Frigid 2009: habeas corpus

When Kim Harmon and her collaborators Denzil Meyers, Lauren Briggs, and Wilson Novitzki, ask you what you'd like to get rid of, they're not talking about our physical tendency to be consumerist pack rats. Instead, namedropping Kierkegaard, they're talking about what sort of habits, hindrances, and haunting memories we want to get past. It's PostSecret Live, performed with random musical strums on a guitar, weird renditions of the Beatles ("I'm So Tired"), and random koans ("ego is the keeper of my soul"). It's a loose collage of memories, from that of a man jerking off on a public bus ("mental rape") to a stranger's crazy, intrusive conversation while on the train. It's not that good, but it's at least interesting.

In avant-garde tradition, these thoughts are physicalized--blue tape is laid down to map out boundaries and keep out intrusions. (So are headphones.) Meyers becomes a saran-wrapped mummy, modeling the way in which we freeze--and how we need to find the strength to move on. An abstract scene in which a woman takes a hammer to her lover's gift is replayed with several variations, as we consider what it means to so casually throw something away. And, of course, actors speak over one another, theoretically showing the way everything happens all at once--that we do not live in little worlds of monologue bubbles.

There's a nice, heartfelt twist, but it doesn't stop the play from feeling rather preachy, nor does it help the various pieces coalesce into anything more than the amateur hour. The company is grasping for something, but by so easily throwing out anything--including audience-submitted information--they fall a little bit short.

Frigid 2009: Oens

Earnest as Wilson Loria is, it's not enough for his one-man show, Oens. His ideas are thinly developed, which makes things difficult for such a broad comparison--Columbus's trip to India (which inadvertently discovered America) is conflated with Bush's modern colonization of the Iraqi savages and also with Greek mythology (although only in name, like Athena Rice).

Loria's performance doesn't give us anything more specific: his ballooned costume and clownish makeup seem to reference a foreign culture that is never addressed by the play, and this translation gap even extends to some pantomimed scenes. Even if we correctly interpret his actions to involve scuba diving, we have no idea why he is doing so. (It did not help that his transitions were filled with awkward pauses or that there seemed to be technical problems with his sound cues.)

What was most compelling about Oens was Loria's post-show plea to the audience to remember the actual atrocities that had been committed by our government. Of course, his feeling the need to emphasize the "point" of his play only serves to further illustrate that there was never one to begin with.

metaDRAMA: What NOT To Do #1

John Russo, who has been serving as a sort of narrator tying these love stories together, gets the final vignette, “Untitled Short Play.” It’s the least satisfying of the pieces — writers should never write about the art of writing — but Mr. Russo makes it relatively painless.

- Neil Genzlinger, on Love/Stories (or, But You Will Get Used To It)

I'll try to avoid falling into the same trap as Mr. Genzlinger, but while James Bond has already taught us never to say never, critics should "never" say what the artist should (or should not) do. Our job is to point out what they did and, where possible, to provide context as to why they did it. On the more reviewer-y side of it, it's to say whether or not that worked. But it's lazy writing to say that an artist should have done something else instead--they took a risk, they experimented, and you're reviewing what they did. If you want to see them doing something else, doff your critic hat and go write that play.

Then again, Mr. Genzlinger could simply follow his own advice. Critics are, after all, writers, and any time he wishes to stop writing about the art of writing, he's welcome to do so.

metaDRAMA: Affiliation?

Producer Ken Davenport's got an interesting post up today about his new affiliates program for Altar Boyz--interesting, that is, because he's not the only person to start planning one of these. Chicago sent out some e-mails this weekend looking to recruit some razzling, dazzling shills. (As of now, I still refuse to post advertisements on this site, though I am always happy to run discounts for shows that I have seen or believe, based on past experience, are worth it.)

I said as much in the comment I left there, but I thought I'd broaden up the discussion to those who actually deal with marketing their shows in the off-off-Broadway community (or to those avid theatergoers who have to deal with constant e-blasts, coupons, and pop-up links). It's my personal belief that affiliate programs are bad, for they encourage positive reviews, corrupting underpaid critics (or newspapers) that see this as a perfectly acceptable form of income. After all, they might think, let the buyer beware.

If it were just a critic's personal credibility at stake, that'd be fine, but this whole process seems to be eroding criticism in general. After all, it becomes harder and harder to tell if a person is actually writing what they think or if they have been biased when such marketing schemes exist to continually cast opinions--fragile enough as they are--in doubt. Worse still is the effect agglomerates may have (like Critic-O-Meter) if the majority of critics are skewing the grade, causing the few "honest" ones to become outliers--or perceived as liars, soon to be out of a job. This last bit is one hell of an exaggeration--we're nowhere near that point (at least, not with the off-off-Broadway critics like Zinoman, Shaw, &c.)--but it does seem, a little frighteningly so, like where we're headed.

Chautauqua!

At last, it has happened. Entertainment--with its gaudy lights and drooling lechers--has triumphed, and Intellectualism--with its gaudy brilliance and drooling lectures--has been shown the door. There to chronicle the collapse of both folk and high culture and the rise of mass culture is our very own National Theater of the United States who, from burlap potato-sacks to velvety red curtains, have brought the old-fashioned Chautauqua Lecture Circuit back to life--Chautauqua!

This, at least, is the gist of James P. Stanley and Normandy Raven Sherwood's script, presented largely in lecture format by the cast (using absurd pseudonyms) and guest artists, like the writer Samantha Hunt's tale of Nikola Tesla ("The Most Forgotten Man") and the choreographed "Culture Debates" from Faye Driscoll. Much to the dismay of the ringleader Dick Pricey (James P. Stanley), the audience seems more interested in the humorous bits--a wacky discourse on subjective cartography (ah, for that life-affirming uncertainty) and a creative example of the food chain, from puppet paramecium to faux-bunraku foxes ("In the Mud"). Though Pricey does his best to stay the course, the Chautauqua ends up being deconstructed--it falls apart during a lively re-enactment of the Hamilton/Burr duel--as does Pricey himself, succumbing to a strip-show whilst surrounded by a trio of veiled, dancing legs.

Yehuda Duenya's presentation is a clever one: each segment is so focused (giddily at times) on its own seriousness that it takes a moment to notice the gradual paring away not just of the set but of the play's own sensibility. Each segment grows less intelligent and more entertaining (though rest assured, Dickey's initial monologue is filled with enough sly humor), particularly as we travel from the history of Wall Street (in Stuyvesant's era) to the flashy red lights of Times Square (pre-Giuliani). Only rarely are there awkward transitions (a wheelchair-bound soldier's monologue is just too sedentary); on the whole, Chautauqua! earns its exclamation point, for better and, intentionally, worse.