“It’s a
little too much ‘kids being kids,’
formless and playing around on stage,” my show-watching companion said,
quietly, upon leaving Tick (by Matthew MacKenzie). He wasn’t entirely right, but he wasn't entirely wrong either. Tick is a
very entertaining show, and MacKenzie captures the voices of kids admirably and
accurately, which is difficult to do. This means, however, that Tick reminds us
of both the best and worst of kids; they are hilarious, ever-surprising,
idealistic, inventive and full of boundless creative energy, but they also tend
to whine, be overly loud, catastrophize, and have no idea when to stop (or stop
repeating a joke).
Ten-year-old
Tickailia Summers, or “Tick” (the captivating Jessica Moss), is a young dynamo
hell-bent on getting under your skin. She is also asthmatic, and allergic to 67
different known things, living life on the edge every day. She’s incensed that
her mother’s boyfriend, city councilor Murray (Nathan Barrett), is getting rid
of the books in her library, replacing them with chained E-Readers with
15-minute reading time limits.
Tick plans a children’s revolution for the not-yet-enfranchised age
group, attempting to unite the kids from the wrong side of the tracks with her
friends; solar eclipse-obsessed Rudeger (Tony Ofori), hockey-loving Dawn (Jenna
Harris), and general dance fiend and space case Chelsea (also Barrett), all of
which are refreshingly non-gender-or-racially-stereotyped. Also on Tick’s side
are some spiritual revolutionary allies whose identities I won’t specify.
Trying to get Tick to see the “grown-up” side of the issue are the supercilious
Murray, Tick’s mother (Harris, appealingly stern but loving), and elderly
neighbour Mr. Emeline (Ofori), who traps squirrels, teaches Tick knitting to
her chagrin, and believes society takes too much for granted.
Precocious
Tick is very funny, chock-full of references and language beyond her years and
her friends’ comprehension, tantrums, pouting, dance moves and war councils and
rhetoric. The author does a decent job of showing us the “other side” of the
issue, though there is a clear “wrong” side. It’s nice to see Tick as a flawed
hero, so that the issue doesn’t become too preachy; very much a child, she
blows everything up to the most straw-filled of straw man proportions, refuses
any attempt to see eye-to-eye, abuses her friends, and throws tantrums equally
at the destruction of the library and being forced to eat the same thing for
dinner two days in a row. Though she has a strong point (and a relevant one,
based on recent attempts in this city to “take on” libraries), we also
understand why it is extremely difficult to let children be part of the
democratic process.
Tick is
about children, and so it is perhaps necessarily loud and brash, but overall
there is really too much mugging from the actors; this is especially true when the play’s
strong suit is the part where we actually feel for and listen to the
characters, in the moments of quiet, whether found in happiness or
disappointment. This could be a
comment on our current political discourse; nothing gets done when everyone is
screaming and divisive. However, it is also a patience-thinner when most
moments are played for MAXIMUM LOUDNESS AND INTENSITY; though we need the loud
moments to appreciate the quiet ones, we need something in between to
appreciate the loudness.
Tick
should probably be an hour-long show; at 75 minutes, it feels padded,
particularly as one of the Fringe’s few hour-plus-long slots. A particular
endless celebratory dance sequence is eerily reminiscent of the ending of
various Dreamworks movies, such as Shrek: The Shrekiest, where instead of a
real ending, fairy-tale creatures drop whatever they’re doing and dance to a
modern pop song for desperate added cool cred and ironic relevance. Of course,
this doesn’t entirely describe Tick, as it’s not calculated; it’s guileless and
joyful and sweet. But, as the character of Tick slowly comes to learn over the
course of the piece, seemingly as part of its point, and as a mother might say
to her screaming ten-year-old (as stuffy and stifling as it might make this
reviewer sound): “Indoor voice, honey. If they have to strain to hear you
sometimes, they’ll listen harder.”
-Ilana
