FringeNYC 2004 Reviews - Page 15

Mossadegh
reviewed by Kyle Ancowitz

Mossadegh is advertised as a “new rock opera.” In truth, it is much more like a rock lecture, but rock fans, history buffs, and conspiracy theorists will have to agree that this heavy metal retelling of the 1953 CIA coup that deposed the sitting president of Iran is pretty frickin’ cool. In his program notes, creator and director Michael Minn indicates that the hassle of staging a full-scale musical under FringeNYC conditions burnt him out in his 2003 outing, The Irreplaceable Commodity; with Mossadegh, Minn reduces the stage content to four t-shirted men and their instruments. Of dialogue, there is none. Scenery, none. Costumes, props, none—save for some pairs of sunglasses that tell us when we are being rocked by a quartet of CIA spooks instead of someone else. What we do get is historical impressions in a straight-up hard rock set.

So what does it sound like? If the style is mainly early- and mid-eighties hard rock and metal, I think it has more to do with the storytelling function of the songs rather than the constraints of Minn’s tastes, and it isn’t bad anyway. I heard shades of Queensryche and Black Sabbath, but here that sometimes self-serious genre is blended with a satirical and sometimes morbid sense of humor. “Fight The Communists” (featuring the Dulles brothers) has a bouncy, clownish tone, and the Chuck Berry-inspired finale “Workin’ Fo’ The CIA” satirizes the right-wing pet notion that 1953 was a better time for everyone. The musicianship on the whole is solid; Bryan Essing’s double-jackhammer drumming is especially hot.

If you really want to learn about this surprising and disillusioning episode in American history (or the ineradicably destructive and mortifying same event in Iranian history), you might do better to read a well-researched work of historical non-fiction or the New York Times article that Minn cites in his program notes, or even see a film documentary. Some of those Iranian proper names are hard to remember, and hearing them rhymed doesn’t necessarily make it easier. But books still don’t have beats. There’s nothing shabby about the rock Mossadegh, and if you come, you might just learn something, too.

Branca de Neve (Snow White)
reviewed by Terri Galvin

Does anyone else weaned on Disney have issues with Snow White? Virtuous little raven-haired girl gets locked in a tower and narrowly escapes peril in the forest, only to wind up cooking, cleaning, and keeping house for seven height-challenged, oddly named, whistling work-aholics. And when a poisoned apple finally puts the poor gal out of her misery, she gets revived only to cook, clean, and keep house for yet some other guy. Come on, kids! Even pathetic little Cinderella got to glam it up at a swell society event.

For a less depressing version, be sure to catch Branca de Neve, David Pratt’s and Rogerio M. Pinto’s outrageous retelling of this classic from a distinctly Brazilian, and undeniably… um, … “modern” perspective.

As introduction, Pratt explains how he was intrigued that many of the same fairy tales he grew up with in America were also part of Pinto’s Brazilian childhood traditions. Wouldn’t it be fun to share some of these Brazilian versions with American audiences? Branca de Neve is the third of these projects (following “The Three Little Pigs” and “Little Red Riding Hood”) and is preceded by a brief vocabulary lesson conducted by Pratt and our evening’s fabulous hostess, the dazzling (if a tad husky) Senhora Mary Anne de Anne MacLane-Paris.

And so Pratt begins his tale, as promised, in Portuguese, with hilarious, larger-than-life gestures, facial expressions, and different character voices enabling us not only to keep up with the plot, but also to enjoy a good laugh along the way. Until, that is, the scandalous Senhora introduces some emphatically “alternative” new props. Pratt and the diva bicker furiously (and, to us, incomprehensibly) over this change, but the incorrigible Senhora is evidently used to getting her own way. Thus, when the dust settles, we’re treated to the revisionist and risqué Snow White and the Seven Battery-Operated Devices more commonly associated with Samantha on Sex and the City.

No cooking and cleaning for this Branca de Neve. (Sna-ap!)

Will Prince Charming be able to compete with Snowie’s newly discovered “distractions?” Will Senhora Mary Anne’s histrionics allow the beleaguered Pratt to finish his story? Will the dyspeptic officer from NENE (National Endowment for Nice Entertainment) follow through on her threat to shut down the performance for decency violations? Fear of the hot-blooded Senhora prevents me from revealing any further surprises, but, providing you don’t blush easily, you might want to find out for yourself at this exceedingly naughty, over-the-top romp.

Somewhere in the verdant hills of California, poor old Walt must be spinning in his grave. But since his 360’s are no doubt keeping time with a quivering samba beat straight out of Carnevale, it’s all excelente, nao?

The Space
reviewed by Stan Richardson

Vincent Caruso’s The Space begins with a gabby speech to the audience by Nick, the queeny, pot-bellied, forty-something best friend of Tony, the angsty, pot-bellied, forty-something protagonist. I have no idea what is being communicated in the address, nor am I clear on why we are also periodically spoken to by Michael, Tony’s HIV-positive, drag queen friend, and at one point somewhere in the middle of the play, by Tony himself. Sometimes these monologues have to do with the devastating effect of AIDS on their community/generation; occasionally they comment on the fact that this is indeed a play; and usually they include a nostalgic nod to Donna Summer or any number of other disco divas.

I single out these instances not just because they are superfluous (most of the information they provide—that these are campy alcoholics with low self-esteem who have been to too many funerals—is restated in the play itself) and confusing (why are some characters aware that they are in a play and some are not? And furthermore, how is this conceit dramatically useful?), but because they contain the seeds of what makes the telling of this story tiresome and unconvincing.

The playwright seems to want to show us a story about a deeply dissatisfied man who desperately seeks, but sabotages his every opportunity for, a romantic connection. Like the characters in his play, Caruso relies heavily on cultural signifiers to express (or conceal) his true intentions. Whether these folks are lip-synching a Tina Turner song, doing imitations of Cher, or just-adding-Mommie-Dearest and calling it a punchline, there is such a dearth of genuine communication (or compelling miscommunication) that we do not identify with their pain as much as their inertia.

Director Karen Blood has done little to clarify the moments of direct address, much less setting the ground rules for the physical world itself—i.e., the invisible front door which is occasionally absent and the foyer that is sometimes hallway. This may seem a quibble, but when you’ve got a play called The Space and a subplot involving passive-aggressive tenant disputes, it seems it would behoove you to clearly establish your boundaries.

John Augustine's droll performance makes Nick’s opening chatter (and every other bit of his stage time) seem much wittier than the material actually is. He, unlike the rest of the cast, deftly selects the lines that deserve weight and tosses off the rest, finding the merriness in the misery.

Browntown
reviewed by Martin Denton

Browntown, a comedy by actor Sam Younis, is about—actors. Specifically, three actors—three "brown" actors—who are auditioning for the same role, Mohammed the Crazed Arab Terrorist, in a new TV movie. The first to arrive is Malek, played by Younis himself, who is having a tough time finding work—demand for actors who look like him (i.e., like "them," Arabs) is almost exclusively in roles like this one, which is by no means a comfortable fit for him, artistically or morally. He's joined soon by Omar (Omar Koury), who is even more fed up with the typecasting situation; and then by Vijay (Debargo Sanyal), a slick Julliard School grad with all the right casting moves, who has already built up a long list of terrorist credits in films and TV (his last big role was opposite Chuck Norris).

The idea is that the current state of the world and the nation means that there's only one image of the Arab in our popular culture at the moment—the suicide bomber, ready to blow himself up to destroy the infidels. It's a sound idea, and an important one; I wish that Younis had plunged even deeper, though, to look at the broader problem of racism, which existed even before 9/11. Let's face it: actors of Asian descent—Middle Eastern, South Asian, East Asian, and everything in between—don't get cast in mainstream plays, movies, and television, period, except in ethnic roles that are generally demeaning or damaging stereotypes. Malek and Omar fantasize about writing their own movie script, but they decide it will be about Jordanian astronauts. What about a play or film about people whose skin color and ancestry aren't even noted?

Browntown, which is very funny, by the way, does trade in American racism, personified by an extremely dim-witted casting director named Ann who doesn't know how to pronounce "Singh" and doesn't know that Trinidad and India aren't Arab countries. (Revenge is sweet; I am sure Younis is writing from experience.) Ignorance even extends to our protagonists: Omar is surprised to learn that another (unseen) actor is Indian, and not Arab as he supposed.

Younis provides a sharp payoff which I won't reveal here. The play, well-directed by Abigail Marateck and very professionally produced by Younis and Marateck, makes for an entertaining and pointed hour, showcasing the considerable talents of the three "brown" actors Younis, Koury, and Sanyal. Producers in the audience would do well to take Browntown's lessons to heart and offer some meaty roles—Hamlets, Cyranos, Willy Lomans—to these extraordinarily able young men.

Infertility, the musical that's hard to conceive
reviewed by Richard Hinojosa

Suppose you have 30 minutes to get to the fertility clinic with a freshly produced cup of warm semen that is tucked safely away in your front pocket but your talkative neighbor won’t let you go. “This sounds like an episode of Seinfeld,” points out composer/lyricist Chris Neuner in his hilarious new revue, Infertility: The Musical That’s Hard to Conceive, but it's not taken from TV, it’s taken from Neuner’s own real-life experience. If you are currently or have ever been through the process of in vitro fertilization or adoption, Infertility is an absolute must-see. You will laugh your head off as you turn to your partner and nod knowingly.

Neuner approaches his subject from three perspectives. First, we are introduced to a straight couple who are attempting to do it the “natural” way, if you can call scheduling sex according to ovulation natural. Eventually they give up on that and go for the costly and impersonal medical alternative. Next we have a lesbian couple who go through the rigors of picking the perfect sperm donor in a side-splitting dating game show with Gene Pool as the host. Finally, there is an executive-type single woman who realizes that a baby is the one thing she doesn’t have. She settles on adoption and is subjected to interrogation and a lot of hoop-jumping. Neuner’s multiple-angle approach lends the show more tenderness, inclusion, and of course more opportunities for humor.

The cast is a little six-member bundle of joy. Their voices are as strong as their stage presences. The three-piece band, including Neuner on electric bass and his wife and musical director, Amy, on piano, is nothing short of excellent. Neuner’s lyrics are heartfelt, hilarious, and sometimes campy, a combination that creates a sense that we are watching a future Broadway production here. However, in order to get to that point, the show will need to become more visually stimulating. Granted, for the purposes of the FringeNYC, it is understandable why a producer would choose to have no set and just a hint of costumes—but that is no reason to limit interesting movement. There are several songs in which Neuner masterfully mixes moving sentiment with humor such as the "Infertile Love Song" series, but for me there is not a song that really stands out as the show’s climactic peak. The second-to-last song, "Big Dogs Run," comes close, but it needs a little more punch.

Even if you have no experience with in vitro fertilization or adoption, Infertility, is definitely worth a look. In the end, Neuner’s ordeal with conception turns out to be a blessing to us all.

Project
reviewed by Jo Ann Rosen

Inevitably, when things are going swimmingly at work, someone steps in with a better idea. Rarely is the new idea an improvement, and all too often it entails a hidden agenda. Project, by first-time playwright Jon Elston, demonstrates the disintegration of the team and the importance of personal integrity when he throws four men into a boardroom that might as well be a coliseum.

In Project, there is not one hidden agenda, but four, and they become increasingly evident as the play unfolds. Like the title, the characters have no names. “A” (Phil Knoerzer) heads up the successful project, and readily admits that his inspiration comes from a woman he recruited for the assignment. Although she never physically appears, she is present throughout. And, of course, she must be, because it is this woman whom the others have conspired to remove from the project for various reasons. Knoerzer conveys the trustworthiness of a valued employee, the type every company says it wants to nurture. “B,” played with wide range (particularly when he softly seethes) by Tim Newell, comes on strong as the general manager and as a misogynist. “D” (Todd Benzin) is the desperate wannabe of the team: too eager to serve coffee and clueless as to the real agenda. Finally, he speaks, but with an integrity that has long left the room. “C” (Brian Riggs), who has manipulated all of them into doing the wrong thing for the wrong reasons, mocks him. Benzin brings convincing tentativeness to his role. Riggs, who must convey both team player and threatening antagonist, goes for the jugular, but not always with the measured confidence of an experienced con.

Writing in the tradition of David Mamet, Elston sprays enough generic mist on Project to make it a case study in a management training course, but adds sufficient humanity to his characters to demand empathy from the audience. The dialog moves at a crisp clip. His cross-conversations and multiple exchanges bring urgency and believability to the situation. Unlike Mamet, Elston circles around once too often, repeating rather than pushing the plot forward when it is finally time to reveal what is going on. Scott Behrend brings insight to his direction, tapping subtleties in all four men. The characters begin as an integrated team working on a successful project. They end broken, having sacrificed personal integrity for what looks like personal gain. What the characters gain is a sad lesson in loss.

Jasper Lake
reviewed by Leslie Bramm

The late Murray Kempton once wrote; “Critics are those who ride down the hill, after the battle has been fought, to shoot the wounded.” Before taking any pop shots at barrels of fish here, one must consider the following: When reviewing a FringeNYC play, you have to make certain allowances for the physical and/or emotional state of any given production. Ultimately the essence, the spirit of the play, is really the thing. That being said, I found Jasper Lake to be one big disappointment. John Kuntz has written a noir, of sorts, that resorts to trendy, familiar, thriller-film format. The first 30 minutes are extremely powerful, as he introduces his characters and the situations that later compel the plot. That’s why I am so disappointed with the rest of the evening. Let me backtrack a moment.

Jasper Lake is the story of two families, both with many skeletons in the closet. They are linked by infidelity, incest, murder, and the lake itself. The play opens with a young girl sitting in a bathtub. She hears voices (coming from the lake?). We hear the sound of a man drowning, then each character is introduced to us through highly theatrical dialogue that echoes from person to person. I was captivated and excited. After a brief and failed dinner party between the families, the play goes back to the lake. Here, Daddy seduces step-daughter, Daughter seduces Neighbor's Son, Daddy sleeps with Neighbor's Wife, Mommy has migraines, but watches the sex anyway through a pair of binoculars, Neighbor with penis issues tries to seduce Mommy, and is later seduced by Daughter. A murder happens that the playwright chooses to leave unresolved.

An ensemble of talented actors lift the text and Douglas Mercer’s direction was imaginative and kept the play moving along.

Jasper Lake has tremendous potential and is worth further drafts and deeper exploration. I hope Kuntz will consider taking his play to the next level. I would certainly consider seeing it again.

Saint Arlecchino
reviewed by Jeff Lewonczyk

Ah, commedia dell’arte, the earthy comedic art form of the people (albeit the Italian people of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries): what better tool with which to prod at the vanities and obsessions of the simultaneously funny/scary modern world we live in? After all, when performed with the proper combination of breakneck abandon, rigid mastery of craft, and perverse imagination, little presented on a stage can be more sublime.

And so I’ll get it out on the table: Saint Arlecchino, despite many promising moments, never quite reaches sublime. Nevertheless, it’s an admirable, ambitious effort, and a great introduction to some of the art form’s immortal stock characters and situations.

The piece’s ambition, truth be told, is one of its greatest obstacles Rather than focus on a single scenario, the script (lovingly constructed by Lynn Berg, who also plays Arlecchino) throws in everything but the cookery washbasin, never dwelling on any of its three main plots or dozen subplots long enough for the farcical machinations to carry much weight. The main catalyst of events is that Pantalone, the stingy patriarch, wishes to marry Rose, a lovely young woman who’s pledged herself to Jesus, and so decides to get himself elected Pope. Meanwhile, Pietro, a more suitable paramour, decides that the way to Rose’s heart is through sainthood, and so enlists the tutelage of the skeezy Saint Sithney to achieve his result. Meanwhile Arlecchino, Pantalone’s happy-go-lucky servant, also aspires to sainthood, in order to cash in on the easy life in heaven. Add to this the twenty-odd other characters who pop in and out of the action at various times, and you can see how the story might be a bit tricky to follow.

But as any commedia aficionado will tell you, plots are just a flimsy excuse to shuttle back and forth between the lazzi (Italian for “funny bits”). And under Eric Davis’s direction, it is these comic set pieces that give Saint Arlecchino its twisted comic momentum—pieces such as Arlecchino’s discovery (with St. Nicholas—yes, that one) of dead babies being sold as pork, and Pantalone’s attempts to drink a goblet of pus in order to win over the rabble. Though there are more pointed references to contemporary events (Il Capitano, a military blowhard, offers to help Pantalone by storming the Holy Land, unleashing a torrent of Rumsfeldisms in the process), it is the play’s more darkly whimsical moments that remind us how strange the world is, and how strange it’s always been.

Tying the piece together is Audrey Crabtree as Sister Betty, a brittle harridan of a nun who uses the examples of the characters to instruct the audience on proper morality. When commedia’s life-above-all spirit exposes the cracks in her acrid spirituality, she threatens, but doesn’t quite manage, to take the play hostage. Similarly, Saint Arlecchino’s flaws cannot prevent it from conveying its infectious attitude—a little more spontaneity, polish, and imagination might bring it within reach of the sublime.

The Last Detail
reviewed by Gyda Arber

Neil Genzlinger’s new musical adaptation of The Last Detail has an amazing cast, great music, a fabulous story, and one problem: it shouldn’t be a musical.

The play (based on the novel of the same name) follows the journey of Navy members Billy “Bad-Ass” (Mason Pettit) and “Mule” Mulhall (Kevin Mambo) as they transport young prisoner Meadows (Tom Shillue) from Norfolk to New Hampshire. Along the way they meet some interesting characters, see some great sights, and are forced to do some soul-searching about their blind loyalty to the Navy. The great music by Julia Darling and Andrew Sherman distracts from, instead of furthers the story, and many pieces feel as if they’re "trunk" songs, fitted into the gaps instead of being original pieces created specifically for this show. Despite the ill-fitting (but well-written) music, the script is fascinating, keeping the audience attentive and interested all the way through.

The cast is top-rate, and even includes a Tony nominee (the under-utilized Mary Testa), a rare sight in FringeNYC. Mason Pettit and Tom Shillue give good performances, but it is Kevin Mambo, in the role of Mule, who steals the show. Director Michael Weitz has obviously done a great job with the casting, leading his performers to some powerful performances.

I would love to see The Last Detail again, with all but the a capella and scene change music cut out. If the show is allowed to be an intermission-less play, which it seems to want to be, the story would be even more enthralling and much more effective.

Rome
reviewed by Jocelyn Szabo

Rome. What an auspicious title. Well, Rome lives up to its title and then some. Herman Daniel Farrell III has beautifully written and directed this modern political drama, in which two couples come together during the 2000 Florida recount. If it were not for a chance encounter on September 11th, the two couples would never see each other again. Ultimately they end up deeply embroiled in a political and personal custody battle over a child who is conceived during that chance encounter.

Farrell brilliantly uses these two couples and their circumstances as a means to question whether or not it is possible to reconcile irreconcilable differences; and if it is, then by what means—force, reason, or love. Farrell explores each as an option. At one point, Whit, who is by far the most right-winged of the four, is actually slapped by the mother of his child, then punched by her boyfriend, and finally kicked by his own wife as he writhes on the floor in pain. Does he deserve this? Perhaps, but finally, it is love that brings each character to a common place—to a place where they are able to reconcile their differences, personally and politically.

Whit’s inability to share a cookie, even when there is none for others, becomes more than a minor character flaw when he also refuses to share custody of his child. Through the baby’s mother, Jesse, he eventually comes to realize that sometimes living for love is better than retaining honor and so finally there is a defenselessness to him and a sense of hope for his character—and perhaps the world. Maybe Farrell is telling us that through love we may find peace—within ourselves and with each other.

The entire cast is extremely impressive. Of course, they have wonderful roles to play, but John Daggett, Alice Haining, Derek Lucci, Laura Marks, and Joseph Urla do a tremendous job of fully embodying their characters, successfully making them into more than representatives of particular political viewpoints. Lucci, in particular, is stunning. Though his character is arguably the most despicable, he still manages to make Whit human. His adamant beliefs and his confidence give him a vulnerability the others never achieve.

One of my only gripes with this fantastic play concerns the Chorus, played by Derek Du-Ane. As an audience member I am well aware that he is playing several parts (which he did very well); there is no need for him to wear a mask throughout most of the play. It is distracting and mildly alarming.

But that's a mere quibble. Congratulations to all involved on a fabulous job well done!

Dinner Party
reviewed by Hope Cartelli

Towards the end of Dinner Party, a production of REALMdanceproject from Austin, Texas, the hostess whines that she has no idea how it all went so wrong: “I had the best … everything!” She’s lamenting her dashed hopes for romance despite her well-placed dashes of paprika and cocoa among other ingredients in the numerous dishes she has offered her guests over the course of the evening. Meanwhile, I began to lament having to articulate my disappointment over what originally seemed to be a promising idea for a dance-theatre piece.

The feast of dance pieces (choreographed by various members of the ensemble) each correspond to a course in the evening’s meal and address the subconscious wants and fears of the party’s guests. Jessica (Rachael Lieck) is hosting a dinner party with the express goal of finding a man, a rich man to call her own. To better illustrate her desire, she performs a detached, almost instructional chair dance to the song “Big Spender” from Sweet Charity. Lieck’s minimal choreography tries to put a sarcastic cherry on top of the already biting sentiments of the famous tune and, as a result, the piece is stunted with no real dynamic arc to it.

The guests begin to arrive, including Terry, a nerd (Michelle Nance), She, a wallflower (Kristi Melton), and Krystal, a drunk (Molly Roy), among others. The men who attend the party remain nameless (except for Terry) and are portrayed by females. As Jessica makes her rounds and moves the party along, the guests break out intermittently to perform solos or group pieces, always on the theme of how tough love can be on the heart and the stomach. The relatively elementary emotions and humor the dance numbers explore don’t come close to the interesting depths I expected the group to go to. Instead of a fun, insightful look at how the mating game changes when people are asked to attend a formal affair, the pieces remain all surface and prettiness, as in the undercooked solo “She Comes in Colors,” in which the ultra-shy She attempts to come out of her shell. The dancers are technically adept but are unable to register a sincere level of emotional involvement in their moves. They are not helped by the uninspired original musical compositions of Jeff Rosenberg, who waters down techno with Enya-styled strains one minute and rips off the theme from Seinfeld (to not great effect) the next.

Including a piece entitled “Not Just Another Chair Dance,” which somehow manages to leave the world of the dinner party entirely to become a short lecture with movement on the importance of chairs (I’m still confused as to why it was even in this show), the remainder of Dinner Party never manages to pick up steam, and all that we are left with is a bunch of unintriguing loose ends. There is a great beginning to a show here and I recommend that REALMdanceproject head back to the cutting board to find it.

This Is Murphy's Law
reviewed by Paul Hagen

I’ll admit it. I expected comedy. From a show about everything that could possibly go wrong actually going wrong?—doesn’t that spell hijinx? In the end, no, not so much. There are a few bright spots in This Is Murphy's Law—jokes that actually hit the mark, situations that aren’t entirely cliché—but the majority of the show is a portrait of suffering so pointlessly depressing that it ultimately becomes annoying.

Jared Irwin plays protagonist Peter with what seems like optimism, an odd choice for a character who spends the play touting the truth of Murphy’s Law and watching his life spiral down the toilet. David Valento turned in my favorite performance of the evening as the amusing foreign entomologist-turned-plumber Dan Wilson, and Stephanie Polt as Peter’s unemployed neighbor proves an adequate sparring partner for him. Peter’s secretary is played by a woman who resembles Kirsten Dunst and tries very hard to make her character’s optimistic pabulum digestible (but whose name I do not know because the show had no programs and I didn’t catch her outside the theater). Ted White gives a big and blowsy performance as Peter’s misogynistic blowhard boss, but his latter turn as Peter’s aggravating doctor is more effective in its subtlety (i.e., not involving sexual molestation of golf equipment like the former.) Mandy Morgan plays Peter’s wife as a constantly-on-edge neurotic, which helps to distract from the her character’s general insipidity. Finally, poor Aaron Cook plays his put-upon-old-man-in-a-doctor’s-office-with-a-condition-worse-than-yours with an earnestness that makes you want to write a better part for him. In a better play.

Playwright Corby Ortmann might have done well to give the characters some arcs rather than setting them up as variations on pessimism and optimism and letting them vibrate against each other like water molecules in a Junior High diagram of steam. Director Liz Cody creates some lovely stage pictures, but I think someone forgot to tell her that, especially at FringeNYC, less is more and, yes, we could have figured out this scene was in a Doctor’s Office without the filing cabinet, the couch, the table, the chairs and the myriad other scenery that the actors spent ages dragging on and off.