Ride The Cylone - Revisited

I went to see Ride The Cyclone at Passe Muraille tonight; I really enjoyed the show when I saw it at SummerWorks last year, and was glad to get a chance to see the slightly-revamped version. My previous review still stands (with some slightly-revamped observations); do see the show if you can. It's a wonderfully quirky musical that's full of heart, and I've been unable to decide whether it's one of the funniest depressing shows I've seen, or one of the most depressing funny shows. (This is the sort of line it's riding.) There's been an actor change (Matthew Coulson plays Misha Bachinsky with a new ballet-inflected rap flair), but the beats have mostly stayed the same.

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.

-Ilana

Theatre Instruction On Speed!

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 20^th-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 20^th-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!

-Ilana

Review: Those Who Can't Do... (TPM)

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.

-Ilana

Reviewing the Reviewer: A Response to Bruce DeMara's Attack on Dramaturgy

It’s been some time since Bruce DeMara’s quasi love-hate letter to the Fringe (“How To Spot the Duds at the Fringe Festival,” which essentially ruled out 100% of Fringe shows) was published in the Toronto Star, but reviewing Fringe shows has made me think about it again. And with renewed thought comes renewed irritation, as DeMara proves in his article that, not only has he no idea what Fringe spirit is (if you can have a theatrical experience completely ruined by a somewhat uncomfortable seat, to the point where you eliminate promising shows entirely from your roster, preferring comfort over discovery, then you are officially not relevant to a serious discussion about the festival) but that he has absolutely no idea what a dramaturg is.

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.

Saying that a dramaturg ruins things is saying that research ruins historical drama, that mediation is never necessary between creative minds, an issue DeMara touches on as potentially ruinous in the same article. It’s saying that a second pair of eyes is never helpful (again, DeMara criticizes not having enough people on the creative team), and what’s more, it’s saying that a dramaturg doesn’t care about the audience, which I take as a personal affront, because I absolutely care about the audience, and because, furthermore, I *am* part of the audience, so it’s saying that I don’t even care about my own experience. At this Fringe Festival, I guess I was lucky because I didn’t see any “duds.” I saw a large number of artists telling stories, more or less successfully. I guess it’s true, though, that I spotted one “dud” at the Fringe Festival. I think his name was Bruce.

-Ilana

Fringe 2011 Reviews: Misprint (1st Issue)

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 16^th 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?

-Ilana

Fringe 2011 Reviews: She Said What Happened

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.

-Ilana

Fringe 2011 Reviews: Awake

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.

-Ilana