Alice in Slasherland

Photo/Jim Baldassare

Vampire Cowboys Theatre's latest, Alice in Slasherland, is about as scary as the Vincent Price special on Saturday Night Live--but it's a whole hell of a lot funnier. Writer Qui Nguyen and director Robert Ross Parker have been refining their "geek-chic" shows over the last several years (Men of Steel, Fight Girl Battle World, Soul Samurai), and at this point, they can do no wrong. At least, not for their audiences: if you don't like pop culture references getting mixed with your martial arts and you don't want to see bad-ass puppets putting the moves on fetish-friendly girls, this isn't for you. Their olio of a show is best summed up by their winking acknowledgments that "this play does not resemble [Alice's Adventures in Wonderland] in the least bit, not even in theme." After all, like their traditional stop-motion interludes (which in this case flit through The Wizard of Oz meets Hamlet in Star Wars pulling off Die Hard resulting in Waterworld), Vampire Cowboys will not be restrained, not even by their own genre.

Accordingly, the show opens in pitch darkness, with Alice (Amy Kim Waschke) running through rain-soaked woods with a flashlight, streaks of lightning revealing her pursuer, Jacob (Tom Myers), or Leatherface with rabbit ears. Just as quickly, the action jumps to the vlog of a Wolverine-costumed fanboy, Lewis (Carlo Alban), who is talking himself up to put the Barry White smoothness on his best-friend/crush, Margaret (Bonnie Sherman), when he takes her to the slutty Halloween party of Tina (Andrea Marie Smith). Then, as if Alice showing up to save Lewis from a mugger weren't enough, Nguyen cuts to five days later, showing us exactly how "so not okay" things turn out: Big Bad demons have arrived, ala Buffy, and after these Tweedledee- and Dum-ish monsters quickly bloody the stage, then get bloodied themselves by Alice, setting things up with witty rejoinders like these: "Violence tastes yummy."

Complaints about Alice in Slasherland are only in comparison to the other work of Vampire Cowboys Theatre: Nguyen's fight sequences are actually upstaged this go-around by Jessica Shay's terrific costumes. Where previous sequences tackled Hollywood effects--with multiple camera angles, sword-fights--the kung-fu is blunter here, though that could be because our nerdy heroes aren't exactly tough guys. That said, the fights are still sold by their excellent music and design (thanks, Shane Rettig), and by the cast, in particular Sheldon Best, who spends the majority of the play finding ways for the teddy-bear demon Edgar (Shaft meets Teddy Ruxpin) to put his fur where his mouth is. (David Valentine's single-rod design is bringing the puppet-equivalent of sexy back.) Their aesthetic also makes it difficult to go too far: the decision to have Jacob use his machete to "play" the solo on "Total Eclipse of the Heart" after a particularly campy montage of deaths ("Turn around...") brought down the house, but in a cheap shock-value way.

Then again, it's too self-aware to be "cheap," and the cast is so into it that they're able to incorporate gag-reel content directly into the show, always squirting a couple extra pints of stage blood for good measure. (Some of the right-in-front-of-your-eyes blood effects are akin to those of the short-lived Evil Dead: The Musical.) There's even a Broadway number from a latex-clad Lucifer (Smith), and who doesn't think Damn Yankees could use a few extra gallons of blood? You don't really go to see something by Vampire Cowboys expecting a consistent or even necessarily coherent plot: you go because they're motherfucking crazy serious deadly funny, and Alice in Slasherland delivers.

Rudolf II

Rudolf II sounds like the sort of history play Shakespeare would have written: a troubled, unconventional monarch driven to his downfall by an addled addiction to the arts--a rich Bohemian. If he had, it might have been lyrically epic. Instead, he left it to Edward Einhorn, a modern, entirely too conventional writer whose play is driven to its downfall by an addiction to the arts. This blunt presentation, by Untitled Theater Company 61, is too bogged down by historical circumstance and flat exposition to illuminate the depths of an artistic, tortured soul. Rudolf II (Timothy McCown Reynolds) opens the play by confronting his mortality, a snapped noose around his neck as he speaks to the ghost of Prague's founder, Libuse (Adriana Disman). Over two hours later, he is madder, but the play ends on pretty much this same note, teaching us more about history than his story.

To those who firmly believe--as Rudolf does--that knowledge is pleasure, the facts regurgitated through the ghostly devices of Libuse and the spirit-channeling poet Elizabeth (Shelley Ray) will be delightful. The rest, however, will be deeply disappointed by Rudolf's passivity: because he spends the play confined to his bedchambers, the plot has to be explained to him by his head steward, Rumpf (Eric E. Oleson), and his valet, Phillip (Jack Schaub). Though Einhorn makes the information as palatable as possible, it is rarely dramatic; he is too focused on Rudolf to do justice to the men and women he surrounds himself with, and therefore ends up making the same points over and over again.

For instance, Tycho Brahe (Joe Gately), the famous astronomer, comes to court, but is used only to show how easily Rudolf is flattered into opening his purse strings for "art" and, later, to foreshadow Rudolf's own downfall: "Let me not seem to have died in vain." Because Einhorn does not flesh out characters--Rudolf is in every scene, crowding the others out--even good scenes, as when Rumpf resigns, seem out of the blue. Katerina (Yvonne Roen), Rudolf's mistress, points this unequal domination early in the play, and is thereafter relegated to being a sexual prop, used only to emphasize Rudolf's passions and proclivities. Literally, these characters do not achieve greatness so much as they have it awkwardly thrust upon them. This is most obvious with Phillip, who is elevated after he starts sleeping with Rudolf. However, because there is no chemistry between the actors, and no attention given to how Phillip feels about the relationship, this seems more like a re-enactment than a drama: historically accurate, but empty.

The bluntness and imbalance of Rudolf II are unfortunate, because the central questions of mortality are interesting: if we are going to die, should we not indulge our whims while we can? And attempt to leave legacies in our wake? But for these ideas to spring to life, they must come into conflict--that is, they must be challenged within the world of the play; the artist must be struggling. But Rudolf II is too well-off for that, and by the time he has been bankrupted to the point of confrontation, he is too mad to coherently speak for his ideas. So far as acting goes, this is a lonely task for Reynolds, who is forced to portray a madman without ever being pushed to it: Rudolf's legendary mood-swings seem particularly forced. And while director Henry Akona helps him to frame some of his impotent expressions--there's a fine moment when Rudolf crumples up the call for his resignation only to limply throw it at the messenger--, his "passions" are so tamely staged that they cannot help but leave Reynolds (and the audience) a bit frustrated. The components for a good play exist within Rudolf II, but this production doesn't have the alchemical skill needed to turn the many leaden parts to gold.

metaDRAMA: Style over Substance

One of the complaints I often hear from critics (and make myself) is that modern plays (or out-there revivals) sometimes get more heavy with style (especially so-called "multimedia" plays, many of which seem done more out of a need for grant money than a need for the story) than with the substance they so desperately need. Which is why I find it ironic that James Hannaham, writing for the Village Voice, has decided to review Happy in the Poorhouse in what he believes is the vernacular of the show. He makes his point pretty clearly: that he finds the show to be nothing but a screechfest, assumedly several notches below Jersey Shore. But as that's the only point he makes (and one that he's vastly in the minority about), I wonder if he was just so put off by the Amoralist's style that he couldn't be bothered to bother to engage with the show. (And what does it say that the editors of the Village Voice ran this piece? If the Amoralists were a small group, just starting up, this sort of review could be career-killing.)

I've seen plenty of cryptic shows on the off-off-Broadway circuit, but it's helpful neither to my readers, my own experience, or to the artists involved, for me to simply dismiss something that I've seen because it didn't match my standards of theater. Most recently, I was boggled by Radiohole's WHA?!, but I felt that I at least attempted to explain my difficulty with the show, instead of simply WRITING IN ALL CAPS AND DRINKING BEERS. I've similarly expressed reservations with work by Richard Maxwell, and I regretfully chose not to write about Mabou Mines' Pataphysics Penteach, but for the most part, I try to avoid cheap wit because it sets a rather lazy example for audiences--and artists. Nothing can be so utterly boiled down to one dimension, and it's a disservice to pretend that it can be. We should not be afraid to be baffled, to be provoked, to be enraged by a show: these are all things that we can learn from. Simply giving up, as I feel many people did with Young Jean Lee's Lear, cheapens theater's ability to move us, makes people forget that we have to be willing to invest something, too, or at the least, to investigate our absent response.

Especially if style continues to become the substance of America. (For instance, Zombieland, American Idol, or Spider-Man: The Musical.)

Happy in the Poorhouse

Photo/Larry Cobra

Thwack. That's the sound a fist makes going through drywall. It's also an undeniable punctuation, the sort of high-energy mark that the Amoralists hit time and time again in their latest production, Derek Ahonen's Happy in the Poorhouse. The puncher in question is Paulie (James Kautz), a scrappy, small-time MMA fighter, who wears his heart on his tape-wrapped fists. He's trying to show his wife Mary (Sarah Lemp) how much he loves her, especially now, on the eve of a Welcome Home From Over There party for his ex-best-friend and Mary's ex-husband, Petie (William Apps). Problem is, he's too nervous to screw her, even though she's brassy enough to make it clear--throwing herself on to him at times--that if he doesn't, she might not be able to resist other men.

This basic concept is presented at first as a dime-store pulp, but quickly flips into a blitzkrieg romance  ("He was a sloppy, loose, under-confident lover...."). It doesn't get very deep--certainly nowhere near the message of their last show, The Pied Pipers of the Lower East Side--but this melomedy is never anything less than entertaining. But sometimes more is less: that non-stop action strains the heart of the show. It makes sense for Joey (Matthew Pilieci), Mary's brother, to be there--he provides contrast between the men in Mary's life-- but the arrival of his morning mail-route conquest, Flossie (Meghan Ritchie) and her angry uncles Sonny (Morton Matthews) and Sally (Mark Riccadonna) is all bluster. Likewise, it's fine for Penny (Rochelle Mikulich), Paulie's sister, to return home--she reminds us how desperately Paulie wants to elevate his family, and how embarrassed he is by his inability to make the big leagues. But she brings baggage with her: Olga (Selene Beretta), the love of her life. Two other characters also appear, Stevie (Nick Lawson) and Larry (Patrick McDaniel), worth mentioning less for their contribution to the plot--though Larry also exhibits the charm of a man trying to make good--than for their actors, who deliver dead-on performances.

As a drama, the play feels too packed, and as a comedy, the show isn't farcical enough (i.e., there aren't enough doors) to fit it all in. The result is hilarious, yes, but also diffuse and dizzying, a strong-arming sort of comedy. However, Happy in the Poorhouse also winds up feeling wholly unique: Ahonen mixes so many bright character colors that each scene literally leaps off the page. His writing is fearless, and his cast--particularly his core actors--are, too. As a team, they keep the show from flying off the rails, muscling the wackiest of lines down to the mat of reality; "If you don't follow your dreams, Penny, you get eaten by sharks" is one of the most heartfelt lines of the evening.

It's Odets and Williams Gone Wild, and the deep-down sincerity of it all is what saves it: "My whole existence would be one unjoyfulled nothing without Mary. I got a shit job, a thousands and one bills that my brother in law has to help me to pay, a kid sister who ran far away from me the first chance she got, and a broken-down dream that I gotta defibrillate all throughout the day to keep it from dying." From Pilieci's sexual sight-gags to Mikulich's mouse-squeaking innocence to Lemp's anguished libido to Kautz's confident shyness, the whole thing feels real and, at the end of the day, is most certainly Happy in the Poorhouse.

Craven Monkey and the Mountain of Fury

Don't let the title fool you: Craven Monkey and the Mountain of Fury is filled with brave performances that will leave you feeling glad you went out to the theater. Jeff Lewonczyk, who writes, directs, and narrates, knows exactly what he wants, using trickster mythology and martial arts to explain evolution. He's also once again brought in Qui Nguyen (and Adam Swiderski), a like-minded pro from Vampire Cowboys whose fight choreography makes many of the jazzier segments pop like Sonya Tayeh's arsenal on So You Think You Can Dance. Lewoncyzk keeps the focus on our simian heroes by keeping the comic narration off-stage ("It towered above him, as only mountains can"), and the result is the sort of all-action show that's a blast from start to finish.

This storytelling choice works perfectly for Craven Monkey, because its heroes are as uncomplicated as it gets: they spend each day having sex. Craven Monkey (Adrian Jevicki) has a back problem, though, so when he finds himself teased for not being able to perform--especially since it's with the Lady Monkey (Jessi Gotta) he so adores--he flips her over and invents the missionary position. Ironically, while the other monkeys see, what they actually do is run him out of the village, where a fuming Craven Monkey decides (after observing a dung beetle) that he's going crush his rivals by rolling the giant boulder atop a nearby mountain over them. Little does he know that the Lady Gaga-looking Vital Spirit (Hope Cartelli) lives there, nor that he'll have to overcome her elemental minions to get there. Nor does he understand the strange banana-wielding Sensei (Art Wallace) and his seemingly senseless instructions to oppose his thumbs.

Because the characters never speak, there are many fine moments where we're as playfully in the dark as they are, led on only by the purity of movement. The cast is quite expressive, particularly Gotti and Becky Byers who plays a rival monkey continually trying to wriggle between the Lady Monkey and the men trying to nail her. Such clear motivations, tactic shifts, and frustrations are a delight to see on stage, and there's even less subtext to be puzzled out from a fist to the face. The musical selections set the stakes for each showdown, and Julianne Kroboth's terrific costumes help to accent each character's role and their general position. The Earth Minion (Fred Backus) is a skeletal bull; the Water Minion (Mateo Moreno) is a multi-tentacled monster on moon springs; the Fire Minion (Melissa Roth) is a fiercely skin-tight creature, flinging out red ribbons; and the Air Minion (Byers) is a spry, needling creature, propelled through the air like a bunraku puppet by two black-clad assistants.

As with the best kind of action theater, Lewonczyk and company continue to increase the stakes with each battle, keeping us entertained and--more importantly--invested. The momentum never flags, and even the romantic parts, in which Craven Monkey teaches Lady Monkey to walk, are exciting to watch, filled with a scrappy, balletic magic. The sheer ambition is more than enough to overcome the occasional lapses in technical prowess; besides, the fights are hardly supposed to be realistic. By the end of the night, Craven Monkey and the Mountain of Fury has not only scaled the mountain, it has carved its name into it.