ZEN CABARET
Ba-a-a-a-a. It’ s the first sound in this quite magical mystery tour of Eastern philosophy and New Age mores conducted by Nina Rolle and her band of Rogue Elements. The Elements, a motley, disco-esque update of Shakespeare’s Rude Mechanicals, can keep a beat and carry a tune, though the harmonies are edgy, and the singers' commitment to them suspect. They leave you with the impression that at any moment any one of them, with little or no provocation could march happily and definitively offstage to their own drummer, never to be seen again.
Nevertheless, in they file, dazed and blinking in the light, the youngest kneeling in a wagon, a tiny piano perched on her furry ‘sheep’ back. Rolle, in sartorial silk, is playing a ludicrously repetitive ditty on the piano with one hand. Ludicrous, yet oddly beautiful. The piano is switched out for an accordian in a cheerful, deliberately clumsy exchange. And the bits of seemingly disconnected songs and gestures and colors and images begin weaving together to form a shimmery tapestry … that never quite tells a story or makes any particular sense, but always intrigues.
I’m not sure how to describe it. It is a surrealist painting in a pawn shop. It’s a paean to whimsy and sisterhood. It’s Dharma Bums on the road to nowhere. It’s “a contemplative burlesque”. That’s what Rolle has named it. That’s good enough for me.
This is a tongue in cheek send-up of meditation, therapy, and ritual scored to harmonically evocative melodies. Taking the piss out of dogma and the sheep who buy it, The Elements and Rolle make sure you’re don’t linger long in sentiment or meaning. “Don’t believe everything you hear” they caution early on. It’s a lesson we don’t have to worry about in this show.
“Here you can get your “consciousness raised to its upright and locked position.“ We sign on for the ride, and hope we’re being elevated to some higher plane.
This is a creation of Nina Rolle’s. She is talented and uncompromising, and her wistful “I think too much therefore I am too much’ probably says it all. This is a thinker with the soul of a poet and the spirit of a Buddha , the face of a Gibson Girl, the voice of a Siren, the heart of a woman. “Money wants love; Money wants to be asked nicely” That’s funny. And startling. So’s she.
“There are days when nothing escapes my critical eye. Nothing.” We laugh at the intoned delivery. And shiver at the relevance to our own lives .. as Seer’s and the Seen. Nina knows Buddhism and New Age psychology .. and her audience .. and she’ll have of it what she wants.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Chiche Capon
CHICHE CAPON
“To be funny is to have been where agony was.”
I have this quote on the bulletin board above my desk. I forget where it’s from. I love it. And I love Chiche. Probably because they’re in such agony.
This is clowning at its funniest, most simple and truthful, and most agonizing. Of course there will be no Beauty. Not the beauty Firmin envisions. And his final realization of that will just about break his … neck.
We don’t love these guys b/c they cant create Beauty. We love them b/c they are Beauty. We do plug for them to create Beauty, even as we hope they wont. If they do, the game is over, and we love watching them play it. But even more so, if they do create Beauty, we’ll feel cheated. We’ve come to see that Beauty is already onstage. In the mess of it all. In the unrelenting crash and burn and recovering mess of it all, the human spirit perseveres, and that’s Beauty. And if that’s Beauty, - and we see that it is, - then maybe we boobs in the audience have a crack at it too.
When finally each member of this ragtag crew has its turn at virtuosity .. when Firmin’s juggling pin act is timed out perfectly to Ricardo’s music. And Flash does his dance. And Philippe .. oh god … who has never stopped defying gravity in the first place, shows us how accurately he has simulated an otter. And Ricardo sings his song. Finally our hearts, and our necks, are relieved of their pain. The game has become a hymn. And we can go home.
Who would these guys be without each other? Other than odd and alone? Can you imagine Philippe and his otter without Firmin Crapette to be upstaged and undone by it? Or Flash without Patrick to ignore him or Firmin to insult and abuse him? Or Ricardo to tolerate and befriend him? And why does Ricardo stick around? At first he seems the most normal of the bunch .. until we discover his virtuosity is largely pre-recorded. And that he is non-plussed by the deception.
This is the silliest stuff that e’er you’ll see. And the perfect comic team .. these odd fellows .. holding on tight to each other even as they provoke and torment each other to the brink of annihilation. But how else will they take us to the brink of our own vast capacity for the same? These heavenly co-dependents .. grist for each other’s mills .. reflecting all of our agonies and the ecstasies in a single bound.
Last year I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. This year was different. A darker slower tone to it all. Beauty seemed an impossibility from the start. Dressed in his salmon robe and ridiculous blue soldiers hat (an ersatz helmet left over from some regiment that pulled out of town in the 19th c), Firmin’s knee-to-the-chest prance which convulses through his body each time he contemplates the arrival of Beauty is so funny and stupid I cant think about it without laughing. Last year the imminence of Beauty’s arrival kept occurring to Firmin. It took him over in waves .. over and over again. Each wave more deliriously happy than the next. And then as each wave of happy anticipation crashed .. on the shores of Philippe’s flying otter or Flash’s ill-timed and useless entrances, Firmin’s despair/fury/collapse sent us into paroxysms of laughter. I missed those highs this year. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but somewhere in the thrashing from one extreme to another, I was sent on a journey I didn’t go on this year.
What struck me this year, and what I found equally compelling though not as thrilling as last year, was the time they took between games. They are so easy with Stillness. So content to wait. And as they stand there waiting, looking, for the next game, they are looking at us .. mirrors reflecting us back to ourselves. On their faces we see we are no different than they. From the particular to the universal in a simple gaze that seems to say: “I know you understand my agony. I see yours. You see mine.”
So … that means you know we see your Beauty as well? And you see ours?
“..what visions have I seen?
Methought I was enamor’d of an ass.” Or an otter.
We laugh at the agony of it all.
“To be funny is to have been where agony was.”
I have this quote on the bulletin board above my desk. I forget where it’s from. I love it. And I love Chiche. Probably because they’re in such agony.
This is clowning at its funniest, most simple and truthful, and most agonizing. Of course there will be no Beauty. Not the beauty Firmin envisions. And his final realization of that will just about break his … neck.
We don’t love these guys b/c they cant create Beauty. We love them b/c they are Beauty. We do plug for them to create Beauty, even as we hope they wont. If they do, the game is over, and we love watching them play it. But even more so, if they do create Beauty, we’ll feel cheated. We’ve come to see that Beauty is already onstage. In the mess of it all. In the unrelenting crash and burn and recovering mess of it all, the human spirit perseveres, and that’s Beauty. And if that’s Beauty, - and we see that it is, - then maybe we boobs in the audience have a crack at it too.
When finally each member of this ragtag crew has its turn at virtuosity .. when Firmin’s juggling pin act is timed out perfectly to Ricardo’s music. And Flash does his dance. And Philippe .. oh god … who has never stopped defying gravity in the first place, shows us how accurately he has simulated an otter. And Ricardo sings his song. Finally our hearts, and our necks, are relieved of their pain. The game has become a hymn. And we can go home.
Who would these guys be without each other? Other than odd and alone? Can you imagine Philippe and his otter without Firmin Crapette to be upstaged and undone by it? Or Flash without Patrick to ignore him or Firmin to insult and abuse him? Or Ricardo to tolerate and befriend him? And why does Ricardo stick around? At first he seems the most normal of the bunch .. until we discover his virtuosity is largely pre-recorded. And that he is non-plussed by the deception.
This is the silliest stuff that e’er you’ll see. And the perfect comic team .. these odd fellows .. holding on tight to each other even as they provoke and torment each other to the brink of annihilation. But how else will they take us to the brink of our own vast capacity for the same? These heavenly co-dependents .. grist for each other’s mills .. reflecting all of our agonies and the ecstasies in a single bound.
Last year I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. This year was different. A darker slower tone to it all. Beauty seemed an impossibility from the start. Dressed in his salmon robe and ridiculous blue soldiers hat (an ersatz helmet left over from some regiment that pulled out of town in the 19th c), Firmin’s knee-to-the-chest prance which convulses through his body each time he contemplates the arrival of Beauty is so funny and stupid I cant think about it without laughing. Last year the imminence of Beauty’s arrival kept occurring to Firmin. It took him over in waves .. over and over again. Each wave more deliriously happy than the next. And then as each wave of happy anticipation crashed .. on the shores of Philippe’s flying otter or Flash’s ill-timed and useless entrances, Firmin’s despair/fury/collapse sent us into paroxysms of laughter. I missed those highs this year. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment, but somewhere in the thrashing from one extreme to another, I was sent on a journey I didn’t go on this year.
What struck me this year, and what I found equally compelling though not as thrilling as last year, was the time they took between games. They are so easy with Stillness. So content to wait. And as they stand there waiting, looking, for the next game, they are looking at us .. mirrors reflecting us back to ourselves. On their faces we see we are no different than they. From the particular to the universal in a simple gaze that seems to say: “I know you understand my agony. I see yours. You see mine.”
So … that means you know we see your Beauty as well? And you see ours?
“..what visions have I seen?
Methought I was enamor’d of an ass.” Or an otter.
We laugh at the agony of it all.
Under the Skiff
UNDER THE SKIFF
What a beautifully conceived and realized production. Starting with the conceit that we in the audience were fellow immigrants in the waiting room through to the final, astonishingly poignant group project as we all constructed our own paper boats, this show, by turns, inspired me, delighted and surprised me, and brought me to tears.
What a perfect alignment of technique with content. Playing with rhythm, gesture, timing .. with space and object, escalations and imagery .. these two highly-skilled, sympathetic actors sweep us from one game to the next with play so organic and seamless it feels like sleight of hand. When the games shift from simple child’s play to complex psychological real-life situations, as in the transformation of one clown into an abusive interrogator, or the competition between the two for first place in line which involves tearing up a dollar bill, what is stunning is not just the impact of the event itself, but the fact that it has been accomplished without ever leaving the realm of clown logic.
And those little boats “that had babies” laid out like a perspective drawing, receding into the distance .. or were they emerging out of the past, reaching toward this new shore .. our ancestors, our lineages … all the immigrants longing for entry. What an image! And finally we are all folding paper together .. like breaking bread … we have become a community of souls-at-sea searching for the same port.
There was a purity here, a deep, almost reverent understanding of clownesque sensibility and urgency. Content to play into the silences, to work a moment for its depth, rather than to milk it for its laughs, when the laughs came they were earned and deep. Nothing was sentimental or gratuitous. The games these clowns played were literally a matter of survival. And we believed every moment.
This was Clown taken to the level of poetry. The clown as poet, and sage, and fellow traveler. It was a tribute not just to these beautiful young performers, but to the spirit and the craft of Clown.
What a beautifully conceived and realized production. Starting with the conceit that we in the audience were fellow immigrants in the waiting room through to the final, astonishingly poignant group project as we all constructed our own paper boats, this show, by turns, inspired me, delighted and surprised me, and brought me to tears.
What a perfect alignment of technique with content. Playing with rhythm, gesture, timing .. with space and object, escalations and imagery .. these two highly-skilled, sympathetic actors sweep us from one game to the next with play so organic and seamless it feels like sleight of hand. When the games shift from simple child’s play to complex psychological real-life situations, as in the transformation of one clown into an abusive interrogator, or the competition between the two for first place in line which involves tearing up a dollar bill, what is stunning is not just the impact of the event itself, but the fact that it has been accomplished without ever leaving the realm of clown logic.
And those little boats “that had babies” laid out like a perspective drawing, receding into the distance .. or were they emerging out of the past, reaching toward this new shore .. our ancestors, our lineages … all the immigrants longing for entry. What an image! And finally we are all folding paper together .. like breaking bread … we have become a community of souls-at-sea searching for the same port.
There was a purity here, a deep, almost reverent understanding of clownesque sensibility and urgency. Content to play into the silences, to work a moment for its depth, rather than to milk it for its laughs, when the laughs came they were earned and deep. Nothing was sentimental or gratuitous. The games these clowns played were literally a matter of survival. And we believed every moment.
This was Clown taken to the level of poetry. The clown as poet, and sage, and fellow traveler. It was a tribute not just to these beautiful young performers, but to the spirit and the craft of Clown.
Burnt Umber
BURNT UMBER
I wasn’t quite sure what world we were in here. Genre-wise or content-wise. We began with Clown .. on an empty stage. One of the clowns was so frightened of the audience, and so new to this whole concept of being in front of one, that she retreated. When she returned, she was so frightened she couldn’t peel herself off the wall without the counsel and encouragement of her more feisty, forward partner. Which was fun. And quite beautiful. The whole entrance bit was nice. And these two young women were beautiful to watch.
Then suddenly we’re in rush hour (I think), pushing around a mound of melted electronic gadgets and bits of office paraphernalia (which quite surprisingly and expertly breaks apart on cue later in the show). Then we arrive at an office and we’re in two separate cubicles (I think) and these two friends who needed and trusted each other so much on their arrival moments ago, now apparently don’t know each other. Or maybe they’re playing a bunch of different characters. I don’t know.
I’m not sure who these characters were, or why, after the opening beats, they were wearing red noses. How can a character, who would have us believe that she believes she can hear her friend through the plug-end of a phone line, be smart enough to quote Shakespeare accurately and at exactly the right moment in the show? Once you’ve put that red nose on you’ve pretty much made a contract with innocence and the single-minded pursuit of the absurd. I don’t care how smart a Clown is .. even if it can memorize a couple lines of iambic pentameter, it has got to mis-use the language. Bottom’s “I have an exposition of sleep come over me” springs instantly to mind.
The clowns who arrived at the top of the show weren’t the people speaking Shakespeare. Or the secretaries shouting at each other over the mound. So … as I said, I’m not quite sure what, or who, I was watching. The child laughing at the chaos of the cascading rubber bands was a welcome relief though, and a sign that there was fun in this universe, even if it wasn’t a clown’s.
I wasn’t quite sure what world we were in here. Genre-wise or content-wise. We began with Clown .. on an empty stage. One of the clowns was so frightened of the audience, and so new to this whole concept of being in front of one, that she retreated. When she returned, she was so frightened she couldn’t peel herself off the wall without the counsel and encouragement of her more feisty, forward partner. Which was fun. And quite beautiful. The whole entrance bit was nice. And these two young women were beautiful to watch.
Then suddenly we’re in rush hour (I think), pushing around a mound of melted electronic gadgets and bits of office paraphernalia (which quite surprisingly and expertly breaks apart on cue later in the show). Then we arrive at an office and we’re in two separate cubicles (I think) and these two friends who needed and trusted each other so much on their arrival moments ago, now apparently don’t know each other. Or maybe they’re playing a bunch of different characters. I don’t know.
I’m not sure who these characters were, or why, after the opening beats, they were wearing red noses. How can a character, who would have us believe that she believes she can hear her friend through the plug-end of a phone line, be smart enough to quote Shakespeare accurately and at exactly the right moment in the show? Once you’ve put that red nose on you’ve pretty much made a contract with innocence and the single-minded pursuit of the absurd. I don’t care how smart a Clown is .. even if it can memorize a couple lines of iambic pentameter, it has got to mis-use the language. Bottom’s “I have an exposition of sleep come over me” springs instantly to mind.
The clowns who arrived at the top of the show weren’t the people speaking Shakespeare. Or the secretaries shouting at each other over the mound. So … as I said, I’m not quite sure what, or who, I was watching. The child laughing at the chaos of the cascading rubber bands was a welcome relief though, and a sign that there was fun in this universe, even if it wasn’t a clown’s.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
RED BASTARD
RED BASTARD
“Who ARE you? No, no!! not your name! Who ARE YOOOOUUUUU??”
The question skewers an audience member against the back of his seat. Then it skewers the entire audience. And is followed with a leer from ear to ear .. and a laugh which veers somewhere between a cough and a snicker. Ha!
We don’t have to answer. The Red Bastard knows that. And he knows you think he’s red and fat and in your face. Because he is! Ha! Because that’s where the truth belongs. Ha! And he’s here to show you all the ways … well, at least 10 .. maybe 9 .. faster … 8,7,6,5,4,3 … ways to delude yourself … into thinking you’re SOMEBODY. Or ANYBODY.
Oh wait! The Bastard hasn’t come to insult us. He’s come to wake us up. Get the carrot out of your ear folks! Big Brother is watching you, and he aint a casting agent.
Eric Davis’ Red Bastard has to be the funniest, most original, most outrageous solo performer in this country today. He’s huge. He’s smart. And he’s classic Bouffon.
Don’t take him on. Or you’ll be thrown out of the theatre. Or forced to stick your hand into … yup, INto … his horrifyingly huge red ass … the size of which is matched only by the size of his mouth .. out of which pour insults and obscenities in a non-stop barrage of fact, opinion, conjecture, assumption, observation, premonition .. and …the Truth. The Truth … that is big, red, and in your face.
That’s funny. And disgusting. And the Red Bastard.
The Red Bastard is a cross between Lenny Bruce, Jackie Gleason, Don Imus .. and Mother Teresa. Nothing’s out of bounds and the sky’s the limit. He’s unstintingly candid, there’s no sentimental drivel, and he fell asleep listening to an audience member’s dream of a perfect life (to own a horse, feed it carrots, talk to it … ). Had Eric not been heading down the home stretch at the time of this exchange, there was enough fodder here to warrant a half hour’s worth evisceration of cockamamie, illusion … and 21st C. loneliness.
Racing at breakneck speed to the finish line, Eric reveals his razor-edge wit and intelligence. He’s done his homework and the facts are chilling. Police surveillance cameras that not only see you , but hear you. He laughs. At last you can be sure your voice will be heard. Davis always finds a way to spin the truly grotesque into humor.
Ah, we the people. We’ll laugh ourselves silly if left to our own devices.
It’s futile. Don’t bother dreaming .. in his presence anyway. Dreams are illusions, and as such, subject to derision and mockery. Stop believing in fantasy. This is a Zen Master in Dr Dentens. Get real. Life doesn’t suck. It’s you who are confusing a blow job with Nirvana. Or Democracy with Equality. Ha! Leave it to this fat-assed Bastard to tell us there will be no surveillance cameras on Wall St. They’ll all be in the Bronx.
Words words words. This Bastard is all talk .. and we love it.
We know he’s right. It’s true. We don’t know who we are. But somehow learning this from the Bastard doesn’t destroy us. We are elevated. Happy! Free!! Of our bullshit. The Red Bastard strung it up. Exposed it. Laughed at it. Embraced it. Loudly, madly, gleefully.
Now it’s out … and we’re laughing at his exuberance. We surrender our idols … our fantasies, our deceptions, our desires .. lay them happily at his feet and stumble stunned out of the theatre. Unburdened. And flattered to have been ‘seen’.
Albeit by a fat-assed Bastard.
“Who ARE you? No, no!! not your name! Who ARE YOOOOUUUUU??”
The question skewers an audience member against the back of his seat. Then it skewers the entire audience. And is followed with a leer from ear to ear .. and a laugh which veers somewhere between a cough and a snicker. Ha!
We don’t have to answer. The Red Bastard knows that. And he knows you think he’s red and fat and in your face. Because he is! Ha! Because that’s where the truth belongs. Ha! And he’s here to show you all the ways … well, at least 10 .. maybe 9 .. faster … 8,7,6,5,4,3 … ways to delude yourself … into thinking you’re SOMEBODY. Or ANYBODY.
Oh wait! The Bastard hasn’t come to insult us. He’s come to wake us up. Get the carrot out of your ear folks! Big Brother is watching you, and he aint a casting agent.
Eric Davis’ Red Bastard has to be the funniest, most original, most outrageous solo performer in this country today. He’s huge. He’s smart. And he’s classic Bouffon.
Don’t take him on. Or you’ll be thrown out of the theatre. Or forced to stick your hand into … yup, INto … his horrifyingly huge red ass … the size of which is matched only by the size of his mouth .. out of which pour insults and obscenities in a non-stop barrage of fact, opinion, conjecture, assumption, observation, premonition .. and …the Truth. The Truth … that is big, red, and in your face.
That’s funny. And disgusting. And the Red Bastard.
The Red Bastard is a cross between Lenny Bruce, Jackie Gleason, Don Imus .. and Mother Teresa. Nothing’s out of bounds and the sky’s the limit. He’s unstintingly candid, there’s no sentimental drivel, and he fell asleep listening to an audience member’s dream of a perfect life (to own a horse, feed it carrots, talk to it … ). Had Eric not been heading down the home stretch at the time of this exchange, there was enough fodder here to warrant a half hour’s worth evisceration of cockamamie, illusion … and 21st C. loneliness.
Racing at breakneck speed to the finish line, Eric reveals his razor-edge wit and intelligence. He’s done his homework and the facts are chilling. Police surveillance cameras that not only see you , but hear you. He laughs. At last you can be sure your voice will be heard. Davis always finds a way to spin the truly grotesque into humor.
Ah, we the people. We’ll laugh ourselves silly if left to our own devices.
It’s futile. Don’t bother dreaming .. in his presence anyway. Dreams are illusions, and as such, subject to derision and mockery. Stop believing in fantasy. This is a Zen Master in Dr Dentens. Get real. Life doesn’t suck. It’s you who are confusing a blow job with Nirvana. Or Democracy with Equality. Ha! Leave it to this fat-assed Bastard to tell us there will be no surveillance cameras on Wall St. They’ll all be in the Bronx.
Words words words. This Bastard is all talk .. and we love it.
We know he’s right. It’s true. We don’t know who we are. But somehow learning this from the Bastard doesn’t destroy us. We are elevated. Happy! Free!! Of our bullshit. The Red Bastard strung it up. Exposed it. Laughed at it. Embraced it. Loudly, madly, gleefully.
Now it’s out … and we’re laughing at his exuberance. We surrender our idols … our fantasies, our deceptions, our desires .. lay them happily at his feet and stumble stunned out of the theatre. Unburdened. And flattered to have been ‘seen’.
Albeit by a fat-assed Bastard.
Monday, October 15, 2007
NO PLACE LIKE HOME
No Place Like Home
Or so Rob Torres would have us believe. He arrived with his suitcase – cheerful, confident, earnest. We liked him immediately, and happily followed him into the house he created out of masking tape, a rope, a hanger, a couple pieces of cloth, and whimsy.
But a house it remained .. never a home. This was a place without complication or resonance. A sunny universe where every problem was met with the same emotional value, and solved with the same ease and almost glib dismissal of its stakes. It reminded me of the slogan on my Republican brother-in-law’s potholders when he was running for re-election several years ago: “No problem too big to handle.”
I would have liked to see Rob have a problem that WAS too big to handle .. and the ensuing acknowledgement of it. Or at least an emotional investment in the solution! But nothing cost him. Nothing seemed to penetrate deeper than the temporary itch of a mosquito. So we as an audience ourselves came away itching .. for something a little deeper, richer .. something more akin to ‘home’.
This was a show that was for me more vaudevillian than clownesque .. a series of acts all of equal magnitude, all proficient and fun, all entertaining, but of little consequence. It was satisfying, but slight. And never surprising (except for the ladder which augured into the wall of the stage apron and elicited the biggest laugh of the evening.)
Rob is clearly a talented, accomplished actor. He has a warm, open presence and an easy rapport with the audience. I wonder what will happen when he tires of simple antics and anecdotes, and decides to take those skills into a more meaningful context.
Or so Rob Torres would have us believe. He arrived with his suitcase – cheerful, confident, earnest. We liked him immediately, and happily followed him into the house he created out of masking tape, a rope, a hanger, a couple pieces of cloth, and whimsy.
But a house it remained .. never a home. This was a place without complication or resonance. A sunny universe where every problem was met with the same emotional value, and solved with the same ease and almost glib dismissal of its stakes. It reminded me of the slogan on my Republican brother-in-law’s potholders when he was running for re-election several years ago: “No problem too big to handle.”
I would have liked to see Rob have a problem that WAS too big to handle .. and the ensuing acknowledgement of it. Or at least an emotional investment in the solution! But nothing cost him. Nothing seemed to penetrate deeper than the temporary itch of a mosquito. So we as an audience ourselves came away itching .. for something a little deeper, richer .. something more akin to ‘home’.
This was a show that was for me more vaudevillian than clownesque .. a series of acts all of equal magnitude, all proficient and fun, all entertaining, but of little consequence. It was satisfying, but slight. And never surprising (except for the ladder which augured into the wall of the stage apron and elicited the biggest laugh of the evening.)
Rob is clearly a talented, accomplished actor. He has a warm, open presence and an easy rapport with the audience. I wonder what will happen when he tires of simple antics and anecdotes, and decides to take those skills into a more meaningful context.
BOUFFON GLASS MENAJOREE
BOUFFON GLASS MENAJOREE
This is high stakes, take-no-prisoners, in your face, screamingly funny, shockingly repulsive, undeniably powerful theatre at its most inspired, smart, and enlightened. You better exit the Wingfields house through the set-piece door because even a momentary lapse in illusion could cost you your “stabber.”
I have never seen anything quite like this in my life. Ever.
What a trio! This was a true jazz fest! A feast of solo virtuosic riffs interspersed amid transcendent group orchestration. The actors are as pitch perfect in their individual performances as they are as an ensemble. To play to extremis on a dime, without losing your credibility or humor is genius acting. And these three actors are genius. So is the direction. Davis has struck a perfect balance between the grotesque and the absurd, and though there are certainly moments that are repulsive, they are never offensive, or in bad taste. Perhaps because he has chosen to punctuate this world with moments of spot-on physical and verbal choreography, we are continually reminded that we are in the hands of artists, and so never far from the sublime.
Bouffon so often sags under the weight of its social commentary, or righteous indignation at the affronteries it is lampooning, that it loses its buoyance and becomes a pedantic harangue we can hardly bear to watch. But there is nothing heavy in this grotesque world. And so we watch it. Lap it up. Let it in. How else do we sit happily watching Laura in a hospital johnny wearing nothing but adult Pampers and nipple cups, ( or whatever you call whatever those were), and changing her crippled leg from right to left with an impunity that’s as funny as it is startling. Or mother, for whom tidying up for the guests means to sweep all the dreck down between your voluminous breasts, eat a stick of butter, smear it on your chest, and slap your daughter around a little, while brother challenges the audience to give him a blow job and then humps his sister.
Why would anyone do this to an American masterpiece? Because, as Walter Kerr once wrote: “Comedy scratches freely [in public] in order to add the last necessary ounce of truth.” It’s probably best we keep those truths to ourselves ..which is why it sure feels good, and right, to laugh about them in a crowd of fellow scratchers .. or, to again quote Kerr, “boobs of a feather.”
And the Gentleman Caller! Let’s just say that this is the best audience participation show I have ever been to. Jim should always be a volunteer (volunteer? maybe, hostage is more accurate) from the audience. What better way to underscore the difference in worlds. And the awkwardness of a first date. The abiding image for me from the production, and the one which feels like a perfect metaphor for our experience of the production, is of Jim, the Gentleman Caller ringing the “doorbell.” Standing obediently with his index finger outstretched, as instructed by the lascivious, deliriously repulsive and hysterically funny “Tom”, he pumps it back and forth through the little “o” which Tom has made with his own index finger and thumb. “Jim’s” disgust that he is doing this is surpassed only by his disbelief which in turn is surpassed only by his delight .. and which again is surpassed only by ours!
My god! These guys did exactly as they cautioned they would: “If you go with us, there’s no going back!” No going back? Yippee! Who wants to? This is the true Menagerie! We recognize this family as our own … with the lid, and the music off. I’m ruined. I never want to see a ‘normal’ production of Glass Menagerie again.
This is high stakes, take-no-prisoners, in your face, screamingly funny, shockingly repulsive, undeniably powerful theatre at its most inspired, smart, and enlightened. You better exit the Wingfields house through the set-piece door because even a momentary lapse in illusion could cost you your “stabber.”
I have never seen anything quite like this in my life. Ever.
What a trio! This was a true jazz fest! A feast of solo virtuosic riffs interspersed amid transcendent group orchestration. The actors are as pitch perfect in their individual performances as they are as an ensemble. To play to extremis on a dime, without losing your credibility or humor is genius acting. And these three actors are genius. So is the direction. Davis has struck a perfect balance between the grotesque and the absurd, and though there are certainly moments that are repulsive, they are never offensive, or in bad taste. Perhaps because he has chosen to punctuate this world with moments of spot-on physical and verbal choreography, we are continually reminded that we are in the hands of artists, and so never far from the sublime.
Bouffon so often sags under the weight of its social commentary, or righteous indignation at the affronteries it is lampooning, that it loses its buoyance and becomes a pedantic harangue we can hardly bear to watch. But there is nothing heavy in this grotesque world. And so we watch it. Lap it up. Let it in. How else do we sit happily watching Laura in a hospital johnny wearing nothing but adult Pampers and nipple cups, ( or whatever you call whatever those were), and changing her crippled leg from right to left with an impunity that’s as funny as it is startling. Or mother, for whom tidying up for the guests means to sweep all the dreck down between your voluminous breasts, eat a stick of butter, smear it on your chest, and slap your daughter around a little, while brother challenges the audience to give him a blow job and then humps his sister.
Why would anyone do this to an American masterpiece? Because, as Walter Kerr once wrote: “Comedy scratches freely [in public] in order to add the last necessary ounce of truth.” It’s probably best we keep those truths to ourselves ..which is why it sure feels good, and right, to laugh about them in a crowd of fellow scratchers .. or, to again quote Kerr, “boobs of a feather.”
And the Gentleman Caller! Let’s just say that this is the best audience participation show I have ever been to. Jim should always be a volunteer (volunteer? maybe, hostage is more accurate) from the audience. What better way to underscore the difference in worlds. And the awkwardness of a first date. The abiding image for me from the production, and the one which feels like a perfect metaphor for our experience of the production, is of Jim, the Gentleman Caller ringing the “doorbell.” Standing obediently with his index finger outstretched, as instructed by the lascivious, deliriously repulsive and hysterically funny “Tom”, he pumps it back and forth through the little “o” which Tom has made with his own index finger and thumb. “Jim’s” disgust that he is doing this is surpassed only by his disbelief which in turn is surpassed only by his delight .. and which again is surpassed only by ours!
My god! These guys did exactly as they cautioned they would: “If you go with us, there’s no going back!” No going back? Yippee! Who wants to? This is the true Menagerie! We recognize this family as our own … with the lid, and the music off. I’m ruined. I never want to see a ‘normal’ production of Glass Menagerie again.
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