FRINGE: The Commission

For a play about war crimes, I found The Commission to be very light: fitting only in that the Dreamscape Theater didn't have to change their name to the Nightmare Theater to produce this. But although I found the backward narrative to be gimmicky and ineffective, and thought that three of the four scenes were obvious and far too straightforward to leave a mark, I want to use this space to applaud the one scene, a playlet, if you will, that did scar the viewer. In this scene, Paula (Susan Ferrara) and Karl (Patrick Melville) are at their most insidiously domestic: naked and sexed out, lying atop an opulent carpet, and blissfully adulterous. The war illustrated here is a battle of the sexes, and the undercurrent of the war crimes commission, of which Karl and Paula are a part of, ripples into their treatment of one another. As long as they can compromise without compromising their own positions, they are cheerful and besotted with one another. However, when it comes time to yield, Paula suddenly grows nasty, threatening to destroy Karl's career. In turn, and with very little prodding, Karl flips the situation back on Paula, dehumanizing her in the process. The subtle twist that seals the scene is the look on Ferrara's face as she yields to Karl's rape of her, as if she can somehow screw even this most bitter of defeats into something useful for herself. Worse still than her self-rationalization is the thought that perhaps she actually needs this as well: that's the graphic, thought-provoking theater that we need more of.

[Read on] [Also blogged by: Patrick]

bombs in your mouth

photo by: John Scott

****

bipolar/wej productions

THIS IS AN EXCELLENT FRINGE PRODUCTION. In this play a half sister returns home to Minnesota from New York for the death of her father and is immersed right back into toxic environment that the father had raised his two "poopers" in. The brother/sister chemistry between Cory Patrick and Cass Bugge could not have been any more authentic as they arm wrestled, played chugging games and were able to scream bitterly and bust each other up laughing all within the span of a single line. Their rich, scarily natural characterizations made this already well written play about figuring out what to do with the dead asshole's shit a top notch Fringe offering.

Also blogged by: [Patrick]

FRINGE: Freedom! And the Sticky End of Make-Believe

The catch to making universal theater or "inspiring international dialogue" is that you have to speak very broadly. In the case of Freedom! and the sticky end of make-believe, there's also a loss of nuance and intelligibility. Not that there isn't intelligence in Savannah Theatre Project's political cry; but Thom Pasculli's text is drowned out beneath the many theatrical experiments. A more focused director than Allison Talis might be able to call it Theater of the Absurd, but the work just comes across as a checklist: stilts, a pseudo duet (with an old recording of "Keep Young & Beautiful"), flashlights on a dark stage, physical repetition, distortion, roller skates, musical interludes (sax, oboe, tambourine), avant garde dances layered with sheets, and a teddy bear named God. What's good is some of the acting from the broad and excitable cast, but better (and stranger) satires have been made of war. There's--sadly--nothing here we haven't seen before.

The Other Side Of Darkness

A nearly relentless back and forth volley of bitter between a bankrupt gay playwright (apparently those huge Broadway hits of his youth that we keep hearing about don't bring in any licensing fees) and his screen actress wife (she's popular enough to be in competition with Meryl Streep for starring roles - my palm is still hot from laughing into it), this play's first act is full of the kind of pained tragic-glamorous sighs that used to be heaved in the '40s to indicate the more sophisticated agonies of the well-off. Oh darling, the suffering, how can we endure the suffering! The characters aren't convincing for a second (for instance Kristy Cates doesn't seem to realize that she's playing a Narcissist, which is understandable, considering that the playwright doesn't seem to realize he's trying to write one) and there are wearying, witless cliches when they spar where cutting zingers should be. The second act (which, excluding an epilogue, flashes back a couple of decades to their first meet-cute) is better and gives the actors the chance to show that they are playing humans rather than ice machines, but it's already too late: the Merrily We Roll Along-like reverse chronology has already forced the characters on us at their most aggressively unlikeable for over an hour before there's any reason to care about them. The play's one mitigating factor is that there's a third character, a Hollywood agent whose affair with the husband seems to span decades, whose chief purpose seems to be to provide comic relief. By default he also provides the play's only signs of real life. Rob Maitner, who plays him, is a miracle worker: everytime he makes an entrance the play rises from the dead.

The Commission

This absorbing new play at the Fringe Festival by Steven Fechter (The Woodsman) caught me by surprise: after the first scene I was sure I knew where it was going (political intrigue) and then it went somewhere else (sexual warfare) and then somewhere else again. That's not to say that the 95 minute one-act is aimless; to the contrary, it's sharp and lean and purposeful as the scenes play out in reverse chronological order. (I feel like a spoilsport to reveal the play's structure, but it's the most benign thing I can give away to indicate the drama's rigor and intelligence.) Set in an unnamed country (Yugoslavia?) during and after a brutal civil war in which many civilian women were raped and murdered, the play begins with what seems like the chance meeting between two women: an American who is entangled extramaritally with a prosecutor of war crimes, and a young student who fears that her fiance, a solider, is dead. The violence that we see on stage is mostly of the interpersonal kind, including an extended nude scene between the older couple that is harrowing in its frank depiction of warm intimacy turning cruel. Apart from the complaint that one of the actors is not up to the same level as the rest of the ensemble, this is a highly recommended production of a striking new play that is sure to linger in the memory of anyone who sees it. Most definitely a potential best-of-Fringe pick.

Scout's Honor

This cute, exactly-campy-enough comedy at the Fringe Festival, comprised of a sketch about the Boy Scouts (Snipe Hunt) and a longer and even funnier one about the Girls Scouts (Becky's Beaver), should get a special merit badge for its warmth: it aims to tickle with a light hand and it succeeds. The talented adult cast plays, with just an exception or two, kids of scouting age - the same actors are in both stories with changed-up genders when needed - and happily everyone has been led down the same trail where no one goes too far with the kid-traits. Each story centers comically on a Scout who can't fit in: in the first, it's a wussy gayboy who asks at campfire sing-a-long if anyone knows anything from Pippin, and in the second, it's a nerdgirl who can't get with the big beaver-hunting program. It's all good, not-exactly-clean fun, in which each of the able and amiable actors gets to strut his or her funny stuff front and center in at least one role. Two stand-outs: Robin Reed, whose inner monologue as a girl scout likening her crush on her galpal to a S'more (soft in the center, squashed by the hard graham-cracker reality) is the show's big "awwww" moment, and handsome Chris Caron who looks hot even in a girl scout uniform.