out. Meacham's work is very good for the first two-thirds of the play, but he isn't quite able to deliver the genuine emotion the role requires at the end. The other cast members Ali Anderson, Timothy Connell, Jason Currie and Frederick Hamilton play all of the various people in Joe's life.

There are some musical numbers that work beautifully, with wonderful high energy choreography by Thomas Mills that is beautifully executed by the cast.

After a very strong beginning the play goes off on its first tangent, the "love story" of Joe and his Israeli friend Kobi, played by Frederick Hamilton with a bizarre accent that makes him sound more Norwegian than Israeli. The play would benefit greatly from this storyline being removed from the script entirely.

At one hour and forty-five minutes with no intermission, the performance is just too long. The staging by director Michael Leeds tends to be monotonous (the series of black cubes that are moved about the stage to create each setting grow tiresome by about the halfway point), and leans dangerously toward the sentimental; the play eventually becomes very preachy. As I said earlier, The First Step gets off to a great start, and if it would just stick to telling the story of a sex addict and trust that that is enough, it would be a much stronger piece of theatre.

For those interested in the advertised nudity in the play—it's minimal and very tastefully done.

Never Tell
reviewed by Hieu Tran

James Christy, Jr.’s play Never Tell, directed by James Christy, Sr., is a noble, sprawling attempt to examine and expose the darker underpinnings and motivations of five New Yorkers. The play is an ensemble drama set around two events: art dealer Will’s (Kevin Kane) decision to exhibit a video art installation documenting a rape, and his best friend Manny’s (Justin Swain) development of a computer program with revolutionary business potential.

Throughout the play each of the main characters has a chance to speak in a confessional-like manner about their first sexual experience, either real or, in one richly comic case, imagined. The confessionals serve as notices to the audience: either as indirect indicators of a character’s personality traits, or as painful histories, accounting for a character’s current psychological state. To be honest, however, the most interesting recollections were the least traumatic ones: Hoover’s (Josh Weinstein) imaginary meeting with Bob Marley, resulting in a hard-on, and Will’s year-long bus ride home with a girl three years his senior, building to a day when she gives him a hand job. These stories perfectly illustrate, in a surreally insidious manner, the types of guys they have turned out to be: Will, a confident man who believes he has the right to act out however he pleases, and Hoover, a wildly imaginative, benignly manipulative fellow who sees no shame in visiting a girl he has just met and telling her, in the most psychologically engrossing and creative scene in the play, that they are meant to be together. In fact, Weinstein’s Hoover is the most intriguing character in this play, balancing his unabashed dorkiness with a charming wit and, many might say, an undeserved confidence.

As the two characters with enormous pain in their pasts, both Courtney Munch and Swain (as Liz and Manny, respectively) play with enough skill and heart to make us care for them, but their traumatic oratories fell short of registering any genuine sense of empathy or outrage in me. The emotional weight of the story suffers, and toward the end of the play the promising dramatic set-up slips too easily into melodrama. That being said, it is still clear that Christy, Jr. is a talented playwright with a strong dramatic voice and broad ambitions. His father also directs the play with an easy-going flow and smooth scene transitions.  (Pay especial attention to set designer Sarah Pearline’s use of three mobile, boldly decorated panels to indicate effortless scene changes, from offices to homes to an art gallery. It is a marvelous piece of set design.)

Granola! The Musical
reviewed by Julie Congress

The story of Granola! The Musical centers on Joad, a well-meaning granola farmer, and his ensemble of fellow granola farmers. However, the evil corporation Evilcorp, led by the sadistic Vladimir Vladivostok and his equally wicked subordinate Skip Tumalu, is planning on seizing Joad’s granola farm. But don’t you fear, because Joad’s cause is aided by wise old Granny and the ingratiating 1930’s Southern lawyer Aloysius Finster. Betty and Clive are the self-professed romantic leads of the musical. Theirs is a sad tale: she is a granola farmer; he is an Evilcorp employee. The play is packed with melodrama, gimmicks, and, of course, good-old-fashioned farm dances (as well as one Russian dance by Vladimir, aptly titled “Generic Russian Dance”).

Apple Rug Productions’ Granola! The Musical is seemingly a parody of Oklahoma! and any number of other musicals of that vintage, yet it ends up poking more jabs at itself than anything else. The first number of the second act asks us “What Are You Still Doing Here?” and then proceeds to list in detail all of the show's shortcomings. This self-deprecating attitude is amusing at first, but quickly becomes tedious. Coupled with this is the fact that we are constantly reminded by the actors that this is a show—Betty and Clive sing about their lack of character development; Skip Tumalu notifies Vladimir that it is now time to sing the big Act 1 closing number; and the granola farmers win their case in court because, as the judge announces, the author says they do. While this is an amusing device, its incessant use means that we are never allowed to become involved in the show, and the two hours end up going by rather slowly.

Though Granola! has its flaws, it does show great promise. Eric March, who wrote the book, music, and lyrics and directed the show, is a sophomore at Yale University. Granola! is an impressively ambitious musical for FringeNYC: it has a cast of twenty actors (most of college age), creative scenery (designed by Syracuse University Sophomore Josh Miller), multitudes of colorful costumes (by Skidmore College sophomore Amy Santo), and complex choreography (by recent Marymount Manhattan College graduate Jessica DiMauro). Apple Rug Productions shows great potential and ambition, and for a first attempt, you could do far worse than Granola! The Musical.

Jesus and Mandy
reviewed by Amy Rhodes

In Jesus and Mandy, a campy comedy chock full of dance numbers, writers Eric Bernat and Robin Carrigan imagine an afterlife where Jesus is a miserable slacker. The result is a thought-provoking and touching escapade filled with lots of laughs.

Jesus and Mandy is set in the 1970s. Mandy (played by Carrigan) is a perpetually sick orphaned pre-teen with an overactive imagination. She has created a life for herself by imagining a doll, a stuffed animal, and her I.V. into her three best friends. When she dies (for the third time in her life, although this one actually sticks), Jesus (Bernat) comes to take her to the afterlife. But when Mandy meets the disheartened Jesus she makes it her mission to cheer him up before traveling to The Great Unknown.

As writers, Bernat and Carrigan create a clever story while exploring the notion that life, and the afterlife, are only as good as what you make of them. The play becomes a celebration of the trials and tribulations the world has to offer, even forwarding the idea that people should embrace their fear and anger instead of running from them.

As actors, the two milk their roles for all they are worth. Carrigan plays Mandy with an adorable spunk. Bernat is excellent in the role of Jesus, playing a hippie deadbeat who subtly allows his sadness to emerge.

Heather Culton, Eric Hoisington, and Michele O. Medlin nicely round out the cast as Mandy’s imaginary playmates. Director Chuck Blasius gives each actor more than one moment to shine, and punches up the show with sight gags aplenty.

Duane Domutz’s set and Baby Maria’s costumes are colorful eye-candy. CP Roth’s sound design is the catalyst for several hilarious (and impeccably choreographed) dance routines that end with the cast in a pile on the floor, out of breath and laughing. Even the final curtain call is a ruckus number.

The cast’s enthusiasm is infectious. You will find yourself tapping your feet long after you have left the theater. And, just as importantly, Jesus and Mandy will leave you looking for ways to rejoice in all the imperfections life brings.

spurn
reviewed by Fred Backus

It is with the self-proclaimed goal of “assaulting our senses” that Spurn opened to a packed crowd at the Soho Playhouse. For better or for worse, this group apparently keeps its promises. Spurn—a series of comic sketches created and written by Ian Hemenway, Sang Kim, and Neil Trivedi—is apparently in its fifth incarnation under the direction of John Ficarra (Scalpel, FringeNYC 2003). With glib courage, the obviously talented cast consisting of Eric Cross, Lara Jane Dunatov, Ross A. McIntyre, Tom Moglia, Megan Pearson, and Jennifer Spragg throws itself into the task at hand, relentlessly driving home the point that we are all miserable and pathetic, inviting us to laugh at our folly.

Spurn has no interest in lifting us out of what it sees as the septic tank of our lives. Instead, it seems intent on dunking our heads in it over and over again until we start to drink. The whole program, interspersed by audio tracks of vapid television commercials, seems to amount to some form of binge therapy, with the purported result of us seeing in the mirror how we truly are. It is an interesting approach, but one which I can’t help but take with a grain of salt. While it may try to spurn pop culture, this production is steeped in it. These junkies may hate their heroin, but they are clearly addicted.

Unfortunately, the fifteen comic sketches are remarkably similar in structure. The set-up is invariably a perversion of one or more social values, with the comic twist invariably degrading it further, usually resorting to some sort of cheap sexual reference that is intended to shock. The result is the same joke over and over again dressed in slightly different clothing. By the end of the show, I may not have seen every specific turn-around coming, but I had a general idea of where each sketch would end up, ultimately killing the potential for real surprise and humor. Nor does Spurn possess the audacity to shock and awe one’s sensibilities. No individual gag was bold or surprising enough to make my jaw drop. Instead, I found my sensibilities slowly and steadily chipped away at and numbed, creating the unpleasant feeling of sinking into a pool of cultural slime.

There was certainly a large portion of the audience that was right with the show until the bitter end, and I had to admire the tireless energy of the Spurn ensemble. But for me, any impulse towards laughter had vanished long before the final sketch. It was replaced instead by the desire to brush my teeth.

Barrymore's Body
reviewed by Sharon Fogarty

Barrymore’s Body gave me the wonderfully eerie sense that I was partying with Humphrey Bogart, Peter Lorre, and Paul Henried during their early filming of Casablanca. Writer/director Jeff Tabnick’s truly inspired play looks at the underside of three Hollywood legends at a time when they were teetering between being pigeon-holed for life or realizing their potential as "leading men." At the point in their lives, Bogey, Lorre, and Henreid were already "characters" themselves, imitated in cartoons and on radio shows, while secretly praying for a turning point in their careers.

It is the day of the famous actor John Barrymore’s death in 1942 and, through a connection at the morgue, Lorre is given Barrymore’s body to abet a practical joke. Barrymore’s remains remain the perfect symbol of the actors’ goals, fears, and eventual demise as victims of Hollywood.

Tabnick’s fantasy is totally plausible, as Hollywood’s celebrities were rank with pranksters. His well-written, existential but light-hearted exploration into the lives of the Casablanca trio is a warming, sad tribute conveying these stars’ vulnerability which perhaps could only otherwise be glimpsed in a blooper reel or rare interview.

Gregory Steinbruner is funny as the handsome and egotistical Henreid (who played Lazlo in Casablanca), with the perfect profile and a voice to match. Bogart is played impeccably by the talented Christian Baskous who radiates the actor’s integrity alongside unfathomable sweetness, all under the protective veneer of the renowned tough guy. With eyes closed, I believed I was in the room with Bogart and can only criticize Baskous as being a bit too handsome in the role. Most outstanding was Dan Truman’s portrayal of Lorre, for which I did not have to close my eyes. Truman channels Lorre physically and vocally and my thought of "where did they find these guys?" was replaced with, "it’s so nice to see them again."

The play is very entertaining and although it is not a mystery, the actors keep an air of suspense throughout. Only a bit uneven and under-directed in the beginning, (totally understandable for the busy and self-produced Tabnick), the brand new Barrymore’s Body has wonderful potential, brilliant actors, and shows great promise for the new acting company Propinquity Productions.