The Flower Thief by Pia Wilson is an utterly captivating, bittersweet story of yearning, loss, and unrelenting pain.  It weaves past with present, hope with heartache, and in between the quiet moments the story – like a flower – blossoms, bursts, and then quietly withers in an achingly beautiful arc that leaves the audience with a feeling of both completion as well as conjecture.

Deftly directed by Heidi Grumelot The Flower Thief begins tragically with 17 year old Clark standing on the shores of a beach, helplessly watching his twin brother Jimmy being swept out by the undertow. The tension is immediately set up and then hangs above the play, creating a deeply morose tone and sentiment.  In a story where so much turns on a character’s inability to cope with loss, this opening scene is like a punch in the stomach: by giving the audience that short sharp shock we are left in the same emotional state of grief and deprivation as the characters whom we are watching.  This initial moment of bonding between characters and audience is strong and effective, for as the play unfolds and each clue of exactly why Clark was unable to dive into the water to save his brother is revealed, we become even more invested.  Eventually all the thousand tiny cuts add up to a wound that is simply too deep and destructive to stitch back together.

While the play’s characterization appears to be about twins the theme is really more about two halves of a whole.  Strong use of mirroring, doubling, parallel worlds and then versus now take the audience on a deeply personal journey of one couple, Clark and Angela, who forever are changed by the sudden drowning of Clark’s twin Jimmy.

Larry-Powell and Keona Welch as Young Clark and Young Angela in "The Flower Thief"

Wilson has created twin worlds, both encasing separate versions of Clark and Angela – one teen aged, one late 30s – who seem to be equally drawn to each other as much as they are continually at odds with each other.  Their need for each other is buried deeply under miles of hurt, perceptions of isolation, and the feeling of being uncomfortable in their own skin  - all of which makes for awkward wooing and halting romance.  However it’s impossible not to commend the effort of these two lost souls; there’s a softness they bring out in each other; and clearly while they struggle to connect it’s obvious that of their many false starts in this world this connection appears to be the one which brings them the most satisfaction.

Erwin E.A.Thomas-as Clark in "The Flower Thief"

The Flower Thief offers up these two characters not only back and forth through a broken timeline, but inside out as well.  The plot is really secondary, and the actual thievery of flowers is more symbolic and not exactly the driving force of the play.  What it does allow for is a bit of campy relief in the form of rookie cop and earnest neighbor Shelby (Allyson Morgan) who is responsible for some of the lighter moments of the play.

More important is the theme of these two complex individuals, their moments of loss, and their moments of pure synergy.  Wilson does a wonderful job of creating a question in one world, only to answer it in the other – but in a wholly unexpected way.  Clues are peppered liberally throughout and uncovered – no wasted words or symbols are carelessly tossed.

Director Heidi Grumelot has created a quite place for the experiences to unfold and allows the natural subtleties of the script to stand on their own – while things of importance are impactful they come with no glaring neon arrow announcing their arrival. Important elements simply wash over the existing surface of the grain of the story creating a richer texture of meaning and emotion with each coat.

Larry Powell as younger Clark in "The Flower Thief"

Erwin E. A. Thomas as Clark and Larry Powell as Young Clark both deliver strong performances, deeply nuanced and  weighed down with the burden of their pain.  While there’s a recognizable echoing there’s also a distinctly different timber to each of their portrayals of this flawed man both for obvious reasons as well as for reasons which the plot reveals.

Keona Welch portrays young Angela as a woman full of teen angst, yet desperate to emerge into a woman of hope and promise.  Skittish, constantly pushing forth and pulling back, Welsh fills her side of Angela with the energy of a young racehorse at the gate, waiting to burst forth, yet with facets of shy reticence and demur reserve.  Lisa Sturm’s Angela shows very little of that energy and fire, regardless of how demure; she is a shell of her youthful self – beaten down by what the past 15+ years has wrought.  Between these four fine actors a type of cat’s cradle is created; four tent poles anchoring the corners of string as the storyline weaves in and out and dips in ways that are either satisfyingly predictable or staggeringly unexpected.

Alfred Tennyson wrote “Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.” However, for anyone who has loved so deeply – a sibling, a parent, a child, a lover – that the loss literally cuts you in two, leaving you with an unfillable gap … it very well may be easier to never have loved at all.

I can’t say I know the answer, but I do know that Pia Wilson’s The Flower Thief is an amazing play which will deeply resonate with anyone who has ever loved and lost and wished it had turned out differently.

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The Flower Thief

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There’s much more than a touch of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe in the character of Katharine Sherman‘s Christopher Marlowe in her new play, Christopher Marlowe’s Chloroform Dreams, running at the lower east side’s The Red Room. The time-and-smoke shrouded legend of the Elizabethan playwright hangs over the proceedings and propels the story all the way, and then nearly, to its end. Familiar tropes from classical mythology and fairy tale erupt everywhere in a noiresque style tale of a femme who is at once fatale and in flight. Mix in more than a strain of poetic patter and the result might be ponderous, over rich and over-reaching if it weren’t from the pen of a careful, gifted playwright who has a sharpened sense of when to call off the big thunderous themes to allow the smaller human story to breathe. Sherman is excellently served in this production by director Philip Gates who has done a great deal to let this highly theatrical, complexly structured drama flow. And flow it does, like silk, like smoke.

Gumshoe Marlowe (the playwright, not the fictional detective) is on the case and it’s a case of love’s labor’s lost as the gal he pines for, Daphne Fairchild, has a problem with the needle. It’s somewhere, sometime in the eternal noir of Hollywood’s 1940s and the environment is murky with urban underbelly, its sinners, and its saints. Daphne has taken up with contraband king Ingram Frizer, who keeps her in morphine embrace. Marlowe tries to cut a deal with Frizer to release Daphne, and Frizer, like the southern drawling megalomaniac he is, perversely agrees. Confident of the weakness of the human spirit Frizer is sure of Daphne’s faithlessness, or rather as he would have it, faithfulness to the true church of humanity – what he has to offer. The narrative evolves in non-linear fashion, jumping between episodes of elation and degradation, hopefulness and despair. We pretty much all know in what direction the story is heading and this disrupted sequencing brings a freshness to the unfolding, allowing us to see the tale as if shot from diverse angles. Clever staging and ingenious scenic design (Joshua David Bishop) work to brilliant effect in keeping the tempo up while contributing to a sense of layered story and hidden motives.

A polymorphous narrative builds in a polygeneric world. Marlowe, playwright/detective, is in search of his muse/dame, herself enthrall to intoxicating sensual abandon, emotional numbness. She is at once the mythical Daphne, in flight from the god of poetry and his promise of ennoblement, and the Sleeping Beauty, in love with a solitary dreamworld. The excellent Sheila Joon, as a supporting actress, plays three roles that give a sense of the multi-dimensionality of the story. She is Eleanor del Toro, a hardened habitue of Frizer’s drug world, with yet a pulse of sympathy for its entrapped denizens; Nicholas Skeres, one of Frizer’s goons, and the name of one of actual playwright Marlowe’s dodgy comrades; and The Ferryman, a sleazy guide in the city sewers, who takes payment in coin and conducts Marlowe to the underworld drug den where Frizer holds Daphne captivated.

In synch with this variegated narrative, and part of the torrent that carries you headlong through the performance, Sherman’s vibrant language shifts and morphs from hard-boiled, snappy Bogart/Bacall banter, through rhythmic Beat poetics, pulpit fire and brimstone, to gin-soaked Tom Waites-ian monologues, complete with the whine of a bruised melody off in the distance (wonderful sly sonics by Will Fulton). Opening lines intoned by Marlowe, characteristically slouched against a wall, collar up, hat brim down, run:  Once upon a time there was a habit. A habit’a mine. For a time. A time. And once upon a time she hadda have it – the girl she had a habit she was mine. This sort of linguistic bravado might be annoying if it didn’t intimately serve the themes in the piece, echoing the broken time line the play deploys. Harmonious with the whole production, it’s vividly alive to its own artificiality, risking boldly, yet never quite overplaying itself, anchoring in small moments of naturalism that draw you back in. In the play’s intriguing, only pastoral moment (Chris Marlowe did after all bequeath us the lyric poem, The Passionate Shepherd to His Love), Marlowe, Daphne, and side-kick Tommy the Kid (Thomas Kyd? wink, wink, nudge, nudge!) share a star lit night by a campfire. Relaxed for once, Daphne observes – there’s a beam of light coursing through the trees. You can only see it if you blow smoke on it. I wanna live here forever. This eloquent line speaks volumes about Daphne’s character, as well as the play’s central themes.

But wait. Lunar Energy Productions (both Sherman and Gates are founding members) have to mix it up that one notch further. If you think you know everything that can happen in a noiresque rendering of a tale of dark addiction dovetailed with classical allusions and historical references, you might yet be surprised by a sudden eruption of ensemble dancing. Honest to god in-synch dance movements that might happen at a Madonna Super Bowl performance break out, complete with the skeevy, strung out, I-got-the-needful-jones jitters.

The laurels should be lavished, and shared here by all involved in this courageous production. Detailed attention has been paid in every department: scenic (Bishop), sound (Fulton), costume (Kalere Payton), and lighting (Alana Jacoby). The hard working actors deliver handsomely. Compelling leads, Christopher Fahmie and Valerie Redd, are squarely matched with supports Sheila Joon, Michael Markham, and Curry Whitmire. In her conflation of characters Christopher and Philip Marlowe, Sherman is really on to something. This is a hero that could go almost anywhere, uncovering nasty secrets; theatrical gold dust. We would all be lucky to have another installment. Meantime, Chloroform Dreams is knockout.

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Related Posts:

• The Flower Thief – A Bittersweet Bloom
• Before Placing Me On Your Shelf (Fringe Festival 2011)
• Women’s History Month: Celebrating Women In The Arts – Spotlight On Heidi Grumelot
• There is No Good News – Laughing Until Your Sides Hurt (FRIGID New York 2011)
• FRIGID Hangovers – I’ll Have Another Round! (FRIGID New York 2011)

For those of us tucked up in the Northeast part of the country, Hurricane Katrina is a distant memory, a tragedy of nearly a decade ago. But for those still feeling the effects down South its presence is constant. Siobhan O’Louglin gives a voice to the personal stories in her solo show, The Rope in Your Hands (playing at The Red Room). Through thirteen different first-hand survivor accounts, O’Loughlin deftly moves through the before and after of one of the most devastating disasters in recent memory.

From street performers to university personnel, preachers to clean-up volunteers, the French Quarter to the Ninth Ward, O’Loughlin’s interviews span race, class, and age to bring a fully realized account of the storm and its aftermath. Morphing gracefully into each character, with specific physicality and well-practiced speech patterns, O’Loughlin is a joy to watch.

One can only imagine the mammoth undertaking that came with interviewing and mining the dramatic pith from each of her subjects. The story she tells is cohesive and focused, with a chronology and structure the audience can easily follow. She works her way up to the storm itself, and rather than dwelling too much on the actual rainfall or breaking of the levees (images oft-played on the news), she tells of the evacuations, the forethought, the packing up and shipping out for those who survived.

And then there is the aftermath: the cleanup, the re-building, the government aid (or lack thereof). Here is where O’Loughlin’s point of view begins to surface. The overarching opinion of her subjects is that the government did not do enough to help the survivors, that there should not have been a wait for food, water, and medicine. As one of her characters puts it, “When you see a man drowning in the middle of a lake, and you have a rope in your hands, you don’t debate about whether or not to throw it to him. You throw the rope, pull him out, and then debate about it.” Using the words of activists, homeowners, and cleanup volunteers, O’Loughlin shines a light on the still-in-progress re-building of one of America’s most vibrant cities.

One of the most striking elements of the testimonies is how much love and pride these people have for their city. They do not leave and start life somewhere else. Instead they come back, slog through the gutting of their homes, and try to recreate the color and wonder of the city they know exists somewhere. O’Loughlin, too, feels the same ownership over her characters, and each is presented with respect, grace, humor, and humility. It is a terrific feat, bringing that many voices to life, but she achieves it, and recognizes the importance of their words. After all, sometimes the easiest way to heal is by telling your story, and knowing that someone is listening.

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Related Posts:

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• Big Girls Don’t Cry: Laughing On The Outside (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
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When you read that the title of a play is as blatant as Stripper Lesbians you might be led to believe that what you are about to see is nothing more than a show which has women in various states of undress (personally or professionally), making out a lot.  However, read further to “Rising Sun Performance Company” and your perspective quickly changes.  Sure, the show is sexy, shows a lot of skin, and has no problem exploring the more intimate moments of the relationship, but Rising Sun’s inherent intelligence as an ensemble ensures that your skin is served up with a side of thoughtful, though-provoking drama which explores the title rather than exploits it.

So, who are these stripper lesbians of the title?

First there’s Evan (Amanda Berry). She strips, of course, but identifies herself first and foremost as a woman’s studies major. After all, she wouldn’t even be stripping if she wasn’t writing her senior thesis (cleverly titled “Stripper Lesbians”) as an insider’s exposé on what it’s like to be dating a sex worker.

Stripper Lesbians At Work (Amanda Berry and Samantha Cooper)

By her side -at home and at work- is Aisha (Samantha Cooper) who strips because that’s what she’s good at.   There’s no ironic twist to her chosen career, no air quotes when she uses the words, no parenthetical or ellipsis or slash after the title, no ”I’m just doing this for now” attitude. Aisha is a stripper’s stripper and she makes no excuses about it. She’s ambitious at that, weighing the option of posing for Playboy because posing means more traffic to the club – and more traffic means the ability to command a higher salary. Evan may be the one going after the fancy education which requires a thesis to obtain, but Aisha is the one getting a graduate degree from the school of hard knocks.

Always popping up between the pair is DJ (Joe Beaudin).  He’s not just an ex-boyfriend (and current roommate) of Evan’s but also serves as a type of Greek Chorus of the play.  It is DJ’s job to wag a finger, shine a spotlight, underline with a highlighter and repeat for emphasis.  Not that he doesn’t have his own subplot; in a show-stopping, scene stealing audition he takes the text from Our Bodies, Ourselves and turns it inside out, invoking the spirit and mannerisms of prostitutes to hilarious effect.  In a play which centers on women’s viewpoints and is punctuated with women’s sexuality it is a wonderful moment when Beaudin can have the stage to himself and showcase his own talents without distraction.

Things come to a head when DJ pushes things to a place where, ultimately, they probably would have ended up anway … he just got them there sooner.  More Devil that Devil’s Advocate he nonetheless ultmately feels he’s doing the right thing even if it is for the wrong reason.

A poinant epilogue ends the play, and we are shown that while these two young women were vastely different the feelings between them were real.

Playwright Kate Foster has done a strong job of taking the already difficult moments of a new relationship and placing them in a unique setting.  She beautifully highlights that first crack in the ice when passion abates for a moment and two people step back and begin to notice their difference of opinion, their diverging paths and their incongrouous goals.

There are no heroes here, just flawed human beings.  Each character has distinct complexities which Director Jeff Woodbridge coaxes out and deftly presents. All three characters exist in a tug-of-war where their discord amounts to another wrinkle in the fabric of their relationships.  Each character is learning how to continue on with integrity while maintaining a climate of support for someone they care about.

In the end this story isn’t about stripper lesbians, but rather about two young women who are trying to protect the identities they treasure most dearly while still living up to the person they would like to be in their partner’s eyes.   It is the conundrum of weighing what is more important – how you see yourself, or how you want others to see you?  And, regardless of how much of your body you expose throughout the day, at the end of it, can you truly say you’re comfortable in your own skin?

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

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Little Lady featuring Sandrine Lafond (Photo credit Paolo A. Santos)

I can’t remember, before this show, the last time I saw an adult person unhesitatingly put their whole big toe in their mouth and suck on it with a sense of blissful satisfaction. You can marvel at the flexibility of such a feat even as you cavil at the notion of exactly how clean, now, was that toe before it went in to that mouth. This combination of awe and uncomfortable personal fastidiousness is what Sandrine Lafond, the performer and creator of Little Lady, is happy to promote. She wants to hold you in a spell of fascination as she pricks away at your comfort levels, never allowing you to lapse into a passive, carefree enjoyment of her performance. Perhaps it’s her butoh training at work, or perhaps she’s artfully channelling a sense of anger stemming from her experience as a female performer. Either way she has devised in this one woman piece a highly individual performance of peculiar distinction.

We first meet the Little Lady of the title, as lights come up on stage, in a kneeling position, head down, derriere aloft, face averted, apparently sleeping comfortably. After some don’t-try-this-at-home wakeful stretching exercises, she turns to us revealing an alarmingly wide-open pair of eyes behind buffoonish spectacles and a broad, guileless smile. But she is wearing some sort of head covering, has a stuffed, protruding stomach, and favors a cropped fur jacket that gives her a dowager’s hump. She appears a strange hybrid of Little Edie from the Maysles brothers’ Grey Gardens, and a kinkajou. Shortly she falls into the aforementioned luxurious morning toe suck. Is she human at all? The question seems even more apropos when she flourishes a two foot walking stick and stiffly, awkwardly rises to a posture that might be called a stand, staggering uncertainly on the balls of her feet, legs bent outward in spastic totter, emitting a sort of babyish gurgling laughter. Who she is and where she is are a mystery. There’s an animalistic unpredictability to her movements and a sort of leering carnal sensuality in her investigations; nostrils sniffing, tongue extended, she appears to appraise the male audience members in the front row. Her movements and gestures recognize no bodily decorum as she stirs up an air of possible social affront. In short, despite the open faced smile and stare, she’s a bit dangerous.

Lafond’s Little Lady is a creature of routine however, and we watch as she follows a pattern of behavior revolving around her rest, her meals, her television programs, and her bodily self enjoyment. Unseen by the audience, the television shows serve as clues to the passages in her life. Programs devoted to knitting, boxing, and warfare are relayed through the actresses enthusiastic and alarmed reactions. Physically her body undergoes a series of transformations, from the crooked, lurching movements of the opening sequence, through a grotesquely sexualized persona, to a more naturally moving, unencumbered personality. En route she seems to lose much of her animal self-satisfaction and confidence. Less bizarre and recognizably human by the conclusion, she is also clouded with uncertainty, newly timid. The final act is played out in a video clip showing the freshly formed Little Lady alone and lost in a desert landscape, buffeted by winds, scorched by the sun, pricked by thorns. Despite her predicament, and aided by a genteel parasol, she perseveres, eventually stumbling upon …

There’s a visual freshness in the presentation of all of this, both skillful and compelling. Lafond seems to be comically and ruefully evaluating her evolution as a performer, and as a woman. The formally confrontational manner in which she relates the tale partly gets in the way of making you care what becomes of her character, but she isn’t – thank goodness – asking for our sympathy here, merely our attention. Which she is quite adept at capturing, and manipulating. For all the apparent clowning there’s an evident performative maturity and poise at work. She’ll take you there alright, it’s just that, much like herself, you may end in mere bewilderment at where exactly you find yourself. Deferential nods are owed to director John Turner for following her all the way, videographer Paolo Santos for the atmospheric – dare one suggest Lynchian? – film footage, and make-up and costume artists, Elisabeth Lehoux and Nelly Rogerson, who contribute effectively in elaborating such a bizarre tale. Yves Frulla‘s musical accompaniment feels the most familiar part of the exercise and helps to frame the performance in a tradition of clowning which Lafond, happily and admirably, disposes of. Though not precisely a joyride, there’s enough surprises and  whoop-de-dooh to make it memorable. It’s a trip alright, oh yeah.

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

Related Posts:

• Little Lady: 5 Things To Know About The Show Before You Go (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
• The Flower Thief – A Bittersweet Bloom
• Christopher Marlowe’s Chloroform Dreams
• Starting Tonight! Frigid Hangovers Begin At The Kraine Theater
• The Rope In Your Hands: Katrina, In Their Own Words (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)

Man Saved By Condiments by Mary Jo Pehl is a dramatization of the true story of a man whose car went off a bridge while he was on his way to work.  With a broken hip, no cell phone and no one aware of where he was, he survived for five days by eating snow and the packets of condiments he found strewn around the floor of his garbage heap that passes for a car.

The solo show, directed by Bill Stiteler, starts off a bit clumsily as every thought is expressed aloud by Steve (Tim Uren) for the sake of the constructs of the play.  While the back story explains that in order to stay sane the man talks to himself the device is somewhat forced for the sake of theatricality.  It also doesn’t help that Steve is somewhat unlikable and not particularly introspective.  He’s got a chip on his shoulder and (as bits of his life are revealed through the various moments when he’s either talking to himself, chatting with squirrels or railing at God) there’s not much redeeming about him.

Middle aged, living with his mother, a fan of “my man W”, he can’t commit to his girlfriend, seems to think he’s better than his other security guard co-workers because he’s studying to be an EMT, and (though facing possible starvation) throws out international non-dairy creamer exclaiming “What am I, gay or something?  Better throw those out before the guys find me!” Let’s just be grateful that the icepick he used to scrape peanut butter out of the bottom of the jar of Skippy wasn’t a girly shade of pink or he might have thrown that out the window as well.  He is, of course, heterosexual enough to take the opportunity to try to “ease his pain” as he imagines Faith Hill approaching him in a see-through tube top and giving him mouth to mouth with her perfect lips … that is until he discovers that his broken hip keeps him from indulging in any type of self pleasuring.  Which I, for one, was grateful.

“This is way too long to just sit here and think,” he muses, and for a moment it looks like this one-note show is not going to provide anything more but this man sitting in his car, talking to himself in real time, with no particular story arc.  Things take a turn for the better when he begins to assess his life and we are given an opportunity to see the deeper notes of both this trapped man as well as Tim Uren who is finally able to imbue the unlikable Steve with some redeeming qualities.  Relating a story (to a passing squirrel) about how he almost choked on a piece of bacon gives Uren a chance to woo the audience.  Steve reflects on how, alone, he found himself choking and was terrified that he would die alone.  Attempting to give himself the Heimlich maneuver by throwing himself over a piece of furniture he finds himself hesitant to mar his mother’s Sears sofa.  Not only does the moment feel exquisitely ironic  -a man hearkening back to a moment when gluttony almost caused his death during a time when he now may die of starvation- but this also gives a richly colored snapshot into the life of a man who is terribly lonely, regretful at how things didn’t work out, and just not ready to die.

Once this scene happens and the wall comes down Steve as a character becomes far more accessible and Uren brings forth moments which produce a lump in your throat as the simple humanity of this man is coaxed out further and further.  However, it is not much longer after this moment when Steve’s car is found and a quick off-stage “Hey are you okay down there” soon lead to “What is this, non-dairy creamer?  What are you, gay?” It’s an unnecessary call back and only serves to remind the audience that whatever “ah-ha” moment may have happened to Steve during his ordeal is going to be left in the car along with the empty ketchup packets.

Although director Bill Stiteler does his level best to work with the obviously talented Uren to deliver as many emotional peaks as possible, the bottom line is that this is a rather slim story with not much bite.

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

Related Posts:

• Man Saved By Condiments!: 5 Things To Know About The Show Before You Go (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
• The Rope In Your Hands: Katrina, In Their Own Words (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
• Big Girls Don’t Cry: Laughing On The Outside (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
• I’m Only Explaining This Once: 5 Things To Know About The Show Before You Go (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
• Little Lady: 5 Things To Know About The Show Before You Go (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)

Canadian import Rachelle Elie enjoys being a woman. She especially enjoys her run-of-the-mill feminine pastimes: trying on sparkly dresses with eye makeup to match, dancing seductively to Ke$ha on a fur carpet, and hydrating with imported bottled water. She’s married to an Obstetrician/Gynecologist, has two lovely sons, and is, for all intents and purposes, living the dream.

Served with a side of audience discomfort, Elie’s solo show, Big Girls Don’t Cry (playing at The Red Room), is an insightful, if slightly off-putting insight into the psyche of the Modern Woman. Elie appears in what looks like a doll’s dress that lost a fight with a Bedazzler, knee-highs and platform slippers. She gapes and gasps her way through her basic biography, stopping every so often to sing or dance in a non-sequitur celebration of her womanhood. Questions are posed to the audience, and as she stares hard into each person’s eyes, she dares us to not be jealous of her in all her sparkle, and the beautiful life she has.

Rachelle Elie in Big Girls Don't Cry (photo by David Leyes)

But Elie’s not bragging. She’s smarter than that. The comedienne, with a strong background in dance, drama, and clowning, is actually a social commentator. And though her thesis statement isn’t shared until well into the piece (followed, of course, by an in-your-face gangster rap), we are fortunate enough to watch her slowly unravel her vacant Stepford persona throughout. The moments where things come apart–noted easily by the rugged octave drop in Elie’s voice–are the most vibrant, the most alive.

This is performance art. Interactive and thought-provoking, Elie will get in audience member’s faces, crack jokes at their expense, and bring them into her wacked-out world. But it’s a world we are only too fortunate enough to be in. Elie’s message stems from her time working in Kenya, the founder of an artists’ collective. She slowly works these Kenyan women into her story, and they become the pin that finally pops the bubble. These are women that don’t get to worry about lip-gloss or Ke$ha. And while not beating us over the head with the message, Elie reminds us of our good fortune; how lucky we are to be big girls in the here and now.

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

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Not everyone got the kind of name that looks good on a marquee or sounds good in the sentence ” … and the award for best actor goes to …”.  And let’s all just admit it now: no one really knew how to pronounce “Gyllenhaal” till several movies in, and even then it took TWO siblings to get the world to say it properly.  Twenty years later Demi Moore still has 50% of the population putting the accent on the wrong syllable.

So.  Now imagine that you’re not that famous at all.  Nowhere near.  And you’re given a name that everyone mispronounces or mistakes for another name upon hearing it. Wouldn’t you change your name too?  You would if you were Moe Rosen, writer and performer of I’m Only Explaining This Once, his solo-show currently playing at the Red Room.

Moe Rosen – that’s his new name, folks – seemed to have a long, uncomfortable relationship with his original name.  I will not rob future audiences the ah-ha moment of hearing Moe’s given name from his own lips, but I will go so far as to say it’s actually not as uncommon as, say, Rumpelstiltskin and if you’ve lived in New York chances are you’ve heard it before and may even know one or two of your own.  (I actually do.)  But Moe’s story isn’t so much about the name as it is about his family’s complete inability to actually zero in on where the name came from.

Rosen uses pre-recorded video interviews with his parents to start a dialogue.  Both mom and dad (shown separately) have their unintentionally comedic moments as they contradict themselves and each other.  Moe gleefully points these moments out as well as moves the narrative along.  Without a doubt Rosen’s father emerges as the star of the piece; Rosen Sr. waves away the past with a wry smile and -when pressed on how involved he was with choosing Moe’s name-  insists “Well I wasn’t really a part of that.  I just wanted a child”.  It’s rather adorable.

The convoluted back-story of Moe’s moniker has to do with being named after a great-grandfather who died in the Holocaust.  That name, however, was Hebrew, so Rosen’s mom went with the “English version” of the name … though that name turned out to be Israeli.  “It could have been anything,” the father insists, rattling off several (more common) similar “English versions” of the name.  “I just wanted a child” he repeats.

Overall Moe’s earnestness is sweet, the story is funny, and the filmed bit of his parents (which include further back-story about Moe’s grandparents) have unexpected moments of humor that are all the funnier for the gravity with which they are related.  The piece did, however, begin a bit slowly,  and much of the first bits of interviews consist of Moe asking the same question over and over again, as his parents give the same answer.  While it’s amusing, it starts losing its freshness after the 3rd, 4th and 5th repetition. (Asked and answered – counsel is badgering the witness.)

Soon enough Moe moves on and the pacing rights itself – but I would suggest trimming a little from the top, especially in order to stay true to the “once” of the title. I think this show could easily clock in at 35 minutes and still be as funny – if not more so.

Ultimately, Moe Rosen is a likable guy with a story to tell.  He comes from funny stock, that’s obvious, and he’s continuing the family tradition.  With a little trimming and  faster pacing I’m Only Explaining This Once is sure to entertain audiences for as long as Moe continues to explain.
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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

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The Happiest Medium Review by Guest Contributor Linnea Covington

Afternoon Tea With Jane Austen (Photographer credit: Chris J. Hing)

Most little girls grow up reading the works of Jane Austen, be it Emma, Sense and Sensibility, or Pride and Prejudice. Some boys also read her stories, but usually that’s a school assignment. But, no matter how you digest this early 19th Century author, one thing remains consistent – you never learn much about her actual life. In Tali Brady’s one-woman play Afternoon Tea With Jane Austen, the Montreal-based actress and playwright attempts to share this history with you.

It’s an excellent way to become acquainted with Austen, and while Brady wrote a wonderfully fluid play chock full of personal details, fetching narratives, and historical information about the author, she doesn’t always execute her role as Austen well. The show started out slow as she bumbled around the who’s-who in Austen’s family, and even though she said herself that it was boring, it still shouldn’t have been. This isn’t because of the subject matter but more of Brady reciting her lines like she’s dictating instead of storytelling.

Luckily, this vibe doesn’t maintain through the entire play. When Brady talks about Austen’s love life and the process she went through to write and publish her books, pure excitement shone through and Brady’s acting became convincing. The same thing happened when she spoke multiple characters’ parts and when she accompanied her tale with the few and far between sound effects—a tool I think would help calm her obvious nervousness.

Despite the energy fluxes in the show,  Brady earned kudos for tackling an hour-long play and taking the stage alone. She managed to perk up near the end and demonstrate the intriguing character that is Jane Austen without completely dulling the audience. For example, did you know Austen had been in love only once and later in life turned down a chance at a compatible marriage preferring to remain a spinster rather than marry without feeling? No? Neither did I. Bits of information like that tickled me.

Ultimately though, next time, given it’s about having tea with an author, I would like to see Brady actually drink tea out of the cup and do it like a lady instead of like someone doing shots. I mean, what would Mr. Darcy say?

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

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The characters of this show may be tiny, a little wooden, and come off as a little stiff but Poe-Dunk: A Matchbox Entertainment is anything but rigid.  In fact, this innovative, charming, engaging show by Playlab NYC directed by John Pieza is a lively piece of theatre thanks to the man behind the matches – Kevin P. Hale.

Hale conceived this show which can be though of as a trip at break-neck speed along the autobahn of Edgar Allan Poe works (in the course of an hour over 30 Poe works are mentioned, performed or touched upon). Hale is also the sole performer, voicing all the characters and maneuvering scores of itty-bitty matchstick puppets around their eensy-weensy sets.  Don’t worry, though, thanks to a projector every microscopic bit of theatre is visible to the audience and there’s not a bad seat in the house.

When  acting as narrator, and giving a bit of history Hale is much like Poe himself who (we are informed) was a great fan of puns.  Puns, of course, can be a bit of an eye-roll but the winning and likable Hale delivers them with such outright enjoyment that it’s almost impossible not to be swept up in the sense of fun that pervades this entire production.

Poe-Dunk is many things at once: play time for grown ups,  multi-media theatre, and an exquisite study in how to shave those zeros off your production budget while still delivering characters who are gorgeously costumed and have the luxury of performing in beautifully appointed sets.

Poe-Dunk, "Annabel Lee"

The set up is simple.  Hale, for the most part, sits at a table and delivers Poe’s works one after another  -some well know (The Tell-Tale Heart, The Mask of the Red Death, The Murders in the Rue Morgue) and some obscure (The Unparalleled Adventure of One Hans Pfaall, The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion, The Philosophy of Furniture).  Each time another small box is drawn forth there’s no telling what will come from it, and as each Matchbox Theatre piece plays out it is nothing short of delightful to watch the clever ways that the tiny sets are manipulated.  These itsy-bitsy sets are not simply static but come complete with all manner of special effect which are highly creative and in some cases utterly ingenious.  While some stories rose far above the original work in terms of playfulness (Cabs, Theatrical Rats) the presentation of  The Cask of Amontillado was as chilling, as dramatic and as memorable as any I would hope to see in a full-scale production and played in a way that would make Poe proud.

One bit of advice if you’re planning to attend  -just as when you go to Madison Square Garden for, say, a Lady Gaga concert and find yourself staring at the Jumbotron the whole time to see her better-  you may find yourself staring at the projection screen most of the time.  Don’t.  To do so would be to rob yourself of the joy of constantly being reminded exactly how small and well-rendered each of these mini-scenes are … as well as keep you from enjoying the expressions on the face of Mr. Hale as he tells these tales of Poe. This is a man who – as PlayLab’s mission statement declares – takes fun way too seriously.  So allow yourself to enter his tiny world and see how amazing it can be to play with matches.

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The 2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL will run February 22-March 4 at The Kraine Theater & The Red Room (85 East 4th Street between 2nd Ave and Bowery) and UNDER St. Marks (94 St. Marks Place between 1st Ave and Ave A). Tickets to all shows may be purchased online at www.FRIGIDnewyork.info or by calling Smarttix at 212-868-4444.

Related Posts:

• Poe-Dunk – A Matchbox Entertainment: 5 Things To Know About The Show Before You Go (2012 FRIGID NEW YORK FESTIVAL)
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