Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
It occurs to me that, though this is a theatre blog predominantly, it is an arts blog in general, and most of my arts-related activities lately have been in the form of music. I belong to two music groups; the Amadeus Choir, an auditioned SATB chorus with approximately 100 members, led by Lydia Adams, and Pavlov’s Dogs, a nerd-rock 6-woman handbell ensemble that plays anything from Queen to the Mario theme. The two groups couldn’t be more different in tone; one tackles large, serious choral masterworks and the other…well, sometimes we spend 15 minutes of practice in serious discussion of the My Little Pony reboot…out of musical necessity, of course. Both are a lot of fun and I find them very fulfilling for different reasons.
One of the reasons I am so fond of musical theatre is that my first love is vocal music. I have been singing in various groups since I was a child, from the Dr. Rao Choir and North York Festival Singers, to Chamber Choir and Earl Haig Singers in high school, to the FireHazards and Koleinu in college and the Barnard/Columbia Chorus and its chamber choir in grad school. I was pretty upset when I had to quit the Columbia Chorus my first year of grad school; filling two nights a week, it was too much, even if I was starting to get the solos I wanted. When I moved back to Toronto, I felt a need for structured singing in my life, and my friend Kelli convinced me that Amadeus was where I wanted to be. Amadeus Choir moves lightning-quickly when it comes to learning new music, and we tend to sing beautiful, compelling pieces. I think my favourite piece of choral music I’ve ever performed was When David Heard by Eric Whitacre, from my first concert last year. I actually felt pained handing the music back.
I love Pavlov’s Dogs, not just because it gives me a chance to play music with some awesome ladies, but because there’s something fantastic about deciding you are going to pick up an instrument and learn it well enough to perform it in a matter of weeks. When I was in college, I decided to pick up the alto saxophone I had put down permanently after grade eight, and for the heck of it, to join the Princeton University Band. I had never played handbells before mid-summer 2010. There’s something to be said for a musical trial by fire. Some might argue a woman of my level of coordination should never attempt to play an instrument where you need to pick up a new thing for every new note you play. But handbells are lovely and make a terrific rounded sound; they have an even more fascinating quality when they are unexpectedly juxtaposed with David Bowie or MGMT. Playing handbells gives you an increased appreciation for the components and composition of music. Because each note is a separate instrument, you become hyper-aware of how a piece is put together and how notes run and mesh. Songs that are easy on saxophone or voice because there are a lot of close runs become feats of dexterity when you are in charge of a specific half-octave. Want to see us in action? Here's the video from our performance at Nerd Girl Pinups' Gunpowder Plot (it's my first concert, so ignore a few clunks), and here are two videos from last year's Christmas show at the Rivoli:Wizards in Winter and A Charlie Brown Christmas.
This Friday, Amadeus performed Handel’s Messiah, which was a lovely experience. Our first concert of the year was Karl Jenkins’ “The Armed Man: A Mass for Peace,” a complex work which deserves a post in itself. On December 17th, at Yorkminster Park Baptist Church, we’re performing an evening of traditional carols, along with new ones; the choir sponsors a yearly competition that alternates between a children’s competition and adult/youth amateurs and professionals. This year is the adult year, and the new carols, from both seasoned professionals and up-and-coming undergraduate composers, are really quite beautiful. One of my favourites so far is the solstice carol, “The Shortest Day;” a little unusual and filled with gorgeous harmonies. We are performing both separately and with the Bach Children’s Chorus. For more info on “Glorious Sounds of the Season,” check here.
Pavlov’s Dogs’ upcoming guest spot is at Lunacy Cabaret’s “A Grotesque Christmas,” in support of Circus Without Borders. We’ll be playing “Carol of the Bells” this time – because, as awesome as it is to play rock handbells, there are just some situations, like Christmas shows, where there is actually music written for handbells, and it would be a shame not to play it occasionally.
The show is at:
Centre of Gravity EAST
Vaudeville Theatre & Circus Training Studio
1300 Gerrard St. East
Advance tickets (they tend to sell out) available at:
Next to Centre of Gravity East
1300 Gerrard St. East
Shanti Baba Trading Company
546 Queen St. West
Check here for details!
That’s where the music in my life is at right now; more updates to come.
(Photo screengrab from video by YouTube user mizzmonsta - thanks for the terrific video!)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
The thing I'm most pleased about in this remount is that we get more moments where the characters are real, human, three-dimensional, and sad; some of the archer moments that seemed to be there for sheer incongruity have been taken out. In my last review I complained about the intrusion of nonsense lyrics about a cartoon bear and the appearance of a bear costume; this has been excised (naturally, as a random Internet blogging dramaturg, I feel entirely responsible for this). In recompense, we get more of the haunting moments that feel like splashes of cold water amidst the warmth that zany humour brings. Jane Doe (Sarah Pelzer) has a longer solo with which to beguile and chill us, the operatic soprano notes floating effortlessly above the choreographed circus cabaret. Ocean's (Rielle Braid) sudden realization that she will never eat beavertails while visiting her mother in Ottawa again was a small emotional moment that I'm not sure is new but was certainly highlighted beautifully. The spooky atmosphere that I loved last time around holds up well on second viewing, as do the very impressive voices of the cast. (I did, however, find the balance and blend occasionally slightly off in some of the choral bits; I wasn't sure whether the high-strung, Type-A Ocean was attempting to overpower the other voices as a character choice or not. It's a very small quibble, however.)
I was left with a question with the realization that the climax of Ocean's debate scene (the opponent in the wheelchair, the topic of whether humans are good) is the same scenario (resolved differently) of one of the few episodes of Community I've gotten a chance to see. Strange coincidence, or nod to the show?
I'm very happy that the show appears to be selling out; it was tonight, with a number of added seats. It appears to be one of those rare shows that has deservedly found its eager audience. That's probably because it's a hell of a ride.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
I’ve been creating an undergraduate course about communication that will be taken as an intro course by every person who goes through the new program its being created for. Because this is a course designed by me, I have a certain license to indulge my predilections for content, which, if you haven’t notice, include theatre. However, much as my inclination tells me otherwise, I am not allowed to turn this into a theatre course. Two weeks is all I’m going to spend on the subject; I have essays, journalism, poetry, short stories, and a novel to teach as well.
Here’s the trouble – how do you introduce undergraduates to theatre in two weeks? The impossibility of the task, in a way, is both completely binding and utterly freeing. I have no possibility of actually introducing theatre in a complete and meaningful way; my goal is to teach some interesting plays and to get across the uniqueness of theatre as a communications medium. What I’ve decided to go for is a combination of two classically-structured plays (one drama, one comedy) for the first week, with a couple of unconventional plays and a monologue to really “play” with the idea of audience and theatrical convention in the second. I’m hoping that a group exercise where the students will read out loud will help them understand how theatre is meaningful on the page, but “pops” on the stage. I’ve done some crowdsourcing, because I have an exceptionally wide base of friends who work in and study theatre, and have turned to a piece I wrote in grad school where I actually had to alter an entire syllabus on 20th-century American plays.
In a way, this exercise maddens me, because I want to teach an entire theatre semester (I tried, but was kindly rebuffed). I want to be able to spend an entire week on Angels in America, but because of these constraints I can’t really teach it at all, as it can’t have an entire week to itself. I’d like to show various modes of theatre and theatre through history; I’d like to get some serious diversity in the plays I teach. Heck, I’d like to teach musical theatre but that’s putting the cart before the horse, theatrically-speaking. I’d like to teach an entire course on theatre as a vessel for social justice, or the way theatre deals with illness; I’d like to teach a course on the monologue, on Canadian playwrights; I’d like to get the chance to teach several of the courses I found immensely valuable in grad school, such as the 20th-century one, the modern theatre history one, or the evolving theory of comedy. But I also find this idea of comparative media to be exciting. I designed this course so that I wouldn’t be “penned down” (pardon the pun) to any particular type of writing, and that came with its advantages and disadvantages. The comparisons between the types of writing are going to be very interesting, but each style/form subset of writing has driven me to its own particular crisis of “what to include?” The range of students in this program, in terms of background, level of English skill, and country of origin will likely be breathtaking.
With that, the starting point changes. Last week, in one of my classes a large percentage of students stared blankly when asked to place the reference, “Alas, poor Yorick!” The grad student in me wanted to lie down and cry. The professor in me decided that this was an awesome learning opportunity, and explained the reference and its meaning with enthusiasm. And, honestly, I think the meaning was understood – that’s the great thing about writers who deal sensitively with universal issues.
In the end, whatever plays these students are taught in this new course (and five is definitely pushing it, even if some are short), the key word is enthusiasm. I’m not going to be able to give anyone a thorough grounding in theatre theory in two weeks, but an idea about why theatre is special and exciting and fun, conveyed through a combination of study and enthusiasm, seems possible.
I’m not going to tell you which plays I’m choosing, because, in the end, the syllabus, particularly pre-approval, is a private matter between the institution and the course developer. I’m hoping I haven’t overstepped my bounds here by just talking out some of my mental process. Feel free to speculate or suggest, though!
Sunday, October 16, 2011
As a 26-year-old (sessional) English professor who occasionally feels out of her depth (such as when she gets assigned to teach technical report writing instead of literary analysis), the 27-year-old teacher protagonist of Erin Fleck’s Those Who Can’t Do… (directed by Shari Hollett) resonated with me strongly when I spent 75 minutes with her on Thursday night. In fact, I was taking a break between teaching, grading and then grading some more when I watched the show, so let’s just say I was primed for understanding.
As difficult as it is to teach engineers how to write memos sometimes, I imagine it is vastly more awkward to teach 14-year-olds sex ed. This is the unenviable position Lillian Campbell finds herself in at the beginning of the school year; the low woman on the totem pole gets switched from English and Ancient Civ to Health, with only a manual of objectives from 1999 (the most recent edition) for company. Factor in a progressive attitude, paucity of personal sexual experience, and students who take her message both too seriously and not seriously enough, and you have a potentially explosive mix in a small town. A scandal catapults the program, and Lillian, into the public eye, or at least the parents’ eyes.
Playwright/performer Fleck takes us through Lillian’s tumultuous “experiment,” in which the teacher struggles to end the cycle of shame that she feels has ruined her own approach to sexuality and threatens to do the same to the school’s young women. The topic is in many ways as timely now as it has ever been, and Fleck’s script deals with it sensitively but is not afraid to raise the frustration level, both with her unresponsive students and the even less responsive town. The one dramatic issue here is that Lillian seems so obviously in the right that some of the other adult characters sometimes appear more nuanced versions of villains out of a Victorian children’s fantasy.
Where Fleck succeeds is when she asks the questions that are extremely difficult to answer: what is the difference between sexual empowerment and being taken advantage of, by the media or others, or being reduced to the sexual impulse? How can we support the healthy sexuality of our youth while still giving them a firm grounding in the possible consequences of this exploration? How does anyone know if he or she is truly “ready”? How do parents reconcile their own teenage experiences, desires and mistakes with their current protective impulses? And how do we expect teachers to be the ones to discuss these sensitive, confidential subjects with their students, attempting to build trust while ultimately required to be responsible for parental opinion?
The play is not just a diatribe on these subjects; while asking these questions, Fleck gives us a moving portrayal of a woman who is coming to terms with her mother’s past disapproval of any sexual expression, whether it be toward the neighbours’ son or Leonardo DiCaprio’s brooding expression in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet. As well, we listen to the teenagers, and here we see a greater richness of character and conflict that could serve some of the adult characters. Each character is introduced by the writing of his or her name on a chalkboard, a potentially time-consuming or awkward signifier that is actually quite helpful. That is, Fleck’s styling of each signature is an effective exercise in non-verbal explanation. We can figure out when a character is uptight and proper, or understand immediately the unbalanced, sloppy lettering of a teenage boy. It’s extremely helpful, in part because we’ve got an initial mental image, but also in part because each character’s voice and physicality are not as defined in performance as they could be, though Fleck’s performance remains compelling.
At the end of the performance, each patron is given a button that reads, “know thyself.” I won’t do you the disservice of explaining why, but the message is a good one. Some more focus on character and a little less on message, and Those Who Can’t Do… will be an even better teacher.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
DeMara has this odd idea that a dramaturg is there to, I suppose, overthink things; to make the play experimental, obtuse, and boring. To many people, the word dramaturg is equated with pretension. (Well, to many people the equation is actually dramaturg = dramaturge = what is that?) I guess that’s fair – to call back to Avenue Q, the word is scary and German, so “experimental and pretentious? That is German!” But, if a dramaturg makes his or her work convoluted and purely academic, “savagely dissecting” someone’s work, then he or she is not a good dramaturg, which does happen. There are dramaturgs involved in “turgid drama” out there, just like there directors who are dire, playwrights who are just playing at writing and inactive actors. But I have never walked out of a badly written show and thought “That’s it, I’m never watching anything scripted again!” (Except for perhaps John Patrick Shanley’s Romantic Poetry, which was such an abomination that I almost never watched anything again, because I almost clawed my own eyes out...by the way, that show had one writer/director and credited no dramaturg, and it was obvious.)
It’s ludicrous to dismiss an entire profession because DeMara thinks that only pretentious fussbudgets would have a dramaturg for a Fringe show. I, instead, call that treating “even” a Fringe show with the respect and communication it deserves. DeMara posits that a show must be fresh and spontaneous, which rules out the idea of dramaturgy, or, in fact, any careful consideration of the show at all, suggesting that a “true” Fringe show just throws the first thing that comes to mind at the audience. If that is so, the festival should be improv-only, or at very least, allow no rewrites and only one rehearsal from the actors. Rewriting IS dramaturgy. The rehearsal process IS dramaturgy.
The idea that a show should only be dramaturged after its production shows that DeMara seems to have confused a show’s dramaturg with a reviewer. As I’ve demonstrated in this blog, a dramaturg can write reviews – of other people's shows. But dramaturgy, an attempt to ensure a show’s cohesion on the stage, needs to take place before the show opens. It is intertwined with the process; it can’t exist apart from the process. There is a reason that critics aren’t invited in to review a show before opening night. Criticism is reactive, and thus largely useless to the particular production it is about; it’s for the audience, for history, perhaps for the team to think about for their next show. Dramaturgy is, and must be, active.
There is a reason that you get an MA in Theatre, but an MFA in Dramaturgy. That’s because an MFA signifies some sort of connection with the real world (and don’t snicker, I realize that spending money to get an MFA signifies a certain amount of disconnect with the “real world”) as well as an academic background, while an MA can potentially focus on only the latter. The moment I decided that I wanted a degree in Dramaturgy and not Theatre was sitting at the academic conference portion of the show I was involved in staging, and I realized that the active state of translating this academic knowledge into a valid and immediate performance for an audience was what particularly excited me. For an MFA, you have to put your academic background into practice and make it work. You have to work on shows. You have to take a look at the realities of theatre in the current climate. You study season planning, how to create an artistic vision that is also accessible; you study marketing, fundraising, grant writing: distilling a message. You can be as academic as you like at the table read or in the privacy of your own home, but the only things an audience will see out of your production are perhaps a program note and the production itself, not the explanation behind it. So you have to make your intention and message clear and interesting.
An MFA in Dramaturgy should carry with it an additional designation in Communications, because that’s what it is. You communicate the playwright’s wishes to the director, the actors, the designers, and the audience, and you communicate all of those people’s wishes to each other so that you are all on the same page. A dramaturg isn’t there to laugh at and muddle the audience; a dramaturg is an audience’s advocate in the room. A dramaturg is there to ask why a director has decided to stage Polonius’ famous speech in Pig Latin, to ask a playwright why his character has a sudden, inexplicable change in personality, to ask an actor if he has all the information he needs to deal with a complicated Greek legend, a designer why the entire cast of Hedda Gabler has been outfitted as space pirates. A dramaturg is there to streamline and demystify and to make sure everyone respects each other’s contribution to the project.
Perhaps you don’t like a creative team’s aesthetic. Does that mean the dramaturg is terrible, or are we all individual people and it just might not be your cup of tea? It’s like having a bad experience with a doctor and then declaring that “the job of any doctor is to kill the patient.” The job of any doctor is to save the patient, even if the patient sometimes dies. The basic fact that a dramaturg can be an almost indescribable position because it is so many things to so many people signifies that the profession cannot be lumped together as either homogenous or useless.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
As a reviewer, the first commitment you make is to review shows only once you have seen each complete show. The cardinal sin of reviewing is to leave before the performance is completely finished but to submit a review anyway (this happened to a show I was in junior year of undergrad, and it proved the reporter’s eventual downfall). Misprint presents the conundrum: how do you review a show that is presented as Part One of a two-part piece, but one that the team has chosen to present singly, as a first act to an audience paying full price (well, Fringe price) who won’t get the second act until much later if at all? Taking both things into consideration, the answer seems to be to review it as a full show while acknowledging that there is a second act both planned and in the works. In many ways that does not change the initial reaction to the play, though it’s difficult to judge story pacing and thematic import.
Misprint has been described as “Archie Comics meets The Truman Show,” and this is the most accurate description I can think of. Perpetually sixteen-year-old Elly (Lauren Toffan, also the show’s co-writer and director) is the only person in the world of Sunnydale (this fictional Sunnydale, sadly, contains no Buffy or vampires) who does not know that her town is actually the artificial setting of a long-running comic strip. The story is an interesting concept, and the takeoff on Archie comics pitch-perfect; as a child who spent too much time and money feeding an Archie Comics addiction, I found the twisted Archie characters were hilarious; all landed with me as adept take-offs. Unfortunately, while the performance was ultimately entertaining, much of the time this show is a triumph of style and archness (no pun intended) over substance.
The show has a strong candy-coloured, cartoon aesthetic; there is a clear director’s vision, but the execution doesn’t always work out. For example, the characters move as if they are two-dimensional, unable to turn as they shuffle sideways, in and out of frame. This is a neat sight gag, but it sacrifices the ability to be fluid in its attempts to land the joke for the rest of the show. The director appears to feel this constraint, as the particular movement is picked up and left off whenever it is convenient, which is jarring.
The music is often entertaining, but many of the lyrics are unfortunately banal (and not banal in the sense that life in Sunnydale is supposed to be banal, just a bit lazy-sounding), and sound like rambling stream of consciousness meditations instead of carefully constructed gems; though the characters are in many cases nervous and losing their grip, and not everyone needs to think in Sondheim, it just seems tired. Slightly more polished lyrics would be welcome, even if it is “just” a Fringe show.
The lyrics occasionally seem to be deliberately constructed in order not to rhyme; it was hard to tell whether this was to signify that something was wrong, or whether it was an affectation. Though there are enough rhymes to suggest this is untrue and not a consistent thing, it’s particularly strange to the ear when lines which could rhyme are twisted for no reason not to rhyme (not an exact example, but say a rhyme that could have been made with “me” and “forty-three” would be changed so that “me” is “rhymed” with “forty-two”). Lyrics aren't required to rhyme, and there is certainly a place in musical theatre for recitative, but if the lyricist isn't showing us why this piece needs to be in song specifically using the heightened rhythmic language of rhyme, the lyrics have to be particularly well-crafted to stand in their own blank verse. Exceptions that heighten interest in the show’s possibilities include the standout penultimate song, an Elly solo which actually reaches a kind of emotional truth, and a Betty-vs-Veronica duet between happy (future) homemaker Elly and jet-setting Monica with support from a classroom of girls direct from the chorus of Grease. The score’s strong point is its counterpoint melodies, which are particularly difficult to write, but manage to be successful and intriguing, suggesting that composer and co-writer Yan Li has some tricks up his sleeve.
Acting, like the sideways-shuffle-motion, is variable, mostly in the smaller parts where the risk of over-mugging increases; Elly and Monica (Kristen Sehn) are standouts (Monica, in particular, demands attention). The character of Charlie is deeply confusing; is he creepy and awful, just a bad actor (the character, that is), suffering from severe health problems or all of the above? His song, a version of that gospel song included in every ironic musical since Urinetown, is a sincerely off-putting piece about divesting clothing. As usual, the female vocals are generally stronger, but the singers mostly hit the right notes.
The only problem with the Truman Show meets Archie Comics premise is, besides predisposing me towards assumptions as to how the show would unfold, that it is never satisfactorily explained why Elly’s predicament a necessary thing to happen in this world. There is the issue of suspense in this case (not wanting to let on what exactly is going on before the big reveal), but premise can be explained without ruining this suspense. Why is it important or a big selling point that only Elly not know that she is in a comic book, and for this to be a comic book where time is circular and her 16th year is lived over and over? In fact, as far as we know, this doesn’t seem to be a major selling point to the audience; issue sales are apparently way down, and its not strongly conveyed that the audience of the comic knows Elly is ignorant of her situation. It’s also unexplained how everyone remains the same age, though perhaps a certain injection shown early on has something to do with it, and exactly how the comic world interacts with the real world. It’s just so hard to judge character, story, arcs, and particularly payoffs because this is only the first part. Perhaps in issue two?
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
It must be deeply irritating to be a female comedy troupe like She Said What. More often than not, the focus of reviews is on your gender; you’ve got to feel like each show is a referendum on whether or not women can be funny. On their website, She Said What recognizes this particular lens through which their art is viewed, saying that they strive to “move beyond that categorization and create comedy that is funny regardless of gender.” However, I’ve seen reviews already that focus on this troupe as showing “female empowerment” or being impressive in terms of making women, and things that are of concern to women, funny, which bothers me. In fact, just by mentioning this concept as a reaction to other reactions, I feel like I’m falling into the same trap and making this review about gender, so I do apologize for that. Leveling a judgment against women as a whole is simply unnecessary. Women can be funny, and women can be not funny. End of story. Sometimes I am funny, and sometimes I am not, but honestly, that has more to do with making an overly-academic pun to a beleaguered audience than my gender.
I feel like the notion of “women’s humour” is a self-perpetuating one that’s hard to get away from; even refuting it winds up referencing it. On the other hand, it’s a ridiculous notion that humour needs to be unaffected by any of our defining characteristics; the way we experience the world naturally affects how we skewer it. What matters to me is whether this group achieved their goal- whether its members are smart and entertaining. And, in the end, they are, though the act as a whole was not as strong as I wanted it to be.
The show begins with each cast member dancing frenetically onstage and attempting to generate applause. While the dancing is amusing and the high energy great to see, most of the audience seemed to be at the show on the strength of review, as opposed to fans watching a known quantity. If the performance is at a regular haunt, to people who are clearly already won over, this is a gambit that can really succeed in creating excitement. However, in a less comfortable situation, I find that any comedy group’s show tends to come off better when it opens with a blisteringly funny sketch and THEN introduces itself for audience applause. This rule works for any comic, musician, or performer: show us something first to get us pumped up before demanding approbation. The show and the audience seemed to get off on the wrong foot, and that’s possibly why my reaction was less cheery than I wanted it to be; the audience was for some reason flat and largely unresponsive. Audience is a huge factor when it comes to comedy, and it’s possible the troupe just had some bad luck here.
However, some tired staples of comedy are still occasionally present: that is, that women must always be bitchy and fighting with each other and gossiping behind each others’ backs –it’s the basis of their entire onstage persona in this particular outing. Other than the genuinely self-deprecating bits at the beginning, where we find out exactly what they have *not* achieved, the show’s weakest points, like the opening, (except for a puerile celebrity impression skit with timing issues that tries to wring big laughs out of Justin Bieber shitting himself) are when the troupe tries to “be themselves” –well, a version of themselves.
In any case, I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, because they have some very sharp pieces; it’s a worthwhile experience when they step past stereotype and right outside the box. Some of the more stereotypical humour actually helped me appreciate the subversive pieces better, as a kind of “compare and contrast” exercise. The hockey moms sketch, while well-worn ground, has some nice rhythmic and vocal work and is a stitch; the constant cajoling to the children to pick themselves up from the ice as they get progressively more injured builds to a nice twist ending. Napoleon and Josephine star in a properly bent look at their crumbling marriage and gender dynamics, particularly when the boots come out. And the horrors of ballet are taken to a very unexpected place, musically, as the ballerinas show a sharper edge. The performers are talented, Emma Hunter in particular. Her snappy timing, some great accent skills and a commanding stage presence were a great combination.
She Said What really speaks when it goes to the oddball, bizarre and goofy. The gleeful, barely-restrained mania displayed by these comedians is an appealing strength. A bit more focus, and focus on the juxtaposition between an old concept and a new angle, and I’ll definitely want to hear more.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Awake is a show I felt I needed to see. I wrote my undergraduate thesis play as a somewhat delayed reaction to the spate of gun violence in Toronto that some dubbed “the summer of the gun,” that ended in the Boxing Day shooting at the Eaton’s Centre. Though proud of my work, I realize that my background of privilege and personal experiences mark me as an outsider to the world that I was partially writing about; it’s no wonder that I found it easier to get inside the head of an accomplished, fairly well-off student and her community than I did young male gang members and the community that shaped their lives. Therefore, I was really excited to see a show that did what I, in my shyness, had failed to do – take a real incident, this time the gang-related shooting of two young black men, the latter at the former’s funeral, and actually interview the community to create portraits of preachers, mothers, cops, and the young men and women who are trying to get out of poverty and despair one way or another.
Awake took place in the Walmer Baptist Church, a place I had never entered, but its beauty added much to the almost religious experience that was occurring between the impassioned speeches, emotional impact and the beautifully-sung music, particularly the gospel. Though the environment was somewhat stifling in the summer heat, conscientiously-placed palm fans both provided some respite and added to the atmosphere. The clearly real coffin on stage gave the proceedings an appropriately solemn air. The entire space is used well; Fringe organizers clearly knew what they were doing when they gave this site-specific venue a chance.
Because it is based on interviews, Awake sounds honest and raw; not to the point where it isn’t still lyric, but it certainly bears the mark of authenticity. It doesn’t hurt that it is extremely well-cast. All the actors are very strong, to the point where I’m legitimately sad that I haven’t seen more of their work, but they also all project the right physical and emotional centres to fill their characters. The cop (David Shelley) has the build and walk of a cop, the mother (Quancetia Hamilton) an astounding amount of emotional gravitas mixed with a warm laugh; the young mother (Beryl Bain) an impressive mix of vulnerability, self-assurance, and self-awareness; a drug dealer (Peyson Rock) convincingly and simultaneously tough, funny, and sympathetic. Though the cast is strong, there’s an occasional sense of the amateur, a feeling of “let’s put on a show!” - but I’m not sure that hurts the production; it may help it.
The show is also impressive in that writer/directors Lauran Mullin and Chris Tolley intercut the interviews with a very specific narrative in mind. The plot moves forward as we move backward and forward in time; there is little fat, although when there are seams and bits of confusion - like a scene set in a club where the explanatory words were lost in the cavernous church and the resulting performance didn’t make sense - it’s jarring. Words were often an issue and were actually exacerbated by the cast being miked. Though projection is difficult in a large space, at least there would be no distortion; because the show’s strength is its immediacy, reality, and connection with the audience, having that layer of distance is distracting and counterproductive.
Music is a source of real beauty in the piece, and serves as an effective framing device. The only music that doesn’t quite work is that of rapper U.R.V.: unfortunately, due to the space, many of the words didn’t carry. Even if they had, the artist seemed piloted in, like a cameo in a rap video that seemed entirely engineered to promote her own career, as she was name-dropped more than once to an audience somewhat confused by her presence. The cast worked so well together, and were such an organic unit, that the only reason to have a two-scene “outsider” would have been to have the character actually be, deliberately, an outsider. The outsider in this show is the police officer, and even he is painted sensitively and allowed meaningful interaction with the rest of the cast, so it seemed strange. Even the cast members who are in the show as dancers still have well-defined roles within scenes.
I appreciated how the show fought against stereotype, and fought against picking a villain, whether it be the authority figure or the gangs. Everyone is given a fair chance to tell their story, and to tell it while being treated with respect. It would be easy to blame someone, when there are a host of contributing factors, none of which are easy to solve, and the show is not afraid to get complex, though answers are in short supply. There’s an overarching air of sadness and resignation to the show, but also one of hope, aided by the glorious harmony of hymns- how many Fringe shows have an organist? I hope Awake’s funeral has a second life elsewhere.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
One of my final projects in my second year of grad school (the last year of classes) was to produce an hour-long radio show with my three fellow dramaturgs, who, luckily for me, all happened to be folks of the awesome persuasion. I dubbed it “MFA FM” because I’m clever like that, and our nine playwrights collaborated on three short pieces that were all genre send-ups: an unusual housewife solving 15-minute mysteries, a hard-boiled cop walking his gritty beat, and a teen drama about high school where one of the cliques just happened to be comprised of zombies. The highlight of the show came in its actual production, where our sound man had to not only use the trademark tiny door for entrances and exits and make gunshot sounds, but was required to create a zombie flesh-munching, bone-crunching sound that, as I remember, included celery and jelly. While the show was recorded for Columbia’s university radio station, the fun was really had by the live studio audience, which was there to “watch” radio and sound.
It was with this mindset that I went to watch The Canadian Space Opera Company’s Gravestone Posse, set, appropriately enough, at another university’s radio station (University of Toronto, this time).
Gravestone Posse has all the hallmarks of a classic Western thriller, only the villainous gunslingers are more undead than usual. There’s James Pitt, the outlaw with the heart of gold who keeps the piece, the saloon owner Doc Watson and his virtuous daughter Effie, the town drunk Stumpy McReady, sultry singer Ulla, prissy Priscilla Farnsworth, Temperance advocate, the angry young upstart, increasingly Nasty Norman Entwistle, the sheriff and his nebbish civilian deputy, and of course the band of rogues up to ruining the town. Only this time, the bar owner is a living Wikipedia, the singer is a fish-obsessed Norwegian, and the rogues are zombies.
The show is full of puns and cheeky innuendo, although it turns out that the “pelvic massage” might actually be…a massage concentrating on the pelvis. The story and characters are necessarily predictable (to the point of “hoary old chestnut” status), but do have enough twists to keep things interesting even if the writing isn’t comedy gold, and occasionally not even comedy bronze. The jokes, again, run to the silly and punning. Many of them are quite funny, but there are some real timing issues that cause others to whimper and peter out. A strength of a fake radio show is always its ludicrous commercials, and these ones, at least, don’t disappoint.
Many in the cast do some fine voice work, those playing Stumpy, Priscilla, and Ulla/Norman in particular, but others are less confident and there is one particularly weak link in the cast who cannot hold an accent, a fatal attribute in radio.
The show attempts to play with some of the conventions of radio, but doesn't go far enough in its exploration. One thing that caught my attention was the lack of doubling. The cast was quite large, with only a couple of double roles. Double (or triple) roles for voice actors is one of the greatest attributes of radio – it signifies a clear difference from a staged reading. Perhaps some further employment of this concept would have resulted in a tighter, more interesting show. The more the hallmarks of radio are acknowledged and lampooned, the more worthwhile the show becomes as both radio performance piece and commentary.
The sound effects were ably performed, and one important radio tradition was given its due when the effects artist became responsible for aurally creating an extremely elaborate fight scene that we only hear described. It’s in poking fun at these customs that the show finds its feet. Sometimes the best moments are when a show loses its footing, though; for the last shot, the gun didn’t go off. Startled, the effects artist just said, “BANG.” The magic of live radio.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Adam Underwood’s Tyumen, Then, (Too-MAIN, if you were wondering) an extremely black comedy, is a study in effective contrasts. It features one of the most amoral, self-preserving characters you will ever meet, who is driven to the brink of insanity by even the thought of selflessness. It’s grotesque and chilling. But then, it also has an ice-skating-obsessed Vladimir Lenin rising from his coffin in a “Kiss the Cook” apron, so you be the judge.
Two Russian soldiers stand in a boxcar, guarding what nobody will tell them but what they suspect is the body of Lenin, being spirited from Russia in order to avoid possible desecration by the Nazis. One, Dimitri (Lyon Smith) is an annoying but completely guileless individual, particularly for a soldier during WWII – you wonder if it’s his first day on the job, marvel at his ability to keep up constant inane chatter, but eventually melt for his continued naïve optimism. He is a kind of winningly annoying Dr. Pangloss, who, though met with constant pain, continues to believe in the best of all possible worlds. His compatriot, Ivan (Kevin MacDonald) is his polar opposite and is having none of his friendly overtures. When the boxcar screeches to a halt with no hint of whether or not it will ever continue its journey, survival mode kicks in for Ivan and Dimitri is a willing dupe.
Meanwhile, we wonder, is it Lenin, on ice, or Lenin On Ice? The charismatically loony Adam Lazarus is clearly having the time of his life playing Lenin post-mortem with increasingly whimsical props. At first he can only be seen by Dimitri, as he complains of memory-inflicted head pain, asks to be taken skating and spouts prophecy, but he intrudes more and more into the world as things go off the rails (metaphorically, that is).
The play is a (sickening) riot. With its seemingly absurd and light tone, the eventual violence comes as both an inevitability and a shock. However, once the horror threshold is breached, though one hopes for the best, one knows there is no turning back and all bets are off. This certainly makes things more exciting; the show manages to create enormous suspense in its willingness to irrevocably harm its characters. The dialogue (at times, monologue) is in turn hilarious and interminable, a sort of combination between Questions and Who’s On First? Though this seemingly-endless back-and-forth interaction and the stopped boxcar initially give the play the impression of a Russian train-based version of Godot, things change: the characters do move – and cut, and strangle, and skate.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Andrew Bailey, of Victoria’s Atomic Vaudeville, comes to the Toronto Fringe riding his own personal cyclone – the solo show. The show is sold based on Bailey’s incredible problem-solving skills: that is, he solves the meaning of life in the first minute and then spends the rest trying to un-solve that. Bailey delivers on his promise, and his premise for life’s meaning seems sound. I don’t really want to spoil it for you, even if it’s revealed within a minute. The rest of the show is how Bailey came to that initial conclusion, and how he suffers to find it.
When a show’s description invokes a near-death experience, most people think of a car accident, or a heart attack. Few expect to hear the line, “The first time I was possessed…” Bailey’s touching and disturbing story involves mental illness from childhood, an incapacity to remove “bad” thoughts and a tendency to self-blame to the point of obsession. Then there’s the possession thing. The show is full of the unexpected, leading to a narrative that is at times fascinating. It relies on stories from youth that are alternately hysterical and sad, and its strength is the ability to be relatable to an audience that has varying degrees of experience with mental illness, particularly a pathology that is a little more unusual than, say, depression. Its other strength is visceral imagery that really helps us enter his world, which is extremely helpful in a bare-bones solo experience.
Bailey’s story is not perfect; some jokes don’t land, some stories seem a bit too digressive or uncomfortable, and his voice and delivery take a little getting used to. He manages to balance humour and cringe-worthy personal confession, but this isn’t a show for those afraid of soul-baring. It’s very honest and there’s a real interest in audience connection. Not to say audience participation, but it’s very hard to hide emotionally from what he has to say. Of course, if you’re trying to hide emotionally, then what are you doing in the theatre?
Last night I enjoyed my inaugural SummerWorks 2011 show, a short play called Zugzwang by Michael Atlin which I suppose I can call a "chess piece."
For some reason, I have never managed to whip myself into the same furor of excitement for SummerWorks as I do for the Fringe. In many ways, that makes no sense. Many of the theatres are the same, though there aren't as many in the middle. The plays tend to be about the same length, mostly bite-sized. And it's juried, which means that a watcher is much less likely to watch the unwatchable. But that's where the magic of Fringe comes into play. As a dramaturg, the most exciting thing about Fringe, aside from its sheer volume (my program guide every year looks like I'm planning some sort of military action) and the experience of desperately running from one theatre to the next and sliding in one minute to curtain, is the ability to skirt the dangers of the lottery and be one's own jury. In a way, I love the anarchic aspect. To be fair, I don't like watching painfully bad theatre, and, as such, I've gotten remarkably good at picking the good shows, figuring out from descriptions what theatre companies have aesthetics that complement my own, at riding the buzz to victory.
Then there's the cheap aspect. It is absolutely unfair, particularly this year, for me to criticize SummerWorks' pricing - Summerworks is cheap for theatre. But my ticket still cost about double what I'd pay at Fringe. The large Buddy Passes at the Fringe practically force you to marathon theatre, careening from one show to the next, and for less than $8 a show I find my buoys my spirit of adventure. There are only a few Summerworks passes available that come close (maybe next year I should try to snap up one of the 30 10-play passes, though I imagine they're gone in minutes).
None of this is to say SummerWorks should change. It is a fabulous festival. But it reminds me of New York Fringe in a lot of ways. It's like a cross between Toronto and New York Fringe, I guess. I think I would be absolutely crazy about SummerWorks if Fringe hadn't been my first love, and wasn't first every summer. The main cause of my less-enthusiastic attendance, I suppose, is burnout (as you can tell from my slow, slow reviewing right now). I mainline Fringe for two weeks and then I'm done. It's an all-or-nothing feeling; I feel like to be part of the spirit of SummerWorks I need to see as many shows as I did with Fringe (which I guess would be more than half of the festival). I need to start making more of an effort to stop worrying and love the festival, and also I need to live closer to downtown so it doesn't take forever to get to Factory or Passe Muraille. Back to Factory Theatre, and inside it, Zugzwang.
Zugswang takes place in an Etobicoke Jewish Community Centre (at the "Seventh Bi-Monthly" tournament), and the set (designed by George Quan), complete with clip-arted "no smoking" flyers, certainly looks the part. Besides setting and character names, the script is remarkably free of stereotypical Jewish-related humour, which is refreshing and unexpected. That's because this script is far more interested in an exploration of chess and the people who love, or at least tolerate, it.
The Arbiter, Simon (Andy Trithardt) starts us off, not telling us in song that he knows the score, but in monologue detailing his love for the game and a strategic trap that's often used to lure new players into defeat. A fabric chessboard mounted on the wall is a nice visual that he uses to illustrate the hypothetical game. In an entertaining twist, he assures us that "it's not a metaphor for anything;" except, perhaps, for the script, which likes to keep us on our toes by subverting our expectations. Zugzwang likes to wear its heart on its sleeve; it's light and funny with some nice character moments, not particularly aspirational in the metaphor department, and that's okay. The opening does, however, seem designed to bait the dramaturg, as the starting non-metaphor does sort of like the gun that's not allowed to go off. Karl (Josh Reaume) and Igor (Dylan George) are roommates (in college, one assumes); the first, a dedicated and deeply sexist chess nerd, the latter, seemingly drifting without direction. Sidney (Ephraim Ellis), a stylish, proper gent with organization-focused OCD, seems locked in an eternally frustrating pick-up game of life with the anything-but-stylish or proper, vulgar Bob (Matthew Gorman), whose headphones are always in use; only a shared addiction to cigarettes seems to unite them. (Having music blare from only one speaker whenever Bob removes them was a fun directorial choice [Frankie Hall], though it speaks volumes that when I first heard it, I was positive someone's cell phone was going off.) The players are rounded out by an unseen nine-year-old girl, a homeschooled prodigy with an apparently creepily dead-eyed teddy bear, and Susan (Nora Smith) whose female presence threatens Karl's concentration, which may ruin Igor's chances of a new friend.
The play mixes genuine affection for chess and its bizarre adherents with a storyline that would encourage very few to pick up a rook and join in. In particular, it reaffirms stereotypes of players as emotionally stunted nerd-men, and is unafraid to push all the sexism buttons with little repercussion; though Susan manages a small amount of extortion, her authority-sanctioned punishment for having the audacity to come play chess while being female is perhaps a bit much, frustrating while amusing. The actors all embodied the roles well; no matter how much they were given to work with character-wise, each one of them at least had a small acting treat. In particular, a rhythmic section featuring only the noises of the tournament building on themselves was seamless and joyful, a slightly absurd moment in an otherwise very naturally-built world. I found myself interested in what drew each player to chess, because the characters seemed richest in that interpretive direction. For Sid, it seemed to be the organizational aspect, for Karl, the winning and rules-lawyering (definitely a person who always needs to be right even while cheating). Igor seemed like he was playing out of inertia, to continue a long-standing tradition with a friend. Susan, perhaps to prove herself. Bob, possibly for the gambling potential, though I found myself wanting much more of his story. In fact, there were many stories that I thought could have been deepened, to create side characters who were more well-rounded and less a label or collection of tics.
This wasn't a play for introspection, though; that was made clear. It was a game, and a fun game, at that. The play's focus on the dynamics between pairs, and the strategies they used on one another to get a desired result, was very fitting for its thematic subject. Hey, maybe there was a metaphor in there, after all.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
“Everyone died,” Steph (Mel Marginet) blurts out to us within the first seconds of Theatre By the River’s production of Sean Rycraft’s One Good Marriage. “Everyone’s dead.” This clearly isn’t the introduction to their first anniversary that husband Stewart (Matthew TenBruggencate) is looking for, but he rolls with it. The two, celebrating their anniversary with a half-hung banner and only the audience for company, are trying to tell us the story of how their lives drastically changed in an instant. It’s a difficult process, which results in a lot of rewinding and rehashing of earlier events as the couple comes to terms with their new status in a small town.
One Good Marriage is billed as a comedy but it’s really not; an extremely black comedy, perhaps, but while the lightness of avoidance is a presence in the show, humour is less so, and when it is, it mostly doesn’t come directly from the sad absurdity of the tragic events that are required to create black comedy. The show is still compelling and worthwhile, but under no circumstances go in looking for a laugh riot.
The quick back-and-forth rhythms in dialogue built up by the couple make up much of the show; the actors have clearly put in a lot of work polishing their timing, and it pays off in a very smooth performance. These rhythms are impressive; however, they are also unceasing and too often unchanging, only altering when Stewart tries to calm Steph down by encouraging her to focus on banal household objects (which, in its own way, is a fascinating technique). This constant rhythm, while effective in producing tension, can also have a lulling effect on the audience, particularly in the stifling atmosphere of the theatre. This is counterproductive to a show with such an unsettling catalyst and core. Once the fatal event is actually described, the horror and shock can take your breath away, but there is a lot of banter designed to keep you guessing, and occasionally this wondering what happened is the only thing keeping you going.
One Good Marriage gets a lot of mileage out of the juxtaposition of the day-to-day realities of small-town life stacked up against the life-changing realities of dramatic death. Rhythmically, however, the show needs to decide whether the characters get a true arc, with which they can move on with their lives at the end of the play, or whether the “rhythm is gonna get you” and they are truly stuck in a Waiting For Godot-esque exploration of their lives, where they go, but do not move.
I must admit I was slightly confused when I noticed the team of actors wearing drag queen costumes to promote Radioactive Drag Queens From the Year 3000 was mostly comprised of women. However, within a few minutes, the play explains this odd choice well. You see, after more than a thousand years of drag queen culture, particularly once said queens became a high-status class, drag queens are still men but have perfected the female look incredibly well. In fact, they generally have a great time of it…except for their radioactive hairspray, that is. This is explained by the officious but warm Celeste (Nicole Fairbairn) and her drag robot Blip (Anne-Marie Krytiuk) to Doug (George Bertwell), aka Mademoiselle Betty Croquet, a wannabe performer who has owned a drag bar for many years without getting onstage. After the radioactive drag queens land in his bar after hours, Doug is informed that a first-time performer from his bar will have a show the next day that will be pivotal to drag queen history, and that Celeste and Blip have been sent to protect this performer from an evil saboteur. Doug is eventually joined in his incredulity by straight-but-disbelieved bartender Sean (Kevin Vidal), who tries continually and unsuccessfully to score with paranoid android and supremely literalist Blip. This choice of female actors playing two of the three drag queens is the first indication that this show does not deal with the topic in a stereotypical manner.
The play focuses on a dual message; the first, the importance sharing your true self, particularly when you don’t conform to any culture or genre’s stereotype, may be well-worn but is delivered with warmth and humour, particularly in Doug’s final monologue. The second, bolder message centres on bartender Sean’s story; it strongly rejects the notion that a straight man working in a drag bar should expect to have his sexuality questioned and mocked by the bar’s patrons, even if he secretly believes he could give a better drag queen performance than any of them. Sean is a character who is both maddening and sympathetic, and his message, with its unusual twist, is thought-provoking. While on one level one is reluctant to praise this “think of a straight person’s feelings” message to the gay community within a week of the mayor’s refusal to participate in Pride (and can totally understand if some took offense), there is a strong and valid point that, to eventually get to a truly enlightened society, everyone must be supportive of the innate being of everyone else, no matter what that does or does not conform to.
The script is light and funny even with its considerable message; unfortunately, it has several cheesy jokes, but most punchlines hit their marks. Laughed perhaps a little too hard at an extended Settlers of Catan joke, which proves drag queens can enjoy a good board game as much as the rest of us. The joke, again, is an example of how the show shies away from the stereotypical to find humour in the slightly unexpected and fresh, even if many plot twists do seem either contrived or obvious. All actors are ultimately likeable, though there is the occasional line flub and some actors are less natural and stiffer than others (yes, that’s what she said), and that’s not counting the robot. Contrary to most of its advertising, the show has made a deliberate decision to focus on soul rather than flash, which is welcome. It’s not great theatre, but it’s not completely a trifle, either. Radioactive Drag Queens From the Year 3000 isn’t what I expected it to be, but that’s okay. In a way, it’s better.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Padre X, a solo show by Marc Moir, is the story of the only Candian army chaplain to earn the Victoria Cross (and some fame), for his almost insane devotion to the men of his company during the Second World War. Declaring “England has too many chaplains already,” John Weir Foote refused to be transported back home after the attack on Dieppe, jumping off the boat to be captured by German forces and spend years comforting soldiers as a POW. Moir’s characterization strikes the right balance between folksy humility and tearful reverence. He speaks directly to the audience, telling his story to pass the time while waiting for a delayed Canadian train (some things, it appears, never change).
Moir recounts the events of Dieppe lyrically while never romanticizing death or war. He inhabits the character of Foote with ease and assurance. The writing is crisp and efficient, a piece of excellent craftsmanship. Moir shows clear love for his story, telling the audience post-show about a new archival find that he had the privilege of studying that caused a script change; as she is also an archivist, this warmed the reviewer’s heart. Props are used sparingly and judiciously; mostly realistic save an umbrella standing in for a gun. The choice speaks to the production’s eventual choice of a slightly removed warmth over a feeling of immediate danger. This is a production one can easily see the CBC turning into a Saturday night film; 80 Heritage Minutes long. The aesthetic is both the production’s strength and its weakness; as well-made as it is, the show can never escape the feeling that its story has already been told, even if its central figure is of interest.
It is almost too well-made; it hits predictable notes and it’s not hard to tell where the next joke or section of story is going. This is comforting and reassuring, but in an entertainment world that in many ways has World War Two fatigue, it might be nice to be occasionally thrown off-guard by a story that has a real sense of terror and loss at its core. When those emotions are emphasized, particularly during the recount of the Dieppe invasion and the show’s final moments, Padre X shows its real heart, and is entirely captivating.
I saw 25 plays in this year's Fringe, which is a pretty decent number considering I worked a full-time job and missed five days of the festival. I of course won't review my own show, Mute, but 24 reviews are coming up, particularly now that I'm not constantly at shows or at work! It was a very good festival for me this year; I enjoyed everything at least to some extent, and though I saw some seriously flawed pieces, I saw no true duds that I regretted. Onward to Review #1!
A combination of aggressive buzz and a particularly polished advertising campaign convinced me to check out Kim’s Convenience, by Ins Choi, as soon as possible. This proved to be a good decision, as the line for its inaugural Toronto Fringe show, at 6:30 on a Wednesday, stretched down the block; almost a sellout of the fest’s largest venue on the first day. The buzz is justified. Kim’s Convenience is one of those rare fringe shows that feels finished and professional. It would not be out of place treading the boards of Passe Muraille or Tarragon during their fall seasons (if this makes any sense, it feels like it’s a Passe Muraille-themed show with Tarragon writing).
This is not to say that it is a perfect show. But it is a show with a very clear purpose, an excellent cast, and writing so crackling and witty that you hardly notice the sadness at the core of the play; that is, until it sneaks up on you with its full emotional weight, just in time for a satisfying resolution. Mr. Kim (Paul Sun-Hyung Lee), a street-smart, wisecracking man fiercely proud of his Korean heritage, has run a convenience store in Regent Park for more than thirty years. But condos are going up, and so is a Wal-Mart, and the sense that the area’s character will soon be forever changed fuels the play’s urgency. Faced with a tempting offer to sell by his “black friend with a Korean last name,” Mr. Lee, Kim faces the possibility of retirement coming with the trade-off of losing his presence in the neighbourhood, and therefore “his story.”
Mr. Kim’s daughter (Esther Jun), 30 and “single and ready to mingle” according to her parents, is more interested in photography than taking over the family business; her interest is piqued less by her father’s offer than by the appearance of Alex (Andre Sills, who also effectively plays the rest of the bit parts of Mr. Lee and several customers), a childhood friend of her estranged older brother (Choi), who shows up with a new sense of responsibility on his shoulders. Mother (Jean Yoon), is upset about the loss of the last downtown Korean church and holds clandestine meetings with her son, who has a new child of his own and feels trapped in a terrible job thanks to some bad choices in his past.
Kim’s commanding presence centres the show; a man who has clear love for his family buried under a gruff, violent, sometimes hilariously racist and blustering exterior. All the actors are excellent; even Yoon, who is given the least to do verbally, silently speaks volumes about her story and her pain. Family relationships are made instantly clear and recognizable, particularly in the sparring matches between father and daughter. This is a fun, incisive exploration of culture clash and the difficult time different generations have of seeing eye-to-eye, particularly immigrants and their Canadian-born children. It’s a testament to the strength of the acting that even sizable stretches of dialogue in Korean need absolutely no translation.
Dramaturgically, the play is tight, and every moment is there for a very specific reason. However, the arc of the son’s story feels too short. Though it is powerful to initially have his absence keenly felt by the other characters, his story is so important to the play and its resolution that it seems rushed when we find out who he really is two-thirds of the way through. To experience his presence and his story (as he tells it) earlier would lend extra power to his interactions with other characters. He’s a rich character already, and this would make his progression more complete. The play particularly cries out for brother and sister to have a conversation, which is also absent. Kim’s Convenience could transfer easily to a theatre as-is, but it’s also a piece that I’d be interested in seeing in an expanded, two-act incarnation, which Ins Choi’s world could easily support.
I’d tell you to go see Kim’s Convenience, but I have no idea how you’re going to get a ticket (come very early, is my advice). If you can’t make it, don’t worry; I have a sneaking suspicion that Kim’s story is going to have a future elsewhere.