FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 11

Go Robot Go
reviewed by Eric Winick

In Fringeland, where the glass is always half-full, even the wildly uneven shows can be worth one’s time and effort. Such is the case with Go Robot Go, a cautionary tale about the dehumanization of contemporary society; though the satire is a bit too wide-ranging to be incisive, there’s plenty to distract from the thinness of the plot, and the fact that, despite its subject and novel approach, the piece isn’t saying anything particularly new.

Robot concerns Roberta (playwright Julie Shavers), a mousy, awkward assistant to a hilariously self-obsessed celebrity designer (Shari Hellman). Forced to answer phones and endure the endless rants of a cynical colleague (Eileen Rivera), Roberta finds little solace beyond the workplace; her boyfriend is a none-too-bright stripper with an Elvis fixation (William Cantera), and her dysfunctional family (Chris Hury and Amy Mapother) is straight out of a John Waters film. Enter American Man and Woman (Max Darwin and Laurel Keane), a pair of beautiful hucksters who, through a series of television commercials, exhort Roberta to change her life by swallowing a purple pill that promises knowledge of “fucking everything.”

Shavers and director Daniel O’Brien have wisely added a live band to the proceedings, and the playful, bouncy score (by Philip Carluzzo) keeps things gliding along, even when the play begins to outstay its welcome. Characters rush on and off in frenzied bursts, serve as walls and furniture, and occasionally appear on a live video feed—an enormously effective device that adds needed intimacy within the cavernous playing space. For the most part, these accoutrements complement Shavers’s dialogue nicely. The decision to have actors perform robotic movements behind certain scenes is less successful, as it tends to pull focus, and does little to enhance our understanding of the play.

At times, however, there is remarkable synergy between writer and director—the scene in which Roberta opens an Amex account and joins the fabulous set, prompting an orgiastic dance number set to “Material Girl,” is a show-stopper. The cast (which also includes the superb Daniel Kleinfeld) commits fully to every moment, with Shavers most adept at the physical style her text demands. Whether slinking about the stage in a funk or kicking up her heels before a live mike, she’s great fun to watch; even if her script doesn’t always hit its marks, there’s enough here to herald the arrival of a major talent.

My Life as a Blonde
reviewed by Terri Galvin

What is it about some mothers that makes their daughters reach for garlic and a wooden stake, terrified of looking in the mirror one morning and seeing her reflection gazing back? Why this fervent need to exorcise any last vestige of those She-Devils who spawned us? Perhaps because embracing such issues as grist for the creative mill can succeed less often as artistic expression and more often as self-indulgent catharsis. (Witness a recent New Yorker cartoon in which the sullen adolescent threatens her exasperated mom, “Just you wait until I write my autobiographical one-woman show!”)

Thank god for the blessed crucible of fiction, which, paradoxically, often achieves portrayals more universally “truthful” than real life could ever be. In the fictional My Life as a Blonde, playwright/solo performer Ilana Manaster has distilled some intensely charged truths from the age-old mother-daughter conflict, and the result is a satisfying theatrical experience that, although imperfect, never slides into the usual predictable pseudo-therapeutic rant.

Manaster’s narrator, Gina, presents her glamorous and heartbreakingly-deluded mother, Kansas Winters (also played by Manaster), as a seductive but ultimately hapless would-be starlet, a woman whose charismatic dysfunction Gina is determined not to repeat in her own life. It doesn’t help matters that the beautiful Kansas subjects her daughter to such jauntily optimistic neglect that it can be difficult to discern between her buoyant sincerity in finding a “new daddy,” and her alcoholic haze of pathetic denial. But all the chic designer outfits (“an investment,” she breezily assures Gina) and temporary “uncles” (“not the ethical elite,” Gina informs us darkly) cannot keep Gina from fleeing just as soon as she’s old enough to trade on her own sexuality.

Inevitably, the farther Gina escapes, the more thoroughly she replicates Kansas’s legacy of addiction and emptiness. Manaster and her director, Maddy Lederman, chronicle her journey by interspersing the narration with flashback scenes and grainy, hand-held “home movies” highlighting milestones in each woman’s life. The balanced combination of media and theatricality keeps us surprisingly grounded in Gina’s “reality,” partially quelling the suspicion that we’ve heard this bleak tale countless times before. Since Gina’s descent seems almost classically predetermined, her story risks devolving into cliché. Manaster, however, does her best to respect her creation, allowing her a messy, individualized struggle and a redemption without tidy resolution.

If only every mother were this generous to her offspring.

The Drunk Monologues
reviewed by Debbie Hoodiman

If honesty, anger, and a raw, somewhat improvisational feeling are the elements of a punk rock song, Diane Spodarek has the theatrical equivalent of one in her one-woman show, The Drunk Monologues.

Spodarek’s acting and her stage presence are so natural that I am not sure if she was acting at all or if she was just talking to the audience as (a version of) herself. Through the course of the show, she tells the story of moving to Detroit, being part of the punk rock scene, moving to New York City, raising a daughter, marrying twice, meeting Patti Smith, etc. She plays some songs, tells some jokes, sings, confesses, and tells stories, always with a drink in her hand.

The set consists of a mike, a chair, an amp, and a lot of bottles. The cumulative effect of watching her take drink after drink after drink as she describes a life that seems to get increasingly out of hand is a statement about addiction, though the show is not exactly a show about alcoholism—at least not in the stereotypical sense.

Throughout the show, portions of the Smokey Robinson song “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” repeat, and I started to relate the lyrics (“I don’t like you, but I love you…”) to Diane’s relationship with alcohol, with herself, with the men in her life. In repeating that song, I think she is trying to make a statement about her drinking.

Between each short scene, there is a short blackout, like a shutter closing and opening to provide transition and punctuation. Though the story is told in chronological order, the blackouts separate the scenes, sometimes with comedic effect.

As a performer, Spodarek is vulnerable because of her honesty, but she does not seem the least bit afraid of being so honest. She is also unpolished, perhaps under-rehearsed—but that could be deliberate, since nothing ruins a punk rock song more than over-production.

Scarlet Sees the Light
reviewed by Loren Noveck

Scarlet Kane could so easily be the girl you love to hate—twenty-something fashion plate with an Ivy League education and a Bumble & Bumble haircut; writes for a fashion magazine and loves her access to Miu Miu shoes but really wants to write for The New Yorker; couldn’t afford her apartment without a little help from Daddy. But fortunately for Scarlet Sees the Light, a single-character play about Scarlet’s experiences on August 14, 2003—the night of the famous East-Coast-wide blackout—there’s more to her than meets the eye.

The first ten minutes or so of the piece adroitly set up Scarlet’s shallower side—her tendency to take advantage of her workmates, her obsession with Friendster, her “handbag cocktails” of prescription anti-anxiety pills. But as the play goes on, writer Nathan Parker and director Ted Sod slowly and adroitly let us beneath the surface, showing us also her intelligence, her naiveté, her passion for life, and most importantly her self-awareness. Scarlet is at times selfish, even self-absorbed, but Parker’s keenly written observations make us see the world the way she does, and also see through her façade. Occasionally, Parker’s enthusiasm for metaphor (and he truly does have a gift for the splendid metaphor) gets a little out of control, and thus a few moments feel like they’re better suited to the page than the stage.

Actress Carlina Salemi creates Scarlet with a slow build. Just when I started to find her a little too cool, a little too mannered, she began to let flashes of genuine emotion show. And even though Scarlet is telling the story of a night in the past, Salemi keeps her reactions honest and fresh, so her performance is developing new shades right up to the end. She’s especially good at letting us see the innocence beneath Scarlet’s polish.

John McDermott’s simple set maximizes the usefulness of the tiny playing space; both the set and David Zinn’s costumes visually enhance our understanding of Scarlet’s world.

I thoroughly enjoyed, and was at times even truly moved by, Scarlet’s journey through a dark New York, especially her encounter with grieving a Englishman named Humphrey. Scarlet ultimately arrives at an epiphany (which I won’t give away) that I found unconvincing—but I’m still not certain whether I was meant to be convinced by it. And in fact, I think the play is stronger, and more emotionally resonant, if I wasn’t—so I’m sticking with that.

The Wingding Doodle Club
reviewed by John Samuel Jordan

Ever wonder what really goes on behind the scenes of a children’s television show? Steve Burns of Nickelodeon’s Blue’s Clues was not only rumored to be a heroin addict, but “died” a horrible death. Miss Judy, the perky hostess of Northeastern PA’s Hatchy Milatchy (my childhood favorite), was constantly battling gossip of cocaine addiction. And now, courtesy of playwright/director Ken Dashow (Q104.3 FM), along with Jay and Cindy Gutterman Productions LLC, we have The Wingding Doodle Club, which embraces enough backstage shenanigans to make Melrose Place look like Sesame Street.

Jane Purcell Dashow and Bill Weeden portray Pat and Charlie Greenwood, an estranged married couple who have been performing on a children's TV show for many miserable years together. Cole Razzano plays Cally, the stage manager who tries to keep peace, with a pleasant mix of conviction and compassion. Karen Stanion plays Eureka, the resident sexpot, with gusto. Lawrence Lesher as Lester, the troubled puppeteer, would frighten any child under 65. And Neal Arluck stereotypically plays Ralph Falcone, the nerdy station manager.

The best moments involve the transitions between the “real-life” fighting of the characters and the television show itself. Now that is comedy. Everyone does a great job; Ms. Dashow’s timing, in particular, is exceptional.

The problem with The Wingding Doodle Club is that it's not clear what audience it's targeting. There is just enough foul language and sexual innuendo to make it inappropriate for small children, but not enough to satisfy the older, seen-and-heard-it-all-before crowd. I also have a personal gripe with the production: I grew up in the area where this play takes place. “You bet’cha!,” albeit a funny line in any play or movie about hicks, just doesn’t match the local dialect of Wilkes-Barre, PA. Minnesota, maybe?

The direction is tolerable. However, too many private moments take place right in the midst of everyone else onstage, who just seem to stand around and wait for their next line. The uncredited costumes, set, and lighting are appropriate.

Sorry…(I love you)
reviewed by Matthew Trumbull

Amidst the theatrical hodgepodge that is Sorry…(i love you), which features Australian actresses Suzanne Mackay and Deborah Ann Hanley, are about thirteen solemn monologues on break-ups and finding direction in life that are still and gorgeous, and that would be, if sieved from the evening’s less inspired rumpus, a tight half-hour’s material written by the performers. Unfortunately, discovering that precious baker’s dozen of unaffected audience connection requires great patience, for the show runs far past my threshold for quotations, plastic humor, and post-feminism cliché. It is disappointing that these fine actresses journeyed ten thousand miles to shore up our defense against sour love with quips about chocolate and shopping.

Director Colin Schumacher has scattered the stage with a flotsam of props, overhung by a clothesline holding up costume elements and greeting cards. The greeting cards are read by Mackay and Hanley to transition between their self-written pieces, and contain the words of canonical authors such as E.E. Cummings, Dorothy Parker, and Edna St. Vincent Millay. Disconnected from the autobiographical intimacy of the rest of the play, the greeting card readings lack profundity. Though this might be the unfair fate of any great poem trapped in a card, here it seems to result from the actresses’ underwhelming investment in material that did not directly spawn from their own life stories.

Even greater damage is done by this phenomenon to the comic aspects of the show. Mackay and Hanley open with a revisionist sketch titled “The Truth about Cinderella.” A cloyingly trendy Cinderella succeeds at admittance to the climatic “ball,” thrown for the visiting cast of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Before she must flee, she leaves a shoe for her prince, with her cell number, e-mail address, etc. clearly written on the bottom. He never calls. Our new Cinderella moral: Men are unreliable clods. In another sketch, two women with a common man in their love history meet at a laundromat, and the claws come out as they dig at each other in asides to the audience. This morphs into a physical competition to upstage one another in apology, as they endlessly trade I’m sorry’s. The sketch can’t find its comedic footing, and settles for being one-note.

Sweet relief comes intermittently throughout the night, though, when the two actresses separate and speak to the audience solo, about such vulnerabilities as waking up alone despite a night of soul-bearing to a partner; reading fairy tales and wondering if coming from a broken home is the only path to remarkableness; wanting to do everything in life at the same time, and remaining stagnant in indecision. Such bittersweet reflections can find surprising humor if left alone, erasing the need for unearned in-your-face playtime to lighten things up.

Simple Thoughts
reviewed by Dan Asher

Simple Thoughts, Twilight Repertory’s inaugural piece, is a slice-of-life play, a day or two in the life of Jesse B. Semple, better known in the neighborhood as “Simple.”  According to the program notes, Semple is a character that first appeared in a weekly column written by Langston Hughes for the Chicago Defender in the early 1940s. Hughes employed Semple’s “everyman” character in many of the books and theatrical pieces that he produced throughout his writing career.

The play is set in 1940s Harlem, and follows Semple’s routine of drinking a beer or three at the corner watering hole, while trading vociferous jabs with his buddy Ananias on topics ranging from race relations to women to family, government, God and the atom bomb. Set designer Tim Weathersby cooks up a simple but effective rendition of an uptown bar, and the costumes (Paula Garafalo) have the feel of post-war Harlem.

I believe that the overall point of the piece is that the enduring qualities of Semple’s character, and his struggles, are no different then yours or mine, whatever race or generation to which we belong. But director James Vesce, who also did the adaptation and additional writing (and he is, at times, both crafty and clever in shaping the play's dialogue), seems unsure about trusting in this idea. Semple’s actions and the play’s plot and relationships seem a little vanilla. I could certainly recognize Semple’s problems and issues and any number of his complaints, but I just didn’t feel for his plight as a person. What would make us relate to Semple better would be for us to understand how each of us is shaped by the specific circumstances of our race, generation, family, choice of lovers, etc. A clearer sense of period and place in Vesce's work would go a long way here.

The cast and company are all students hailing from North Carolina. Although the acting is uneven at times, the supporting cast adequately portrays the various people that populate Semple's world. They are a brave bunch and hopefully they will return to next year's festival and/or the New York scene sometime soon. As the main character Semple, Calvin Thompson does a very nice job.

Overall, Simple Thoughts is a professionally put-together evening and enjoyable show. You can be sure that Jesse B. Semple is carrying the torch for us all. “I’m willing to help you God, I just don’t know what to do,” says Semple. If that doesn’t sum up the mystery of the goodness and inherent cluelessness of the human condition, I don’t know what does.

The Ascetic of Lincoln County
reviewed by Gregg Bellon

With The Ascetic of Lincoln County, writer/director Philip Atlakson taps into a long tradition of religious proselytizing in a contemporary context. Ostensibly about the clash of eastern and western ideals, the play ultimately presents a testimonial of the Evangelical kind, starring the transformative power of “sudden enlightenment,” punctuated by the ultimate conversion of the antithesis of ecclesiastic authority: post-modern secularism (a.k.a. cynicism). If all this sounds pedantic, I have to admit that for a play about spirituality, The Ascetic has a fairly academic tone.

In an ambiguous Northwest American desert, the eponymous Ascetic (Paul Klementowicz) has been standing on a small rock for more than 300 days without food, rest, or shelter, when husband and wife, Jerry (Mark Lynch) and Sara (Kirstin Allen), stroll in tentatively to witness what Jerry calls “something big… a miracle.” Sara is less than impressed, playing devil’s advocate by questioning the Ascetic’s motives and the reasonable physiological impossibility of his claim. Jerry tries his best to convince Sara that the tradition of asceticism has commercial historical value, i.e., get a good shot of it because someday the photo might be worth something. Sara doesn’t even want to look at the Ascetic much less be there any longer, and the more Jerry tries to convince her that she should just believe, the more she becomes determined to discredit and disprove the Ascetic’s motives. Her need to prove Jerry wrong highlights the play’s ulterior motive: a marriage strained by modernism that must redeem itself through spirituality or perish.

All told, the package sells! The performers excel at executing the sincerity yet universality of their respective characters, all with wonderful comic timing and execution. Credit is due to Klementowicz as the Ascetic, not least for his focus while standing in true-to-character stillness pre-show and throughout most of the play. In an interesting directorial choice, Justin Ness, who plays the no-nonsense Sheriff in later scenes, provides an on-stage percussion soundtrack from a conspicuously hung wooden plank on which he taps out rhythms during scene shifts. As the Everyman American married couple, Lynch and Allen masterfully capture the annoying nuances of hollow middle-class Americanism: his, an attempt to connect and communicate in a modern way; hers, a need to assert and exhibit her post-feminist intellect. But the weight they carry is greater than mere allegory.

Atlakson imposes an extreme demand on these characters, of biblical proportions. He layers in vague references (without specific names) to other cultures and religions, but deliberately invokes the Jesus Prayer, which the Ascetic mouths throughout and which Sara associates with Salinger’s “Franny & Zooey,” not with church or religion. In fact, at times I felt that this play was trying to have a conversation with Salinger’s story, specifically answering the notion that to embrace wisdom through asceticism is ultimately a selfish pursuit to hoard wisdom. Atlakson prefers to assume the ascetic ideal as pure, but the closing moment of the play seems to be a testimonial, not a detached internalizing of asceticism. All told, The Ascetic proves to be a well crafted, well executed, albeit ecclesiastical, messenger of a “Way.”

The Chaos Theories
reviewed by David Reinwald

A flashy movie star, a senator and his controlling wife, a vindictive stockbroker, a hallucinating homeless woman—these are just a few of the characters who parade through a downtown restaurant in The Chaos Theories. This new, fast-paced work by Alexander Dinelaris (Zanna Don’t!) allows the audience to look through the window of a Downtown NYC eatery, and at the many odd circumstances and relationships that play out there.

The show features an ensemble of eight versatile actors: Todd Alan Crain, Julian Gamble, Traci Godfrey, Ted Kōch, Amanda Mantovani, Matthew Rauch, Pamela Sabaugh, and Maryann Towne. All of the actors, with the exception of Crain (who plays the waiter throughout the entire show) play multiple roles and bring a fresh energy with each entrance. Godfrey plays a spirited homeless woman who converses with her dead husband and later reappears as a bold and brash L.A. movie producer. She brings a captivating sense of believability each time. Gamble strengthens all of his three roles with a masculine bravado, while Towne has a sentimental and emotional grasp on her characters. Sabaugh demonstrates wit, comic timing, and flair, while Kōch shows us creepy yet instinctual behavior as a stalker on the hunt. Rauch breathes a likeable attitude into his characters, while Crain masters his singularity as the smart-mouthed, overburdened waiter, who becomes the main, connective element in the changing relationships of the play. However, it is Mantovani who steals the show with the monologue of monologues, where she breathlessly and deftly rapid-fires her day’s complaints

The Chaos Theories puts spinning urban life into a capsule where we can digest it piece by piece. The characters we meet remain nameless, suitably anonymous in this virtual setting. Through this microscope, we see the overlap of interactions in the characters’ relationships, where the perceived reality is far from perfect.

Stewart M. Schulman directs the show with a sharp edge. The costumes by Wade Laboissonniere and set design by Tema Levine are hip and contemporary. The lighting by Jeffrey Dine is dark, yet sleek.

The Chaos Theories is an incredibly enjoyable piece of theatre that captivates us with its strong sense of compelling energy.

Subway Train
reviewed by Jocelyn Szabo

After a long day, there is nothing more exciting than seeing an invigorating piece like Subway Train. Subway Train is the reason that the FringeNYC Festival exists; it was the most enjoyable night of theatre I have had in a long time. The show's creators, Joshua Kobak, Mickey Fisher, and Katy Pfaffl brilliantly combine beat poetry, narrative, music, and visual images to tell three stories about three different people that all take place on the subway.

Fisher plays several different characters that help to weave the various stories together. The fact that Fisher takes on several different roles throughout the two-hour piece does not diminish his power on stage. In fact, both he and Kobak play the two most moving characters, perhaps because they have the strongest stage presence as well as the greatest command of verse. Fisher is most poignant as the homeless man, always hitting home with his rhymes. He's fabulous performing several other roles, but it occurred to me that perhaps some of them could have been deleted to help shorten the piece.

The same could be said for Joshua Kobak, who plays Jericho. His story, that of a young man who has lost his love in September 11th is extremely poignant, but becomes somewhat lengthy after the character turns into a crystal meth addict. His verse and songs prior to this point make clear his pain, his loss, and his inability to go on without his one true love. Subway Train would be a more powerful piece if Kobak, Fisher, and Pfaffl gave the audience a bit more credit.

With that said, I urge everyone who has not seen Subway Train to run to the theatre in time to catch it before it closes on August 28th. Pfaffl is an absolute pleasure to watch and listen to. Subway Train is a rare piece in which everyone on stage more than holds their own. The musicians, Luca Benedetti, Danton Boller, and Sean Dixon, as well as the cast Mickey Fisher, Scott Hunt, Joshua Kobak, Marni Penning, and Katy Pfaffl are all extremely talented individuals.

The Dead Sea
reviewed by Richard Hinojosa

One of the more powerful images evoked in Mark A. Robertson’s new drama The Dead Sea is that of a boy trying to drown himself in the Dead Sea—but he finds that he can’t sink, so he just floats there on the surface. Ironically, Robertson’s script also floats on the surface. The play has a lot of heart but the playwright never cuts that heart open for us to see what’s inside.

The occasion of the play is the return of Caleb (Robertson) to his father’s house after four years of wandering. He left when he was sixteen because his father (Elias Stimac) was an abusive drunk. His two older brothers Jake (Hayden Roush) and Corey (Nick Amick) have come to their father’s house for Christmas. The play skims along until Caleb reveals a secret in a brilliant scene that contrasts the joy of dancing with the violent reality of Caleb's deed.

There are three other characters whom we never see, including the boys’ mother who died a year prior. Caleb seems to be very close to his mother, but she is too undeveloped for me to understand why. This exemplifies my main problem with the script. There are too many unanswered questions. For example, why does Corey’s wife leave him? Why is Jake an agnostic? Why was the father a drunk, and why did he quit? What happened to Caleb? What motivates his actions? I wanted to know what makes these characters twisted inside, what makes them dysfunctional. But we are not allowed in. We are given anecdotes and nostalgia instead.

The play could also benefit from a little stronger direction. There are several bursts of emotion and action that are awkward and uneven, and the pacing of the show is a little choppy. The actors are reaching for a realistic style but, with the exception of Roush, they fall short. Overall, I think The Dead Sea has a great deal of potential. Many of the elements that can make a play great are in place, such as some interesting contradictions, influential off stage characters and a solid premise. Robertson just needs to delve deeper. The fact is, if you dive deep down to the bottom of the Dead Sea you’ll find pristinely preserved shipwrecks. These shipwrecks are there in Robertson’s characters—they just need to be revealed.

Le Fromage de Mon Oncle
reviewed by Jo Ann Rosen

Short on words but long on humor, Le Fromage de Mon Oncle, a one-act entertainment written and directed by Joel Jeske, captures the essence of life in small moments. In keeping with the mime tradition, the characters appear in white face, wandering haplessly through episodes, meeting passion and catastrophe alike, and providing plenty of laughs along the way. It is in the tradition of Chaplin’s Little Tramp and Tati’s M. Hulot, the latter of whom provides the inspiration for this piece.

This delightful philosophical pursuit begins when Uncle, played expertly by Jeske, realizes there is no cheese for his meal. He decides to go to the corner store to purchase some. Along the way, he encounters some of the little adventures that constitute his life, each with idiosyncrasies that make ordinary experiences unique. He witnesses a young girl’s loss of faith, the ecstasy of eating a rich dessert, a prostitute playing an accordion, an unorthodox puppet show, and a cat’s funeral. All of this is under the watchful eye of a dead ancestor (Justin Herfel, who manages to make himself appear wonderfully two-dimensional behind a picture frame) who narrates—in French, with some translation "for those Americans who have yet to learn the language." He is the only one in this American cast, I am told, who speaks French.

Initially, Herfel sits on stage enframed, as Jeske and various other characters played by Laura Dillman and Juliet Schaefer-Jeske (both trained as classical singers and as clowns), introduce themselves by emerging from behind a screen draped neatly in French-style curtains. They eye the audience cautiously before disappearing behind the screen where all costume changes take place. Dillman delivers superb blank expressions whenever they are needed and Schaefer-Jeske instills warm naiveté in her clown, child, and American traveler.

The simple, intimate set (Jeske and Schaefer-Jeske) complements the poignant, Gallic feeling. The music confirms that Jeske has done his research thoroughly—everything from Edith Piaf and Josephine Baker to a period "La Marseillaise"—and it sets the mood so perfectly I found myself wanting to know more about it. Costume design by Schaefer-Jeske maintains the flavor of this funny French truffle. Don’t miss it.