Does being a “fan” always mean that in some sense you are intrinsically a “fanatic”? There is ample, and shocking evidence at this point in the twenty-first century to suggest that there is, well, to some degree, a measure of being “touched” in our adoration of public and performing figures, aka “celebrities”. Some performers, of course, have a more invasive reach than others, and in this regard Judy Garland emerges as singular in her ability to stir the more extreme emotions of her devotees. Mark it down to a singularity of presence and performative intensity in her case – in so many ways a relentlessly raw nerve of emotion projecting powerfully beyond the simple melodic lyrics she could sing. Several generations have been passing the torch for Judy now, and in the gay male community she has been deified many times over. “Friends of Dorothy” have given way to worshippers of the later Garland – the obviously wounded, out-of-control spitfire who could turn it on at performance and Deliver.  So when a gay male performer undertakes a role invoking Miss Judy Garland, there is an immediate and heavy-breathing audience that can be relied upon. But beware, there’s a lot of it out there so you’d better be good. And really, at this point, there better be a reason.

John Fleck, in his self-authored performance, Mad Women, playing at La MaMa, never stops to explain why he is tying Garland in with this autobiographical tale of a modestly successful performer with some national notoriety  - he was one of the original NEA-4 back in 1990, Jesse Helms and all that – making his way on the boards and the screen over the last 30+ years. It’s just a given that she should be a touchstone of talent, and a cultural icon of special, coded appeal to any gay man of his generation – he was 18 years old when she died. And it’s a given, that as a gay man, he is permitted to get down and dirty with the “facts” in Garland’s life – Judy gave great head, and at least two of her three children exhibit signs of fetal alcohol syndrome – yadda, yadda, yadda. More pointed is the unaddressed question of why he is specifically focused on one of Garland’s late performances, at L.A.’s Coconut Grove in 1967, when she is wretchedly drink and drug-addled, forgetful, rambling and volcanically angry. He treats us to original recorded excerpts from this low point in her career, content merely to embody her with minimal wardrobe props, a loose physical impersonation, and the lip-synching of her public performative meltdown (one of several, it should be admitted). He is positively gleeful as he shares the details of her pill and liquor regimen at the time.

At one point he is transformed into young Joey Luft, Judy’s youngest child, who witnessed this exhibition at the age of nine. Abandoned in the Grove following his mother’s triumphant exit born aloft by her fans, Joey approaches the microphone and sings to an empty auditorium, an aria from Mascagni’s Cavalleria Rusticana. Fleck’s falsetto is accomplished and affecting, but he has Joey sing it to his mother’s discarded wig, a clumsy, slightly twisted visual. Then he has Joey put on the wig and his mother’s show jacket before storming off stage. Suddenly we are presented with film footage of Fleck’s elderly mother during her battle with Alzheimer’s. Segue to the story of young John Fleck’s first performance in public at the local veteran’s meet at the Legion Hall, where the unwary boy performed Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland in a simpering, coquettish style that brought the curtain down on him before he had finished. Young Fleck is entirely in the dark as to the nature of his offense, and is in turn shunned by the Legion Hall patrons, and snarled at by his mortified father – “Freakin’ fag. I’m gonna kill you when I get home.” As a formative episode it has all the hallmarks of a classic, prompting him to cling to his sympathetic, protecting mother, and flee his alcohol-fueled, abusive father. More film footage follows of his bed-ridden mother fulminating about alcoholism and her husband, and there’s a long, meandering monologue about Fleck’s turn in the HBO series, Carnivale, as Gecko, a carny freak. Snatches of Judy’s audio are inter played, and there are allusions to drug dependency on Fleck’s part. “I’m not an addict!” he snaps petulantly, and more than once. A confused and worked-up recounting of a dream forces everything towards a lurching, melodramatic climax, caustically overplayed with Garland sounding out the Battle Hymn of the Republic, some more sentimental home movie footage, and a horribly flat, would-be up-beat ending – “A big hand for my mother, Josephine. Wasn’t she something?” “My dad was hot, wasn’t he?” The piece seems to have slipped from Fleck’s control, morphed into an angry, narcissistic, runaway car that’s jumped the tracks and hurtling toward a smash up – one that never really arrives.

But Fleck likes things out of control: Judy; his ailing mother; the danger of drug enhanced experience; perhaps even (gasp!) his father. Inexplicably (and disastrously during the show I attended), he invites the hazards of audience participation (shudder) not once, not twice, but three times. Is he playing with form, playing with fire, or does he know what he’s doing? He’s bored by the tight leash, and he definitely slips it in this wired, sweat-drenched performance. But in the end he offers no insight. Looking for the silver lining is for him a lovely lyric but, realistically, a complete waste of time. Perspective it seems is not in his vocabulary, unless it’s the agreed adoptive perspective of being at the bottom looking up. This is a bitter little pill taking you nowhere, unless it’s to a mirthless laugh of hopeless scorn. It’s too bad; he is magnetic and can be clever and funny. To arrive at a convincing conclusion perhaps, would require him to get over that most massive of obstacles that looms in every performer’s life; himself.

~~~

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As we get closer and closer to the futuristic realm of cyberpunk, that has been active in our collective imaginations since we first started understanding what computing was or what it could be, one has to ask the questions:

What about the people it could hurt?  Would we even know what it meant to feel that way?  Would dysfunction be the first glimpse into a greater ability to truly live on or beyond “the net”?  If the first person in this new space were alone, would he make friends with virtual projections of himself?

Virtual Solitaire written and performed by Dawson Nichols is a  fast paced drama which does an amazing  job of exploring these themes in a very real and human way — in an artificial world.

To be sure there have been a fair amount of stories written about this.  Perhaps one could say even a majority of cyberpunk stories have a character who has been “burned” by the system or who uses virtual reality as a refuge from a harsh external or internal reality.  We’ve seen this in everything from Mona Lisa Overdrive to the Matrix.  However, even if this theme has been investigated before, the story and performance by Dawson Nichols of Virtual Solitaire is a polished and well thought out investigation of the theme of redefining what is meant by a dangerous experiment in a world where the boundaries between real life and virtual reality become blurry.

Virtual Solitaire is some of the best cyberpunk I’ve read or seen anywhere (and I’ve read a pretty good percentage of the genre).  I would love to see a sequel based in the same world as this.  Nichols came up with a logically consistent and enticing plot angle which explains exactly why there is only one person represented in this one man show. Like most solo pieces, Nichols embodies a range of characters in order to change things up for the audience as well as show off his range. In this show however, this is more than just a device, as others have essentially taken over his brain and all the people have been routed through him for testing.  Thus, everyone is him.  The lighting design (design by Dawson Nichols with Eric Beauzay running the board) creates dramatic transitions from character to character that really sucks you into the virtual world that is being portrayed.

The story begins with main character Nathan stumbling about the stage full of various “glitches in his continuity”. It seems obvious he is a bit messed up as he begins mumbling rapidly and somewhat incoherently until we realize he is not crazy, but actually talking to someone else. He begins to talk to Clarence, a corporate technologist who is trying to “hire” Nathan to do some “extreme prototyping” of a virtual reality mystery game about a murder in an asylum. Clarence, over a private channel, converses with Stanley (Nathan’s boss) who is in charge of the project and tells him about the setup.

At this point Nathan takes us to the beginning of the story, looking at profiles of people involved with the case. Nichols does an amazing job of transforming from one character to the next. The plot is supposed to be displayed in a read-only format and be completely non-interactive with the character, bue due to previous damage to Nathan’s brain from his addiction to bandwidth and early childhood trauma there are numerous break-off points where events from Nathan’s life are being channeled into the story. We see a human drama in the synthetic world of Virtual Solitaire, and a wish to be able to show compassion for Nathan’s character after the world seems to fail at this.

This is a not-to-be missed cyberpunk drama helmed by one talented man who channels a multitude.  Be sure to see Virtual Solitaire while you can.

~~~

Virtual Solitaire
Writer: Dawson Nichols
1h 50m    
facweb.northseattle.edu/gnichols/mycelium/
VENUE #16: Players Theatre
Thu 25 @ 4 Fri 26 @ 8

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